Создано в интеллектуальной издательской системе Ridero.ru

      Chapter 1

      “Admit it, there’s nothing like Italian air. Especially at this time of the year…”

      “It’s still cold…”

      “No, it isn’t. Not for walks.”

      “Well, it is for swimming… Just look at them! The water temperature must be murderous!”

      He was old, grumpy, wrapped in rugs and his sister’s shawl. She was sitting by his side, a plump woman in her sixties, flushed and smiley, determined to enjoy every bit of that sunny day at the seaside.

      “Don’t grumble, Berthold, you promised, remember?”

      She surveyed the sparkling surface of the sea from under her old-fashioned sunhat. There were only but few swimmers splashing daringly in liquid turquoise.

      “What are these brats after? Pneumonia?”

      “They are young and healthy… They can do what they want.”

      “Your hat is ridiculous.” The remark missed her as she had just turned to a girl sitting to her left:

      “You look so pretty today, Irma. The sea air certainly agrees with you.”

      The girl smiled. She was very thin, and her dress of bleached linen seemed to have more colour than her skin.

      “Thank you.”

      The woman was in the mood for a talk:

      “Yesterday’s evening was magical, wasn’t it?” she said. The girl nodded.

      “Magical,” the man grumbled. “What did you drink last night? You’ve been giggling like an idiot ever since.”

      “You really should have come, Berthold. It was wonderful…”

      “Will you give me another rug, this one is itchy… If that baby doesn’t stop squeaking, I am going back to the hotel,” he hissed when his sister bent to tuck the rug round his knees. She only laughed:

      “If I let you have a smoke, do you promise to stop growling for a change?” She fished his pipe out of her handbag. “Here’s your toy.” He snatched at it and immediately lost interest in the world around him. “Men are like children,” she winked at the girl and moved her chair under the tent to join other women.

      “When did you say your husband is coming?” she asked the mother of the whining baby.

      “Oh, he’s not coming… Some last minute change of plans, I suppose…”

      “Pity. He was so looking forward to it. May I?” She took the baby and rocked him in her arms with the nonchalant ease of someone used to it. “There, young man, if you behave, a mermaid will give you a precious pearl.”

      She began to hum a tune, and the baby went quiet, listening. Everybody, except her brother, gave smiles and gasps of appreciation.

      “For God’s sake, Gabi, stop embarrassing people with your enthusiasm!”

      She took a deep breath:

      “I can’t help it! Oh, there he is… Helmut, darling,” she beamed at a boy who was just going past the tent. “What a lovely performance it was! We are all looking forward to…”

      The boy didn’t even smile, rolled his eyes (“not that again”), and passed without slowing down.

      “Forgive him, he’s still adapting,” his mother said.

      “Oh, nothing to forgive! What a talent! That melody he played yesterday – what was it?” She hummed the tune again.

      “I’m not sure.”

      “Dvorak,” somebody prompted.

      “I remember him as a small child,” another woman looked up from her magazine. “Is it true he’s been in England all this time?”

      Helmut’s mother didn’t answer.

      “He did the right thing to return now when he’s still very young,” the old man said, puffing at his pipe. “In another year or two it could be too late – German Reich wouldn’t forgive him.”

      “Don’t listen to Berthold, it’s his ulcer speaking. Germany will always embrace its great sons.”

      They were all silent watching the boy walk into the sea and thrust his body into the froth of a high wave.

      “The weather will get worse in the evening,” the man said.

      The languid rondo of the mid-spring, middle-aged, middle-class holidaying was a living hell for the youth. Even older people had to admit that they could do with some entertainment, but evenings had very little to offer: the same movie in a local theatre, wine-drinking on the terrace, reluctant dancing. The season hadn’t started yet. Social life in the resort town was still hibernating.

      No wonder that sporadic piano concerts given by a young tourist from Germany instantly stirred a bit of a sensation and drew a growing audience to the steps of the hotel he was staying at. Sometime after dinner more and more people were passing by the hotel, some of them strolled undecidedly to and fro, others perched themselves at the tables of nearby cafes, sending waiters and children to make enquires about the evening.

      “Oh, wait a moment, I’ll go and find him,” Frau Krauss literally had to chase her son around the hotel, cafes, beaches or even search the dark inside of the movie theatre. This time she was lucky to catch him in his room.

      “Darling, the people are gathering, what shall I tell them? Are you playing today or not?”

      “I thought I made myself clear. I’m not playing any more. Why do you keep giving promises on my behalf?”

      “But, Helmut, sunshine, they love you. It would be a shame…”

      “We initially agreed upon one private evening for close friends only. I had no intention of starting a career here… It’s not funny, Mother. If it goes on like that, I’ll have to change the hotel.”

      “It’s your fault,” she tried a flattering tone. “You play so well…”

      “It was supposed to be a holiday. I’d rather have the evening to myself.”

      “Irma will be disappointed.”

      “Life is one big disappointment for Irma. It’s time she’d grown used to that.”

      “Rudeness doesn’t become you, young man.”

      He peered down at the vast terrace through the Venetian blinds. Few people were already flocking at the tables, sipping wine, casting glances in the direction of the hotel entrance. One of the women (Helmut recognized his most devoted admirer) beckoned a call boy. The boy came up to her, listened then shrugged his shoulders. The woman said something, giving him a tip, which he accepted with a bow.

      “Very well, then. Mussorgsky, I suppose. I feel like Mussorgsky today.”

      Her smile faded before its time:

      “Is he Polish? ’ she asked in low voice.

      “Really, Mother, the world would be a kinder place if you refrained