‘Yes.’ I looked up and past him, to where the gypsy and his dog still loitered. ‘What did that man ask you?’ I wanted to know.
‘He wanted a match, that’s all. I didn’t have one.’
I set a calming hand upon the deeply purring cat. ‘Spoke to you in English, did he?’
‘No, French.’
‘I thought you didn’t speak French.’
He slanted a curious look in my direction. ‘I don’t, beyond the limits of my Oxford phrasebook,’ he said, ‘but when a chap comes up to me with an unlit cigarette in his mouth and pantomimes the striking of a match, I’ve a fair idea what he’s wanting.’
‘Oh.’ My gaze dropped defensively. When I raised my eyes again the path was empty. The gypsy and his dog were nowhere to be seen. I gathered the cat closer and summoned up a cheerful smile to show to Neil. ‘I didn’t expect to see you up and about this early,’ I told him. ‘I thought you did your walking in the evenings.’
‘Dustmen woke me,’ was his excuse. ‘Four o’clock in the bloody morning, they come barrelling round the square like it’s a parade ground.’
I sympathised. I’d heard them myself, that morning. I’d heard a great many things, actually, from the tiniest rustle of a dead leaf scuttling across the asphalt to the quiet talk and measured footsteps of two gendarmes patrolling on the graveyard shift. Sleeplessness always heightened my senses.
‘They wake me every time, those dustmen,’ Neil went on. ‘Most mornings I just drop off again, but this morning …’ He shrugged, and fitted his shoulders to the worn back of the bench. ‘This is a lovely place, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, quite lovely.’
‘The whole town is, really. I always hate to leave it.’
‘Your holiday’s almost over, then?’ Blast, I thought. I could hear the trail of disappointment in my own voice.
‘Next week, I think. I’m very nearly back to normal.’ He flexed his hand to demonstrate. ‘Besides, I’m pushing my luck as it is. I’m not paid a salary to sit around and do nothing.’
‘But you’ve been practising,’ I argued in his defence. ‘Every day.’
His eyes slid sideways, unconvinced. ‘Only for an hour or so.’
‘Isn’t that long enough?’
‘Back home my normal work day lasts six hours, sometimes more. I’m only playing at it, here.’
‘Oh. Well, it sounds nice, anyway. I like the sound of a violin.’
He thanked me for the compliment. ‘But you’ll probably think differently in a few days’ time. Even Beethoven loses some of his appeal after the first hundred playings. I’m getting rather bored with him myself, but then I’m only using him for exercise. I know that piece like the back of my hand.’
‘You ought to choose something else, then. You’re learning something by a new composer, aren’t you?’
‘I’d never subject the hotel guests to that.’ The midnight blue eyes crinkled a second time. ‘It’s not the nicest piece to listen to, in my opinion – the composer doesn’t much like harmony. No, I only listen to the tape of that one, to learn it better, and even then I have to watch my step. The first time I put that tape in Thierry’s monster hi-fi I nearly cleared the hotel,’ he admitted with a grin. ‘Sounded like the whole bloody orchestra was playing in my room, it was that loud. I kept it turned low, after that.’
My mouth curved. ‘I’m beginning to think you played the Salut d’Amour on purpose on Saturday, so the ghost would break poor Thierry’s hi-fi.’
He looked at me with interest. ‘I did play it on purpose, actually. But not to upset the ghost.’
I didn’t respond to that, but he didn’t look away. ‘You’ve just surprised me, Emily Braden. Some people might recognise Bach, or Mozart, but to spot old Elgar takes a certain depth of knowledge.’
‘Yes, well,’ I glanced down, flushing, ‘my mother quite likes classical music. She was always dragging me to concerts. I didn’t pay as much attention as I should have, but I do remember what I liked.’
‘You’ve put that in the past tense, I notice. Don’t you go to concerts any more?’
I shook my head. ‘Terrible, I know, but I never seem to have the time, these days. My mother goes often enough for both of us. Her boyfriend,’ I explained, with a dry smile, ‘is a conductor.’
‘Oh, really? What’s his name?’
I told him. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I know of him, yes. We’ve never met.’ His eyes were mildly curious. ‘So then your father—’
‘—lives in Uruguay.’
‘I see.’ He looked away again, but I had the distinct feeling that he did see; that he saw rather more than I wanted him to. I tried to steer the conversation back to neutral ground, by asking him which orchestra he played with in Austria – which didn’t help much, as I didn’t recognise the name.
‘That’s what everyone says,’ he assured me. ‘We’re not exactly the Vienna Philharmonic, but we’ve eighty-six members and we hold our own. And speaking of conductors, ours is just this side of brilliant.’
‘You like living in Austria, then?’
‘Very much.’
‘No desire to move back to England?’