Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Normal reaction, his arse.
He’d left his cello propped on the stand next to the long, low white leather modernist sofa, a full 4/4 size, gleaming dark-polished wood with just enough age to it to make the tone deeper and richer, the signs of loving use and handling marked into the wood. He gestured toward it. “It’s a Ficker,” he said. “1966. Hand-made. Strings are new, but the rest is original wood.”
Amani set his case down gingerly on the sofa and draped his coat next to it, then circled the Ficker cello slowly, reaching out to trace his fingers over its curving lines. He touched it with something almost like reverence, sensuality, warmth. “Someone played this cello with love,” he said, before he shot a penetrating look at Vic. “It wasn’t you.”
He winced. “No, I…the one I learned on was a 3/4, but I left it at home in Liverpool when we moved here. I bought this one from a collector.”
“For an obscene amount, no doubt. And yet I doubt you’ve ever played it.”
“That’s what I was hoping to remedy,” Vic said quickly. “With you. Ah…may I see yours?”
Another of those arch looks from under Amani’s brows, tawny eyes knowing. “‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?’” he lilted mockingly—but before Vic could splutter a protest, Amani turned away with a swirl of his hair, moving around him in a dark cloak, and bent over the couch to unclasp the cello case. The case itself was battered, worn, but clearly cleaned and polished with utter rapt devotion, the tattered edges repaired again and again. And the cello that the lid lifted to reveal…
It might not be the most expensive, the most perfectly crafted by the world’s finest luthiers…but it was beautiful nonetheless. A 4/4 Stradivarius with beautiful red undertones to the wood, blending into a soft amber glow of glossed curves and contrasted by the rich shine of a polished ebony fingerboard and tailpiece. What made it truly gorgeous, however, was the clear signs of use and handling—those little marks of wear and affection and care that said every mark on the cello was hard-won from practice, performance, deep abiding love that made even the marred spots and the careful repairs to them part of the cello’s perfection. Someone who played this cello, he thought, would raise a sound so haunting, so pure, that it was like the voice of the player themselves, strung out into quivering and weeping notes.
“It’s…it’s absolutely stunning,” he whispered. “How long have you had it?”
“My entire life,” Amani answered, and for all his cool aloofness, there was a warmth to his voice that made it so compelling, so sweet, as he ran his fingers along the strings. “It was my father’s. He died in the First Sahrawi Intifada, only a few years after I was born. Killed by his own people for choosing to fight for those they saw as the enemy. When my mother fled Morocco for the States, what was his became mine. So I took up this thing that he had loved all his life, and loved it as he did.”
“I’m sorry,” Vic murmured. “About your father. But I’m sure he’d be proud to know that you carried on his legacy.”
“But have I done that?” Amani answered enigmatically, before lifting his gaze to Vic, eyes sharpening, pulling away from whatever dreamlike place he had entered moments ago. “Sit. Show me how you handle your cello.”
Vic found himself sitting before he knew it, something about the way Amani commanded so softly, so simply pulling at his strings and making it instinctive to obey when this shouldn’t be about command and obedience; it was just a simple cello lesson.
Where the hell was his head today?
Clearing his throat, he settled in the leather easy chair positioned between the two sofas, and carefully lifted his cello off its stand; for all its size, the delicacy of the wood planing made it a light thing, easy to maneuver as he spread his legs to flank it and propped it on its endpin until he had it positioned against his body, leaning it against his chest at an angle and gripping it with his knees. He started to reach around it for the bow tilted against the stand—only to recoil as Amani lightly flicked the back of his hand with his fingers.
“No,” Amani said firmly. “Who taught you how to hold a cello?”
“Er. I had an instructor in Liverpool, he was a former concert cellist—”
“He was a terrible one.” Amani paced closer, frowning down at him. “Your posture is absurd. You’re hugging the cello like a koala on a eucalyptus tree. Sit up straighter. Hold the cello upright, not at an angle; lean it against your chest, not against your inner arm or thigh. Relax your legs. Use your knees to steady it, not to grip it.”