soulless daze, as though he'd tried to summon her from the bottom of a deep, deep well. He didn't realise she was elsewhere now.
It didn't impress her, actually, all this bluster about
Partitum Mutante
and the Consort's future, and she took pleasure in the fact that it didn't impress Ben, either. As often as she could get away with it, short of embarrassing them both, she turned to look at him and smiled. He smiled back, pale with tiredness, while between him and Catherine the stinging voices ricocheted.
She thought:
Dare I do something that might lead to the end of two marriages?
In the end, it was Axel who came to the rescue again. Strange how this unmusical little creature, this uninvited marsupial whom they'd all imagined would meddle constantly with the serious business of singing, had left them to commune with
Partitum Mutante
uninterrupted for two solid weeks, only making himself heard when he could exercise his preferred role as peace broker.
Today, he'd allowed the Consort to argue the morning and afternoon away, content at first to impose no more ambitious restrictions than to remind them, every few hours, to take a short break for food and drink. However, when nighttime came and they were still hard at it, Axel decided that drastic intervention was needed. Screaming at the top of his lungs, his mission was to lure his mother to his feverish little body, which he'd marinated in sufficient puke and ordure to earn himself a bath. Dagmar, interrupted just as she was about to announce her defection from the Anglo-German alliance, swallowed her words, stomped upstairsâand did not return.
With her departure, some'séance-like bond of hostility was broken, and the Courage Consort dispersed, exhausted. They had resolved nothing, and the rain still hadn't come. Julian slunk off to be comforted by the murmurings of Dutch television; Roger said he was going to bed, though the expression of wounded stoicism on his face suggested he might be going to the Mount of Olives to pray.
Catherine and Ben sat in the rehearsal room, alone. Through the windows, the trees of the forest were furry black against the indigo of the night sky.
After a time, Catherine said, 'What are you thinking, Ben?'
And he replied, 'Time is short. It would have been better if we'd done some singing.'
Catherine nestled her cheek inside her folded arms, her arms on the back of the couch. From this angle, only one of her eyes could see Ben; it was enough.
'Sing me a song, Ben,' she murmured.
With some effort he raised himself from his chair and walked over to a glass cabinet. He swung open its doors and fetched out an ancient musical instrumentâa theorbo, perhaps. Some sort of lute, anyway, creaking with its own old-ness, dark as molasses.
Ben returned to his chair, sat down, and found the least absurd place to rest the bulbous instrument on his bulbous body. Then, gently, he began to strum the strings. From deep inside his chest, sonorous as a saxhorn, came the melancholy lyrics of Tobias Hume, circa 1645.
Alas, poore men
Why strive you to live long?
To have more time and space
To suffer wrong?
Looking back at a lifetime devoted to warfare and music, dear old Tobias might well have left it at that, but there were many more verses; the music demanded to go on even if there was little to add to the sentiments. Ben Lamb sang the whole song, about nine minutes altogether, strumming its sombre minimalist accompaniment all the while. Then, when he had finished, he got up and carefully replaced the lute in its display case. Catherine knew he was going to bed now.
'Thank you, Ben,' she said, her lips breathing against her forearm. 'Good night.'
'Good night,' he said, carrying his body away with him.
***
A N HOUR LATER , Roger and Catherine made love. It seemed the only way to break the tension. He reached out for her, his strange and unreachable wife, and she allowed herself to be taken.
'I don't know anymore, I don't know anymore,'
It didn't impress her, actually, all this bluster about
Partitum Mutante
and the Consort's future, and she took pleasure in the fact that it didn't impress Ben, either. As often as she could get away with it, short of embarrassing them both, she turned to look at him and smiled. He smiled back, pale with tiredness, while between him and Catherine the stinging voices ricocheted.
She thought:
Dare I do something that might lead to the end of two marriages?
In the end, it was Axel who came to the rescue again. Strange how this unmusical little creature, this uninvited marsupial whom they'd all imagined would meddle constantly with the serious business of singing, had left them to commune with
Partitum Mutante
uninterrupted for two solid weeks, only making himself heard when he could exercise his preferred role as peace broker.
Today, he'd allowed the Consort to argue the morning and afternoon away, content at first to impose no more ambitious restrictions than to remind them, every few hours, to take a short break for food and drink. However, when nighttime came and they were still hard at it, Axel decided that drastic intervention was needed. Screaming at the top of his lungs, his mission was to lure his mother to his feverish little body, which he'd marinated in sufficient puke and ordure to earn himself a bath. Dagmar, interrupted just as she was about to announce her defection from the Anglo-German alliance, swallowed her words, stomped upstairsâand did not return.
With her departure, some'séance-like bond of hostility was broken, and the Courage Consort dispersed, exhausted. They had resolved nothing, and the rain still hadn't come. Julian slunk off to be comforted by the murmurings of Dutch television; Roger said he was going to bed, though the expression of wounded stoicism on his face suggested he might be going to the Mount of Olives to pray.
Catherine and Ben sat in the rehearsal room, alone. Through the windows, the trees of the forest were furry black against the indigo of the night sky.
After a time, Catherine said, 'What are you thinking, Ben?'
And he replied, 'Time is short. It would have been better if we'd done some singing.'
Catherine nestled her cheek inside her folded arms, her arms on the back of the couch. From this angle, only one of her eyes could see Ben; it was enough.
'Sing me a song, Ben,' she murmured.
With some effort he raised himself from his chair and walked over to a glass cabinet. He swung open its doors and fetched out an ancient musical instrumentâa theorbo, perhaps. Some sort of lute, anyway, creaking with its own old-ness, dark as molasses.
Ben returned to his chair, sat down, and found the least absurd place to rest the bulbous instrument on his bulbous body. Then, gently, he began to strum the strings. From deep inside his chest, sonorous as a saxhorn, came the melancholy lyrics of Tobias Hume, circa 1645.
Alas, poore men
Why strive you to live long?
To have more time and space
To suffer wrong?
Looking back at a lifetime devoted to warfare and music, dear old Tobias might well have left it at that, but there were many more verses; the music demanded to go on even if there was little to add to the sentiments. Ben Lamb sang the whole song, about nine minutes altogether, strumming its sombre minimalist accompaniment all the while. Then, when he had finished, he got up and carefully replaced the lute in its display case. Catherine knew he was going to bed now.
'Thank you, Ben,' she said, her lips breathing against her forearm. 'Good night.'
'Good night,' he said, carrying his body away with him.
***
A N HOUR LATER , Roger and Catherine made love. It seemed the only way to break the tension. He reached out for her, his strange and unreachable wife, and she allowed herself to be taken.
'I don't know anymore, I don't know anymore,'
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