Disclaimer, I own nothing
| |
Eine Kleine NachtmusikParis was cold in the early spring. The snow was hard packed against the pavements and the sky was ominous tungsten grey. Ran shuffled along beside him, a hat covered his hair and his ear tails were tucked into the thick wool muffler he wore, his coat covered him from the back of his head to his shins and he wore heavy boots and thick leather gloves. Ran didn’t like the cold. Crawford on the other hand wore only a heavy camel coat and gloves. He tried not to laugh at the shuffling figure that resembled a walking quilt beside him. He had already made the joke that if his coat was white, and not black, he would have looked like a walking headless sheep. Ran hadn’t found it funny. Ran felt the cold terribly. He kept the heating in the apartment high and piled blankets on the bed and often Crawford had to fight his way out of it in the morning or die of heat exhaustion. It was made especially difficult by the way Ran managed to attach himself, limpet like, to him in the middle of the night. Crawford didn’t mind that, he just wished it weren’t so damn warm in the bed they shared. It had been like this since early October and he had made the mental note that next winter they were going somewhere warm, like maybe Barbados, he thought of ran in short white shirt and a sun hat and had to restrain a chuckle because the image was so out of character, knowing Ran he would go to the beach in a full padded ski suit, complete with hat and muffler. It was only when he turned to step towards the metro that he realised Ran was not with him. He did not expect him to run away, because that was against the accords of their agreement but he might have got lost, in the five months they had spent in Paris Ran had barely left the apartment except to go to the walled garden that was next to the building. He didn’t know his way around and his grasp of the language, whilst improving, was still poor. The image of Ran lost amongst the streets of Paris, being fussed over by the French who simply adored his hair and eyes, was funny but Crawford knew better than to laugh at the image of a cornered assassin whose only weapon was his cell-phone and muffler. Ran had stood still outside the vitrine of a small shop with the lattice down over the glass. Crawford stepped up beside him, “it’s an antique shop.” He said calmly trying to find out what held Ran’s attention so, he expected swords, but in a small leather case was a violin with no strings. It was battered and scuffed and had, at some point, obviously been well loved. It lay among the books and other bric-a-brac in the window. “A violin,” he said, “I didn’t know you played.” “I don’t,” Ran said, “Not any more.” Then he walked forward and looped his arm through Crawford’s, “it’ll be dark soon,” he said, “We should go home before it gets any colder.” Crawford noted how Ran obviously didn’t want to speak of it and just walked him to the metro. Ran woke slowly ensconced in his little warm nest, the cold spot on the side of the bed suggested Crawford was already up and about, not that this was unusual but it was Sunday and normally he did spend a little longer in bed. Although the two weren’t intimate they were slowly becoming affectionate and the shared Sunday morning conversations were amongst the highlight of Ran’s week. Who would have guessed that the ice cold Oracle of Schwarz would be ticklish? Or that he always had milk with his coffee because he genuinely did not like cream. It was on Sunday morning, as they lay swaddled in quilts, that he revealed this details about himself. Pulling the robe that Claudette had left for him over the radiator on he walked into the small parlour to find Crawford sat at the coffee table with the newspaper sprawled out in front of him. He only wore a pair of loose cotton pyjama pants and Ran wondered how he could stand the cold. “You’re up early.” He said, “I normally get a chance to read the paper before you wake up.” Ran noticed that as Babette came out of the kitchen with a tray of coffee and pastries, the tray Crawford normally shared in bed with him. It was one more thing about Crawford that he learned on a Sunday morning. He sat down next to him on the floor as Babette laid the tray on the table. “I was awake.” He said, “Aren’t you cold?” Crawford’s laugh caught him unawares. “It’s like a hot house here,” he said, “I wonder if it’s not true that ice water flows through your veins because you certainly never warm through.” Ran smiled and poured out two cups of the strong black coffee. Crawford broke apart a pain au chocolat with his fingers. “I got you a present the other day,” he said and then reached behind him for a long gift wrapped box, “I was going to present it to you with breakfast.” Ran smiled then opened the box. It was a scuffed and battered violin case but it had been treated with oil and someone had made an attempt to restore it. He lifted it out with a strange and melancholy smile. He undid the twin latches to reveal the violin he had seen in the antique store weeks before restored to its former glory. It had been restrung, and there was fresh horsehair on the bow, there was even rosin for him to adjust it to the way he wanted. “You shouldn’t have.” He said softly. “It wasn’t expensive.” Crawford shrugged, popping a piece of pastry into his mouth. “No, you shouldn’t have.” Ran repeated but still he brought the instrument to his chin, his cheek pressing against the wood as his fingers found the strings carefully, like an old lover re-exploring. “Monsieur Ran,” Babette said from the door, “You play?” “A little,” Ran said, “a very long time ago.” He sounded sad. “Then play a little for us,” Crawford said, “as a thank you for the violin.” Ran closed his eyes, and took a deep breath then sighed then inhaled again before he began to play. The song was a simple one that he played through once and then again to find the melody of it, then he began to complicate it, adding notes and accents that were normally played by a second vioin. Crawford knew the piece well, Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik was one of the most famous violin pieces ever written. He had heard it played by some of the greatest violin troupes alive, but never with the sweet sadness Ran gave the piece, as each time he went through the simple bars he complicated and complemented it. Crawford was not surprised to see him crying, he waved Babette away and wrapped his arm about him, pressing Ran’s face against his thigh as he began to sob, carefully taking the instrument from his hands and laying it on the couch, out of the way as Ran shivered and sobbed. Babette turned down the bed and when Crawford saw her leaving the bedroom he scooped up his houseguest and carried him back to the comfort of his quilts and pillows. Wiping away the tears with the side of his palm, “I’m sorry,” he murmured against Ran’s hair, “it was too soon.” Ran’s fingers were forming blisters where he had run them along the strings and it was with those fingers he cupped Crawford’s face and slowly pulled him down for their first kiss. | |
back to fiction |