The Stolen Child(34)

stroked the shepherd between the ears. "Turns out music doth soothe the savage beast."

"Breast," she said. "The quote is: 'Music hath charms to soothe the sav-age breast.'"

"Don't tell him," Luchóg burst out. "Auf Wiedersehen, Schatzi. Go on home." The dog trotted off.

"That was scary," I said.

Feigning nonchalance, Luchóg rolled a cigarette. "Could have been worse. Could have been

people."

"If we meet somebody, play dumb," Speck instructed. "They'll think we're a bunch of kids and tell

us to go on home. Nod your head when I talk and don't say a word." I looked around the empty streets,

half hoping for an encounter, but all the people seemed to be inside, at dinner, bathing the chil-dren,

getting ready for bed. In many homes, an unearthly blue glow emanated from within.

The library squatted stately in the middle of a tree-lined block. Speck moved as if she had passed

this way many times before, and the problem of locked doors was easily circumvented. Luchóg led us

around the back to a staircase and pointed out a gap where the concrete had separated from the main

wall.

"I don't think I can fit through that. My head's too big, and I'm not that skinny."

"Luchóg is a mouse," Speck said. "Watch and learn."

He told me the secret of softening one's bones. The gist is to think like a mouse or a bat, simply

realizing one's own flexibility. "It will hurt the first time, lad, like every good thing, but there's no trick to

it. A matter of faith. And practice."

He disappeared into the crack, and Speck followed him, exhaling a sin-gle drawn-out sigh. Pushing

through that narrow space hurt more than I can say. The abrasions on my temples took weeks to heal.

After softening myself, I had to remember to keep my muscles tense for a while or risk an arm or a leg

going limp. But Luchóg was right—with practice, squeezing became sec-ond nature.

Underneath the library, the crawlspace was dark and foreboding, so when Speck struck a match,

the flame glowed with hope. She touched the flame to a candlewick, and with the candle lit a hurricane

lamp that smelled of must and kerosene. Each successive illumination brought the dimensions and

features of the room into sharper focus. The back of the building had been built on a slight slope, so that

the floor inclined from our entranceway, where one could stand quite comfortably, rising to the opposite

wall, where one could rest only by sitting. I can't tell you how many times I bumped my head on the

ceiling by that far wall. The chamber had been made accidentally, a sort of hollow beneath a new

addition to the old library building. Since it did not rest on the same foundation, the room was hotter than

outside during the summer and bone-cold in the winter. By lamplight I could see that some-one had

added a few homey touches—a brace of rugs, a few drinking vessels, and, in the northwest corner, a

sort of easy chair fashioned from salvaged blankets. Luchóg began fiddling with his cigarette pouch, and

Speck ordered him out, if he must smoke. Grumbling, he scooted through the crack.

"So what do you think, Aniday? A bit rustic, but still ... civilization."

"It's grand."

"You haven't seen the best part. The whole reason I brought you here." Speck motioned me to

follow, and we scuttled up the incline to the back wall. She reached up, turned out a knob, and a panel

dropped from the ceiling. In a flash, she hoisted herself up through the hole and was gone. I knelt on the

spot, waiting for her return, looking up through the empty space. All at once, her face appeared in the

frame.

"Are you coming or not?" she whispered.

I followed her into the library. The pale light from our chamber below dissipated in the room, but I

could still make out—my heart leapt at the sight—row after row, shelf above shelf, floor to ceiling, a city

of books. Speck turned to me and asked, "Now, what shall we read first?"

• C H A P T E R 1 1 •

The end, when it arrived, proved both timely and apt. Not only had I learned everything Mr.

Martin had to offer, but I was sick of it all—the practice, the repertoire, the discipline, and the ennui of

eighty-eight keys. By the time I turned sixteen, I began looking for an excuse to quit, a way out that

would not break my mother's heart. The truth is that while I am a very good pianist, great even, I was

never sublime. Yes, by far the best in our remote hamlet, no doubt our corner of the state, maybe the

best from border to border, but beyond that, no. I lacked the passion, the consuming fire, to be a

world-class pianist. Looking forward, the alternative was dreadful. To end up like old Mr. Martin