A Greater Music Read Online Free PDF Page B

the TV listings magazine, a double edition for Christmas, and started to go through it. Agnes and Bjorn said hello to me. When I’d visited Agnes briefly three years ago, she’d had a different boyfriend. And I’d never met Peter before. Joachim had never even spoken all that much about him. I’d thought they might be identical twins, but I could see now that they weren’t.
    â€œCappuccino?” Agnes asked, getting up from her seat. I nodded and thanked her. “How was your trip?” Bjorn asked, turning to look at me.
    â€œIt was okay. But the constant rain meant we couldn’t go outside much.”
    â€œOh, it rained? Here we’ve just had snow.”
    When he laughed he let his mouth open wide. Peter’s gaze was fixed on the television screen as if there was something gluing it there. He greeted me only briefly, his hello stiff and formal. He didn’t look at Joachim and Joachim didn’t look at him, but then Joachim didn’t look at anything—he just sat there selecting chocolates from a glass dish on the side table, peeling off the silver paper and popping them into his mouth one at a time, with his face buried in the TV guide. A violinist appeared on the television and began to run through a series of popular Christmas pieces, his features arranged in an expression of generic happiness.
    â€œAndré Rieu, there’s really no one like him,” Agnes sighed, gazing at the television while she settled back down on the sofa. “Don’t you agree?” sheasked me. “He’s so attractive, and the music is just wonderful, don’t you think?”
    â€œI’m sorry?” I asked. I hadn’t quite caught the name. “Who are you talking about?”
    â€œAndré Rieu, the violinist. He has his own orchestra. He’s Dutch.”
    â€œI’ve never heard of him.”
    The violinist was clearly putting a lot of effort into his facial expression and body language; no matter what he was playing, that happy smile never left his face. While he played he moved elegantly about the stage, making sure to hold the violin at a graceful angle. His long curly hair was pulled back with a stylish purple hair-tie, and each of his on-stage gestures were carefully calculated for a specific effect, like those of a gifted actor. Agnes gestured toward a shelf of books.
    â€œI’ve got an André Rieu album—photos, you know.”
    â€œOh?” I tried to sound polite rather than genuinely enthusiastic in case she suggested I have a look through the album, which I’d spotted next to a large, thick volume entitled Princess Diana: Her Glory and Myth. But then my gaze landed on something else, on the same shelf as the books: a black and white photograph in a small, finely carved wooden frame. It was a waist-up photograph of a young woman; it appeared to be quite an old picture, and the woman to be around fifteen. She was wearing a dark dress, probably black, and her blonde hair was tied back; it gave the impression of having been taken to mark a special occasion. A handful of pale-cultured roses were clutched to her chest, and her lips were curved into a smile that was both delicate and sharp, matching the contours of her face. The girl was standing in front of what looked like the door to a building. Her face looked pale and drawn for one so young. Overall, the impression was of a strange combination of cunning and freshness, of time flowing past in water. Therewas no question about it—this was Agnes, a long time ago. All the same I asked Joachim:
    â€œIs this a photo of Agnes?”
    â€œHow would I know?” he responded brusquely, without even glancing at the photograph.
    After the meal, when Agnes had finished the dishes and came to join the rest of us in the living room, I pointed out the photograph on the shelf and asked if it was a photo of her.
    â€œYes, that’s right. It’s a photo of the old