[ There's a laugh, but it isn't cruel, and when Gustave chances a look up, it doesn't seem as though Verso's making fun of him. It's impossible to tell what the man's thinking as he leans there, all idle grace and minute, shifting expressions, but the answer is clear enough: a nod. I'll be here.
And all it is, really, is an understanding that there's another opportunity to meet, but this time it would be deliberate. He'll have to choose to come here, to believe that Verso is telling the truth. And then...
And then he doesn't know. It doesn't feel like making plans with his friends, easy and casual. There's something else at work here, an energy that has him rubbing his fingers together at his side, awkward and uncertain. ]
Then I hope I'll see you tomorrow.
[ Hope, he adds. It gives them both a sense of plausible deniability. Things come up, plans change, intentions shift, courage wavers. He isn't even sure he'll turn back down the street that led him here again tomorrow, despite being the one to suggest it.
But maybe he won't be able to get the music out of his head. So maybe he will. ]
[ Unfortunately, when tomorrow night comes: Verso is nowhere to be seen. The off-season opera house is back to being as lonely a it always is. But the fallboard is lifted, the keys exposed, and if that wasn't enough of a sign that someone had still been by, there's a note, tucked neatly on the corner of the music rack. The paper is a bit worn, one edge uneven like its been torn from a journal. The ink is fresh enough that depending on how early Gustave comes by, it might even smudge under his fingers, the script neat, legible, a well-trained hand.
Just two words: ]
I'm sorry.
[ But a little more: in the corner, off-kilter enough to be clearly hand drawn: musical staves, a treble clef. A simple melody, just over two bars. Its based in something from the improvisation he'd played for Gustave: something bright that seems to almost get pulled under by some dour notes, but then pulls free again. ]
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if the shoe fits
And all it is, really, is an understanding that there's another opportunity to meet, but this time it would be deliberate. He'll have to choose to come here, to believe that Verso is telling the truth. And then...
And then he doesn't know. It doesn't feel like making plans with his friends, easy and casual. There's something else at work here, an energy that has him rubbing his fingers together at his side, awkward and uncertain. ]
Then I hope I'll see you tomorrow.
[ Hope, he adds. It gives them both a sense of plausible deniability. Things come up, plans change, intentions shift, courage wavers. He isn't even sure he'll turn back down the street that led him here again tomorrow, despite being the one to suggest it.
But maybe he won't be able to get the music out of his head. So maybe he will. ]
no subject
Just two words: ]
I'm sorry.
[ But a little more: in the corner, off-kilter enough to be clearly hand drawn: musical staves, a treble clef. A simple melody, just over two bars. Its based in something from the improvisation he'd played for Gustave: something bright that seems to almost get pulled under by some dour notes, but then pulls free again. ]