The Wound
Once, the seasons had been more distinct, but not in living memory. Now, mild winter merged gently into mild summer, and Olin knew it was spring only by the calendar and by his own restlessness.
That morning, Olin’s bus took a different route, road repairs forcing a detour through the old city. As he stared out the window at the huge, derelict buildings crumbling into ruin and colonized by weeds, he caught sight of figures through gaps in the walls. No one lived in the old city, but there were always people here. Olin had been one of them once, when he was young, coming here with his lover. He remembered that time as the best of his life.
Recalling the past made him feel sad and prematurely old. His lover had become his wife, and after ten years of marriage they had separated. He had lived alone for the past two years.
Olin reached into his breast pocket for diary and pen, turned to the blank page of that day, and wrote ‘phone Dove’ in his small, precise hand. About once a month he phoned her, and they would arrange to meet for a meal. Always he went to her in hope, with fond memories and some vague thoughts of reconciliation which would fade over the course of the evening.
As he left the bus, two other teachers, senior to Olin, also got off. They did not speak as they crossed the street together and passed through the heavy iron gates onto the school grounds. Olin caught sight of another colleague, a little ahead of them: Seth Tarrant, the new music master. Tarrant was young, handsome, and admired by the students. His cream-coloured coat flared like a cape from his shoulders, and he seemed to be singing as he strode across the bright green lawn. He carried an expensive leather case in one hand, and a bunch of blue and yellow flowers in the other. Olin felt a brief flare of envy, and he touched his breast pocket. He would phone Dove, he thought. She would be glad to hear from him.
During his lunch-break, Olin went into the telephone alcove by the cafeteria, and was startled to see Seth Tarrant there, his long body slumped in an attitude of defeat, his head pressed against one of the telephones. Before Olin, embarrassed, could retreat, the other man looked around.
He straightened up, brushing a strand of fair hair out of his eyes. ‘Mr Mercato,’ he said.
‘Olin,’ said Olin, embarrassed still more by the formality. ‘Please.’
‘Olin. I’m Seth.’
‘Yes, I know. Ah, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Do you like opera?’
‘Opera? Yes. Yes, I do, actually. Not that I know anything about it—maths is my subject, really - but I do like to listen. On the radio, and I have a few recordings…’
‘You don’t think it’s tedious, pretentious and antiquated?’
Olin wondered who the music master was quoting. He shook his head.
‘You might even think it worth your while to attend a live performance?’
‘If it weren’t so expensive—’
With a conjuror’s flourish, Seth produced two cards from his pocket. ‘I happen to have two tickets to tonight’s performance of The Insufficient Answer, and one is going begging. Would you care to be my guest?’
‘I’d love to. But, are you sure?’
‘Do I seem uncertain to you?’
Olin shook his head.
‘That’s settled, then. We’ll meet on the steps of the opera house at seven o’clock, which will give us time for a drink in the bar before it begins.’
‘Thank you. It’s very kind—’
‘Not at all. You are the kind one, agreeing at such short notice. Please don’t be late. I hate to be kept waiting.’
The opera house was on the river, in an area of the city far older than that part known as the old city. Olin had been there once before, in the early days of his marriage, to attend a performance of Butterfly. Dove had been pregnant then, and she had fallen asleep during the second act. It was probably the quarrel they’d had afterwards, and not the price of tickets, which was the real reason Olin had never been to the opera since.
The steps were crowded with people meeting friends, but Seth’s tall, elegant figure was immediately noticeable. When he reached his side, Olin began to apologize for his lateness, although it was barely five past the hour. He felt awkward, worried about the evening, certain that Seth had regretted his spur-of-the-moment invitation by now. Seth brushed aside both apologies and thanks with a flick of one long-fingered hand.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ he said.
He seemed distracted and brooding in the bar, but Olin contrived a conversation by asking him questions about opera: after all, music was the man’s subject. Olin felt like a student taken on a cultural outing by a master; an odd reversal, since he was at least ten years Seth’s senior. It was a relief when the bell rang and they could find their seats and stop talking.
