Later, McGauran wakes alone in bed, and alarmed, immediately sits up.
Then he hears the piano downstairs and smiles. Honoré is practicing that new piece, the one that sounds like wild horses galloping. Orpheus in the Underworld is the name of it. At least Honoré isn’t banging out that Overture 1812 song again. He’s been playing that loud Tchaikovsky anthem all week and it was starting to grind McGauran’s nerves, though he’d never tell him.
He’s beginning to understand what the piano is to Honoré. More than an instrument, it’s his voice, his soul, the means by which he expresses his true self. Bernard was right: he can hear Honoré’s moods in the music he plays. This week, Honoré must be feeling triumphant and powerful.
McGauran smiles again. He hopes he has a little to do with that.
He
