66

The usual cows are spread about a meadow with their bells chiming at random.

Fred is sitting on a rock facing them. He watches them without stirring.

Then he closes his eyes.

He raises his arm as if to direct an orchestra, but this time nothing happens.

The bells continue to ring out in anarchic fashion.

With his eyes closed, Fred performs a gesture of anxious frustration. He then moves his arm again, with more energy, but still nothing. He cannot manage to shut himself off and compose.

He needs music, but music still has no need of him. He opens his eyes, the cows are still there in front of him. He shouts a ridiculous order at them: “Be quiet.”

But the cows and their bells ignore him.

Fred lets his head fall a little. He is exhausted. His eyes are bright with pain.

A surprising thing then happens. Without any warning sign, a paraglider silently lands among the cows.

Fred watches him. The paragliding wings fall and land on the man, covering him. The man laboriously frees himself, then looks around in surprise, realising that he has arrived in the wrong place.

He walks up to Fred and calmly says to him, “I don’t think I should have landed here.”

And without waiting for any response, he marches off along the hillside.

Fred follows him with his gaze and, despite his tears, he smiles.

67

A stupendous bow window looking out onto the Alps. It houses an ancient wooden birdcage. A beautiful circular object that is home to a magnificent blackbird.

The bird is singing a simple song that borders on perfection.

This is the office of the sixty-year-old doctor. He is on his feet, looking distressed and dismayed, staring at Fred Ballinger, who is sitting on the other side of the desk, in raptures at the blackbird’s song.

The doctor is saying tactfully, “You’ll be going to Los Angeles for the funer—”

Fred cuts him off: “Sssshhhhhh!”

The doctor falls silent.

Glassy-eyed, Fred gets to his feet and goes over to the bow window to listen to the blackbird up close.

The doctor also turns to observe the bird, which, for no reason, suddenly stops singing.

Fred turns to the doctor and says in a single breath, “What wonderful artists birds are! No, I’m not going to Los Angeles. I’m not going to Mick Boyle’s funeral. And I won’t be coming here for my holidays again. It’s perfectly pointless coming back to the places where one has been happy. One has to learn to face the rest of life.”

The doctor nods gloomily.

“Why have you asked me into your office, doctor? What did you want to say to me?”

The doctor sits on his desk. He picks up a clinical file and opens it. “I have the results of all the check-ups you’ve had these past weeks.”

“What do they say?”

“You’re as sound as a bell, Mr Ballinger.”

Almost hoping for the worst, Fred says, “But the prostate?”