Painting: Pieter Claesz

The raindrop notes of the first prelude of Bach’s Das Wohltemperierte Klavier played out like a spring shower, dancing between the clink of wineglasses and the murmur of voices. To his surprise, Zene was enjoying himself.

Don’t get too confident, he thought. It’s not like it’s Britten.

Under the warm light of the room, Arcady’s playing was subdued and efficient, his attention entirely absorbed by the music. He wasn’t showy, he wasn’t vain…. and wasn’t what Zene expected.

Only then did Zene notice the woman walking up to the side stage: a black strapless gown, honey-orange hair framing the face of an angelic statue. She stopped short, hands on hips, and tilted her head. “Arcady Junior and Arcady Senior, together at the Hanbilts’,” she said, “yet not together.”

Arcady ignored her.

She turned to Zene. “So who are you and when did you move in with him?”

The segue into the Fugue in C major didn’t.

“Excuse me?” said Zene, glaring down at her, his bow still. He regretted stopping immediately; this woman was obviously what Arcady had been trying to prepare against when looking for a cellist who wouldn’t stop at anything.

“Hestia, this is not a convenient time,” said Arcady. Zene recognized her name as the reporter who had written the article about Arcady, the teenage detective wonder. There weren’t many Hestia’s in the world.

“It never is,” she said. “You come here at the last minute, barely have time to set up–and conveniently, no time to catch up with your father. He’s going up for re-election next year, and you know he’s under a lot of pressure.”

Everyone else in the room was now staring at the exchange. Zene felt a bit embarrassed, but quite more annoyed at this interruption. Arcady seemed to be struggling to come up with an answer.

“You keep avoiding your father,” Hestia continued, now crossing her arms. “That’s not helpful to him, and it’s not helpful to you, and it certainly isn’t helpful to your relationship with him.”

“What business is it of yours?” Arcady exploded, surprising Zene once more.

“I’m engaged to your father now.”

Arcady stared at her, open-mouthed. Then, without a word, he put down his violin and bow, jumped off the stage, and headed out of the room.

Hestia sighed. “He never grows up.” She looked around at the staring crowd, and waved a hand. “Go on, keep tasting. You can do it just as well without Bach.” They reluctantly returned to their chatting and exaggerated sniffing of bouquets (Zene wondered how many of them actually knew how to taste wine).

She now turned her attention to Zene. “Shall we talk?”

“Only if you make it worth my while,” said Zene, scowling. “He’s bound to fire me when he comes back, thanks to you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have stopped, then, hmm?”

“Not in my job description to talk behind his back to gold-digging harpies. You really want to talk to me, you get someone to bring some real booze up here.”

She considered this. “How about some Jack Daniels?”

“Are you insulting me? Either that or you don’t know crap about whiskey except what’s advertised in your papers and TV down here. If you’ve got no Crown Royal, you can forget about talking to me.”

“Uh, we have some Canadian Mist….”

“What the hell is that? Canadian Mist? I’ve never heard of it, and I’m fucking Canadian.” Zene gave her the middle finger, and put aside his cello. “Gonna go find him and see if I can keep my goddamned job.”

“All right, okay!” she said. “I’ll get someone to bring back some Crown Royal. I really do need to talk to you.”

“About what?” Zene wondered whether to tell her that he’d only met Arcady a few hours ago, but decided against it. He needed a stiff drink and he needed it now.

Tags: arcady, hestia, zene

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