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the bed, pulling her legs up so that her ankles rested against the curve of her narrow-hipped bottom. As she nestled her head deep into the pillow, a tear slowly trickled down her cheek and was immediately absorbed by the white linen pillowcase.
     
     
     
    “Hullo?” The voice on the telephone sounded weak and quavering.
    “Hullo, maman. It’s Albert.”
    “Oh, Albert, mon cher, why have you not called me before now? Where have you been?” A pathetic cough followed.
    “I am sorry, maman. I did not know you had called until a moment ago.”
    “Do you mean the girl never gave you the message?” Suddenly there seemed to be strength in the voice.
    Dessuin rested an elbow on the dark-stained desk and rubbed the palm of his hand against his forehead. For eight years, Angélique had been living with him and his mother in their capacious apartment in the quinzième district of Paris, and still she could hardly bring herself to call her son’s young protégée by name. “I have been away from my room, maman, and Angélique has been practicing for the concert tonight. It was not her fault.”
    “I am not feeling at all well, Albert.” The voice changed for the worse once more.
    “So I understand. Have you called the doctor?”
    “Pah! The doctor knows nothing. Anyway, he is too busy even to visit a sick old woman.”
    “In that case, you must send Simone round to the pharmacie for some paracetamol.”
    “Albert, it is Tuesday. Simone only comes for two hours on a Tuesday. She has left already.” Another feeble cough sounded down the line. “When are you coming home, Albert?”
    “I cannot be back in Paris before Friday, maman.”
    “Ah, mon Dieu, Friday! I may very well be on my deathbed by then, if I have not gone before.”
    “Maman, that is ridiculous,” Dessuin said irritably. “You are as strong as an ox.”
    “How would you know how I am feeling?” Again the strength in the voice returned. “You have never considered how I am feeling. If that had been so, you would never have left your teaching job at the Conservatoire to fly around the world with that girl.”
    “Maman, I have talked to you countless times about this.”
    “You were never able to make the grade, were you, Albert? You are only doing this because you see in her the talent that you lacked. Don’t forget that if it had not been for my contacts, you would never have got that job at the Conservatoire.”
    “That is most unfair, maman.”
    “Pah! What age are you now? Thirty-seven years old? And you are going to be content to follow this girl around the world like a lapdog for the rest of your life?”
    Dessuin did not reply, but leaned back in his chair and wound the telephone cord tightly around his fingers. He let out a short silent laugh. “Isn’t it strange how you always seem to sound so much better when you get angry?”
    There was a moment’s silence.
    “Albert,” the suffering in the voice had returned, “I am sorry to say such things to you. It must be the fever. I do feel quite delirious.”
    “Well, I suggest you take yourself to bed with a cup of hot lemon and a shot of cognac, and if you are feeling no better by Friday, I will take you to see the doctor.”
    “You are a good boy, Albert. I know that. Mon seul fils, et je t’aime beau-coup. ”
    “ Et je t’aime aussi, maman. I must go now. I have things to do. I will call you tonight.”
    Dessuin replaced the receiver and sat for a moment focused on the letter-heading of the Tower Hotel, stacked neatly with its matching envelopes in the leather stand at the back of the desk. He then leaned slowly forward and clenched his hair with both hands, squeezing tighter and tighter until the pain brought tears to his eyes. Why was it so much part of her very nature to belittle those who were closest to her? She had acted exactly the same with his father as well, so much so that the man had often been driven to vent all his pent-up emotions in an irrational rage that had