Read The Maestro for Free Online

self-consciously pushed his hair back from his face. The man laughed. “Young, I mean. I not only looked young, I
was
young. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He leaned forward on one elbow and made a face. “You are probably vondering vhat ees zees place and who your distinguished host might be, ja?”
    â€œYeah … yes,” said Burl. “Kind of.”
    The man looked delighted. He poked Burl in the knee.
    â€œI am none uzzer zan ze famous conductor and Arctic wise-guy, Gustav von Liederhosen.
Baron
von Liederhosen to you.”
    â€œOh,” said Burl. He wrapped his arms around the box of arrowroots. “Thank you for the cookies, Baron.”
    â€œAre you not astounded beyond your vildest dreams?”
    Burl was certainly bewildered and vaguely frightened. But he was also fascinated and, more important than any of the feelings that raced through his tired brain, he was in need of food and somewhere to stay. Something told him that the baron’s performance required a performance in kind.
    â€œThere aren’t many conductors around here.”
    â€œI should say not!” said the baron, smiling smugly.
    Burl popped another couple of cookies in his mouth, not certain how long he would have possession of the boxor the favour of this changeable character. He looked away.
    â€œOch! You look flustered, my
wildeskind.”
    â€œI’m kind of lost,” said Burl.
    â€œAh, well, that makes two of us, old chap.” The baron’s accent had shifted suddenly to that of a British gentleman. “At least I had every
intention
of being lost. But now it seems you’ve found me out. Bearded me in my lair, as it were, what.”
    Burl stared at the man. “What happened to the baron?” he asked.
    â€œWhat a remarkable boyo,” said the man. “I have very adeptly adopted—say that quickly, three times—the disguise of Sir Chauncey Cakebread, eminent musicologist and rocketeer.”
    â€œOh,” said Burl again. This was hard to keep up with. It was also, somehow, embarrassing. Burl had never been paid so much attention in his life. He was drowning suddenly in attention. He could not look up. He ate another cookie. The pause lengthened. He stole a glance at the man, hoping he hadn’t hurt his feelings, wondering if he should have clapped again.
    The baron, Sir Chauncey—whoever he was—was staring at Burl, his face in repose again, but puffier, wearier than it had been only a moment earlier. He dug a pair of dark-rimmed glasses from a pocket inside his coat and looked at Burl more closely. Burl was looking towards the window where the grand piano sat.
    When the man spoke again, his voice was kind and sincere sounding. “What is it,
wildeskind, enfant sauvage,
wild child?”
    Burl cleared his throat. “Your piano,” he said. “I saw it before. Last spring. I followed it here.”
    The man seemed to pierce him with his gaze. “You followed it?”
    â€œWell, not exactly. I saw it flying—I mean, being carried by the helicopter—and I kind of started out in that direction.”
    The man’s eyes grew wide with wonder. Then a mosquito landed on his ear and he slapped it and grimaced.
    â€œAh, the joys of twilight in the north.” He clambered out of his chair and, ducking his head in his collar, he hurried to the door. He turned as he opened it. “Quick,” he said conspiratorially, waving Burl towards the door. “Inside,
mein kind,
before ze rest of his pesky friends discover us, too.”

6
Take Two
    T HE BARON MADE SCRAMBLED EGGS. HE hummed while he cooked and waved the spatula as if he was directing a silent symphony.
    The inside of the pyramid was one large room. To Burl—grown up under stained and buckled corkboard—it seemed more like a church than a dwelling. But it was not a fancy church, not like Grandma’s church with the bleeding Jesus and the stained-glass