The restaurant starts to clear. I start to wipe the tables down. I begin to stack the chairs while this last few customers are finishing. I ask John if it's okay if I can go and get my bus. He says he'll be fine. I go to the changing room to get my bag. Mozart is there, changing his shirt.
'Getting the bus?' he asks me, top-half naked.
'Yeah.'
We walk to the bus stop not saying anything to each other and wait there in silence. It's dark now and the street light next to the bus stop isn't working. It flickers on and off and is a dull orange colour. We get on the bus and sit next to each other. Mozart pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts writing something in Polish. All the letters seem to have accents, dashes and moutaches on them. I watch as he is writing his text, punching at the keys with his weather-beaten thumbs. He writes and deletes then writes a bit again and then saves the text to drafts instead of sending it. I want to ask him something stupid, but I restrain myself. I think about how old Mozart is. I think about all the things I know about him. I think about him in his living toom or study or someone else living room or study giving a violin lesson. He is standing patiently with his hands behind his back, listening attentively as his pupil finishes their piece - I imagine the pupil as a young girl with tied back brown hair and deep, big brown eyes. She has come straight from school and is still wearing her uniform; skirt, shirt, tie, blazer, white knee high socks. She stops playing and Mozart says 'very good', and then gives her some advice on the way she is holding the violin or how she should put more emphasis and feeling onto certain parts or certain notes. And when the girl gets home she writes in her diary on her bed about her violin teacher from Poland. And the next day at school she tells her best friend how she thinks she might be in love with her violin teacher from Poland and it suddenly becomes big news.
Mozart wakes me up to ask if I have found anywhere to work yet. I tell him about the interview at the café tomorrow. He says he knows the café and says it's nice.
'Very good cakes,' he says, winking at me, 'Don't eat too many!'
I blush. I ask him about his violin lessons and ask how many pupils he has at the moment.
'Only two at the moment. But I put advert in paper…?'
'Right.'
'So, who knows…' he purses his lips and moves them from side to side, like they're not really attached to his face – fake lips – making a vague expression.
'Well, if I know anyone who wants violin lessons, I'll send them your way!'
We both laugh at this, even though its not really meant to be funny. He looks forward grinning to himself; I look forward, confused, and not sure what to say next. I think he says something like 'I'll miss this,' and then I say 'pardon?' He puts his arm on the back of the seat and turns so he is facing me.
'I need to get off,' he says.
'Oh, sorry, okay,' I get up and let him get past me.
'Thanks,' he whispers and then walks down to the front of the bus, pushes the bell and waits for the driver to stop and open the door,
I can see him under the light of the street lamp out of the window and then we start to pull away and Mozart is swollowed by a blob of darkness.
I think about all I know about Mozart. This vague person in my life. This co-worker. This racist. This confused feeling in my stomach, like a knot untying and retying itself. This violin tutor. This apparition that slowly seems to be becoming a physical entity in my life, and who will just as quickly disappear again at the end of next week. What will I know about Mozart then? What will I have of Mozart then? I want to get off the bus and follow him. I want to know if he's still a racist or if he thinks it's okay to call Ant a nigger. I want to confirm his status as a living human being.
I get home and my Mum is lying with the dogs on the sofa. They are all staring intently at a crime drama on TV. I can't help but laughing as I look at them.
'Good day at work then?'
'Not too bad,' I say, still laughing. 'I heard back from the café. I have an interview tomorrow.'
'Oh, excellent precious!' She sounds genuinely pleased for me.
I get a yoghurt from the fridge and eat it in the living room, asking my Mum questions about what is happening. She grunts answers and ignores me.
'Getting the bus?' he asks me, top-half naked.
'Yeah.'
We walk to the bus stop not saying anything to each other and wait there in silence. It's dark now and the street light next to the bus stop isn't working. It flickers on and off and is a dull orange colour. We get on the bus and sit next to each other. Mozart pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts writing something in Polish. All the letters seem to have accents, dashes and moutaches on them. I watch as he is writing his text, punching at the keys with his weather-beaten thumbs. He writes and deletes then writes a bit again and then saves the text to drafts instead of sending it. I want to ask him something stupid, but I restrain myself. I think about how old Mozart is. I think about all the things I know about him. I think about him in his living toom or study or someone else living room or study giving a violin lesson. He is standing patiently with his hands behind his back, listening attentively as his pupil finishes their piece - I imagine the pupil as a young girl with tied back brown hair and deep, big brown eyes. She has come straight from school and is still wearing her uniform; skirt, shirt, tie, blazer, white knee high socks. She stops playing and Mozart says 'very good', and then gives her some advice on the way she is holding the violin or how she should put more emphasis and feeling onto certain parts or certain notes. And when the girl gets home she writes in her diary on her bed about her violin teacher from Poland. And the next day at school she tells her best friend how she thinks she might be in love with her violin teacher from Poland and it suddenly becomes big news.
Mozart wakes me up to ask if I have found anywhere to work yet. I tell him about the interview at the café tomorrow. He says he knows the café and says it's nice.
'Very good cakes,' he says, winking at me, 'Don't eat too many!'
I blush. I ask him about his violin lessons and ask how many pupils he has at the moment.
'Only two at the moment. But I put advert in paper…?'
'Right.'
'So, who knows…' he purses his lips and moves them from side to side, like they're not really attached to his face – fake lips – making a vague expression.
'Well, if I know anyone who wants violin lessons, I'll send them your way!'
We both laugh at this, even though its not really meant to be funny. He looks forward grinning to himself; I look forward, confused, and not sure what to say next. I think he says something like 'I'll miss this,' and then I say 'pardon?' He puts his arm on the back of the seat and turns so he is facing me.
'I need to get off,' he says.
'Oh, sorry, okay,' I get up and let him get past me.
'Thanks,' he whispers and then walks down to the front of the bus, pushes the bell and waits for the driver to stop and open the door,
I can see him under the light of the street lamp out of the window and then we start to pull away and Mozart is swollowed by a blob of darkness.
I think about all I know about Mozart. This vague person in my life. This co-worker. This racist. This confused feeling in my stomach, like a knot untying and retying itself. This violin tutor. This apparition that slowly seems to be becoming a physical entity in my life, and who will just as quickly disappear again at the end of next week. What will I know about Mozart then? What will I have of Mozart then? I want to get off the bus and follow him. I want to know if he's still a racist or if he thinks it's okay to call Ant a nigger. I want to confirm his status as a living human being.
I get home and my Mum is lying with the dogs on the sofa. They are all staring intently at a crime drama on TV. I can't help but laughing as I look at them.
'Good day at work then?'
'Not too bad,' I say, still laughing. 'I heard back from the café. I have an interview tomorrow.'
'Oh, excellent precious!' She sounds genuinely pleased for me.
I get a yoghurt from the fridge and eat it in the living room, asking my Mum questions about what is happening. She grunts answers and ignores me.
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