Divergence

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked, doing his best not to catch Ivan’s eye.

“Yes, white, please.”

Ivan’s voice was filled with gentle menace. “If you get my daughter drunk I will break your legs.”

Katya rolled her eyes. “Oh, ignore him,” she said. “He just thinks he’s being funny.”

“That’s right,” Ivan growled. “I’m only joking. Come on, Eva.”

He held out his arm and led her across the floor to a seat with a view of the stage. As they sat down Ivan caught Paul’s eye. Unseen by his daughter, Ivan brought his fists together and twisted them in reverse to make a snapping motion.

Eva elbowed him in the ribs. “Leave him alone. You were his age once.”

“Yes, that is why I threaten him.”

The brass band had been playing onstage. Now they sat down, shiny cornets and horns laid on their laps as a young girl of about seven or eight walked to the front. The audience stilled. Eva heard one or two Aaaws as the child raised a cornet that seemed two sizes too big for her to her lips. She paused and looked uncertainly to the conductor of the band, her blond hair patterned in brown and gold under the lights. There was a nod, she took a breath and began to play “Away in a Manger.”

“But it’s not Christmas,” Ivan said.

“Shhhh,” Eva said. “She’s very good.”

“No she isn’t,” Ivan replied, looking up at the little girl. The cornet was so big, relatively speaking, that she had to tilt her head downwards and rest the instrument on her chest to play it. “She isn’t quite in tune, she keeps splitting notes. What you mean to say is she is very good for a seven-year-old.”

“Pedant,” said Eva. She squeezed his hand, the big gold chain around his wrist knocking against her knuckles.

Ten minutes. That was Judy’s console alerting her again. Out in the real world, the spaceship Eva Rye was approaching danger .

I have to go soon, said Judy. What are you trying to show me?

Wait and see, we’re almost there.

The little girl finished playing and there was a huge round of applause. The brass band began to play again, a bright, lively tune that seemed to stumble and pause every so often as it progressed.

“I do not recognize this tune,” Ivan said.

“I do,” said Eva. “It’s called ‘Hail Smiling Morn.’ They used to play this in the North West Conurbation, back in the spring. I remember the words….”

She tilted her head and listened carefully, finding her place in the tune. “ … who the gay face of nature doth unfold…” she sang.

Ivan tapped his foot in time. “I like this,” he said. “Very good.”

Eventually the band finished. They collected their music together in blue folders and shuffled off, instruments flashing golden in the light.

Eva felt so happy. They were sitting comfortably together, Ivan’s hand gently holding her own in her lap. They squeezed each other’s hands at exactly the same moment, and then looked at each other, both of them at a loss for words. Eva suddenly wanted to blow her nose. She fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief. Ivan studied the program again.

“It says it is Mr. Meyer’s group now,” he said.

Mr. Meyer walked onto the stage, carrying a shiny brown guitar. He was already speaking and there was a moment of silence while the directional microphone searched for him.

“…practicing now for the past three months. Let’s give them a round of applause.”

Eva clapped loudly as Mr. Meyer’s group limped, stumbled, or were wheeled onto the stage. They carried drums and tom-toms and maracas and tambourines and cymbals. They shook and drooled and clattered and rattled like a decrepit steam engine, a complete contrast to the sweetly controlled pressure of the brass band that had gone