It’s really gross.”
“He needs surgery,” said the first girl. “That’s his only chance.”
They laughed at this. Bertie, who could see Kevin sitting on the other side of the room, looked at his ears. They did not seem too large to him.
“And that boy in percussion,” one said. “I saw him looking in the mirror in the hotel. There’s this big mirror in the hall, see, and he was standing in front of it looking at his profile. It was really sad.
“He actually asked Linda out, you know. She couldn’t believe it. She said: ‘Are you mad or something?’ She said to me that she saw the seat he’d been sitting in on the plane and there was a large patch of hair gel where his head had been.
“And what about Max? Do you know him? He sits next to Tessa in the cellos. She says she can’t bear him. She says that he’s really stupid and that she has to do all the counting for him.”
Bertie opened his mouth to say something. Max was his friend, and he did not think he was stupid.
“He’s not stupid,” he said.
One of the girls glanced at him. “You said something, Bertie?”
Bertie tried to make his voice louder, and deeper. “I said: He’s not stupid. Max isn’t stupid.”
“All boys are stupid,” said one of the other girls, and laughed.
“Except you, Bertie. You’re not stupid. You’re sweet.”
At the end of the meal, they returned to the hotel by bus and, after receiving instructions about the following day, when the concert was to be performed, they dispersed to their rooms. When Bertie got to his room, he found that Max was already there.
“I saw you sitting with those girls,” Max remarked. “What were they like?”
Bertie met his friend’s gaze. He was a truthful boy and he thought: would it be a fib, a real fib, not to tell Max what they had said about him? Was it a fib to say nothing when the effect of that would be exactly the same as if you had said something?
“They were quite . . .” Bertie began.
“I think one of them fancies me,” said Max casually. “You know that one with the fair hair? You know the one I mean?”
Bertie nodded. It was the girl who had passed on the comment about Max being stupid.
“She’s the one,” said Max. “Do you think I should ask her out, Bertie?”
Bertie looked doubtful. “I think she may be busy,” he said.
“I’ll think about it,” said Max. “Maybe I’ll give her a chance.”
Bertie looked out of the window. In the streets below, the cars moved slowly past and there was the sound of an approaching Metro train. “When are we going?” he asked Max.
Max lay back on the cover of his bed and looked at his watch.
“It’s a bit late, Bertie,” he said. “And anyway, do you know the way?”
“To the Moulin Rouge?” asked Bertie.
“Yes,” said Max. “Because I don’t. And we can’t go if we don’t know the way.”
“I don’t,” said Bertie, looking crestfallen. “But maybe we could ask somebody in the street.”
Max laughed. “I can’t speak French,” he said. “We can’t ask if we don’t speak French. I do German, you see. And that’s no use in Paris.”
Bertie sighed. “So we can’t go?”
“Not this time,” said Max, slipping out of his shoes and throwing them onto a chair. “Next time we’re in Paris, boy will we have fun then!”
It took Bertie some time to get to sleep that night. He was disappointed by the cancellation of the visit to the Moulin Rouge, but he was looking forward to the concert tomorrow and they still had another night in Paris after that. He drifted off to sleep in a state of contentment and pride at being by himself – or almost – in Paris, fully accepted by a group of 278
teenagers, more or less an honorary teenager. It was a fine state to be in.
He dreamed, and in his dream he was in the Moulin Rouge, which was a large room bearing an uncanny resemblance to the Queen’s Hall in Edinburgh. He was sitting at a table with one of the girls from the orchestra, who was talking to him, although Bertie did not hear anything that she said. And then, into the Moulin Rouge, came Dr Fairbairn.
It seemed to Bertie that Dr Fairbairn was looking for him, and he tried to hide under the table. But he had been spotted, and the psychotherapist came up to him and pulled him back onto his chair.
“What are you doing in the Moulin Rouge, Bertie?” asked Dr Fairbairn.
“I came here because . . .” Bertie started to reply.
“Because it’s a dream, Bertie?” interrupted Dr Fairbairn. “Is that why you’re here? Is that why any of us is here? Is that it, Bertie?”
