Gauguin Connection, The by Estelle Ryan Read Free Book Online Page B

quarters. Directly to the left of the front door were two comfortable sofas facing a good-sized balcony on one side and a wall-length bookshelf on the other. Next to that was the dining area. The wall separating my bedroom and the dining area was the only wall in the living area covered in paintings and masks. All the other walls were covered in books.
    The kitchen was directly opposite the dining area. I stepped into the immaculate space without as much as a glance at the reading area behind me. All I wanted was to switch the cold kettle on to boil the water for my tea. Why was it then that a thin wisp of steam was coming out of the kettle? And why was there an aroma of camomile tea in my apartment? A cold hand of awareness clamped around my heart.
    “Hello, Genevieve.”
     
     

Chapter FOUR
     
     
     
    I had no air in my lungs to scream in horror when I turned to the reading area to face the voice that had intruded in my safe space. I also had no time to consider my own safety. Not when the darkness was closing in faster than it had two days before. I barely had the presence of mind to pull my handbag from my shoulder and dig out empty music sheets and a pencil with stiff fingers. In the very far background I heard a concerned voice calling me, but it was not strong enough to pull me back. Only the music sheets in my hand and the notes floating around in my head were real. Nothing else.
    How I made it to the dining table I had no idea, nor did it matter how long I was there. As long as I was focussing on Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 5 in D major, the darkness stayed peripheral. It closed in on me the moment I allowed my attention to be drawn to the other person speaking softly to me, moving around my apartment as if searching for something and then placing more empty music sheets in front of me.
    I pushed the knowledge of his invading presence in my apartment out of my mind and focussed on the purity of the music notes on the sheets. In many of his letters Mozart mentioned that this Concerto had been his favourite. It was mine too. I loved his use of trumpets and timpani in the first and last movements. The horns, oboes and strings that served as the piano’s support were perfect. It was pure, safe, in harmony. I had to focus on this to regain my own harmony.
    Slowly my mind returned to my apartment and back into my body. The threatening darkness had moved away, but the stranger was still in my apartment. I shook this knowledge off and looked at the table. The music sheets were neatly arranged next to each other, in two rows, from one side of the long wooden dining table to the other. There were twenty sheets. I had written a lot.
    Still not completely back in control, I chose to finish the second movement, the Andante, giving myself time to assess my situation. Writing Mozart not only helped me through moments like this, it was also the most effective way for me to think things through. I never had any problems memorising the compositions and must have written each of Mozart’s works at least twice in my life. Others I had written countless times. This work especially had helped me several times to come up with solutions to seemingly impossible situations. Like the one in my apartment.
    For some unfathomable reason he was still in my apartment. Who was he and what was he doing here? I didn’t want to chance looking at him in case he would think that I was available for conversation or maybe some more sinister activity he had in mind.
    I had completed seven years of self-defence training, combining different disciplines to enable a woman to defend herself in all kinds of situations. All the years of training flooded my mind. I would have to assess my assailant to best determine what form of defence I might need, yet I was reluctant to look away from my safe music papers.
    “I made you a cup of tea.” The intruder spoke quietly a few feet away from me. He had a deep voice and spoke with smooth confidence. My