Fingers
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When he isn’t working with Humphrey, that is. Like me, he could never play very well, but he’s a wonderful teacher and has trained several successful pianists. Now that Humphrey doesn’t have to worry about giving concerts all the time, his playing is improving enormously. Already he sounds like another person—or like the person he was when he performed those Magyar pieces.
And I’m composing. It doesn’t come as easily as it did when I was trying to imitate Magyar, in fact it’s a tremendous struggle. Sometimes it takes me all day to write one page. But I keep plugging away at it There really isn’t much else to do here, except go for walks around the island, or have picnics in the meadow, or gaze out over the river, or just sit around gabbing with Laszlo and with Humphrey. It turns out that Humphrey isn’t so stupid after all. His backwardness must have had something to do with the way Luc and Bridget kept him chained to the piano and never gave him a chance to learn anything else. There are a lot of books in English here and he’s beginning to read them, and he comes up with the most amazing insights sometimes. It doesn’t even bore me to be stuck here with him. The feeling for him that broke over me on the night we ran away is stronger than ever now. I guess it must have been there all the time, buried under all the jealousy and resentment. And maudlin as it sounds, I think I’m beginning to love Laszlo, too.
He calls us his family. He might be right—in more ways than one. I still don’t understand what happened when we were involved in the hoax. I’ve thought of mental telepathy and all sorts of things. But I had the strangest idea of all the other day. It has to do with the way Magyar died, having his hands and his head separated. Maybe his spirit came back in two parts, and I got the head and Humphrey got the hands. That way, the two of us together would be, in a way, the reincarnation of one person: I write the music, and Humphrey plays it He always did play my music better than anything else.
That might explain the weird thing that happened last night. It scares me a little to think about it Neither of us is really comfortable in our bedroom in the tower, and last night we both had nightmares again. I can’t remember my dream, and Humphrey can’t remember his, but we woke each other up at the same time, talking in. our sleep.
In Hungarian, Laszlo told us.
TOR BOOKS BY WILLIAM SLEATOR
Among the Dolls
Fingers
The Green Futures of Tycho
A musical mystery …
“Oh, come off it, Humphrey, we’re not that gullible. I mean look at this.” I gestured at the music in his hand. “That whole act you put on last night, and now this music with Magyar’s name on it. You might as well just come out and tell us that this ghost came and dictated the music for you. Obviously that’s what you’re trying to make us believe, isn’t it?”
“I’m not, I promise I’m not!” cried Humphrey. “You have to believe me! I’m telling the truth. I don’t remember anything. Oh, why did this have to happen?” He rose up out of the chair and threw himself down on the bed and began to sob.
Finally he turned over on his back, one arm thrown across his forehead, and said in a small voice, “Do you really think it might be possible?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William SLEATOR grew up in a suburb of St Louis, Missouri. Because his parents’ house was filled with books and music, it was natural that he should aspire to being a writer and musician, he says. He graduated from Harvard, with a degree in English, and then spent a year in London, studying musical composition and working as a pianist at The Royal Ballet School and The Rambert School.
His life in England, he explains, had certain bizarre aspects to it, which led him on his return to the United States to write his first novel, Blackbriar. But because his life since England has bee n less bizarre, in order to keep writing books he has had to learn to use his imagination more and depend less on reality.
Mr. Sleator is the author of ten books, including The Green Futures of Tycho and Interstellar Pig. Along with writing, he works as rehearsal pianist with The Boston Ballet It’s the perfect job, he maintains, because the melodramatic blood-sweat-and-tears world of the ballet is a stimulating contrast to the lonely, contemplative job of writing.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FINGERS
Copyright © 1983 by William Sleator
Originally published in 1983 by Atheneum Publishers
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
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eISBN 9781466827295
First eBook Edition : July 2012
EAN 978-0-765-35349-8
First Tor Teen edition: July 2006