Sonia Harris laughed. "Embouchure!" she said, and she laughed again. Van der Bos had pursed his lips and his face was darkening. She lay her refined hand delicately on his. "How delightful! You must pardon me, Mr. van der Bos. I had never considered that!"
"It's very important with woodwinds," he retorted. It was a stuffy thing to say, but van der Bos was thawing again, nevertheless, under the impact of Ms. Harris's charm.
She had personal charm, and the waiting room had been restrained and tasteful, except for the artworks, perhaps. The office was really quite lovely, and Ms. Harris had put him at ease, until now. Van der Bos was used to good things and educated company; but the chewed pencils on her desk were a false note.
Perhaps she likes to have things in her mouth, he mused.
A sudden thought made her eyes light again with mischief. "And flutes, I imagine!"
Playing the skin flute
was a phrase from her past; she hadn't heard it since the college.
"Technically, the flute is considered a woodwind," the pedantic man offered.
"And it is always hard and long! Oh, please, forgive me if you can, dear man. I am incorrigible with a new idea. Very well! Young and sweet, and very willing to follow direction-- I believe we can accommodate you rather well. Let us turn to the formalities, then. I think you will be entirely pleased, I really do."
* * * * *
Mr. van der Bos was suddenly very warm when he put down the telephone. The pupil he'd arranged for through the "It's Just Sex!" agency was on the way, and so quickly! Oboe, she'd said. The entire idea now seemed disastrously, monstrously wrong. Incredibly risky-- but also incredibly exciting. He trembled, but his shoulders pulled in and his head drooped.
"What have I done, what have I done?" he muttered. He thought about having a drink, but he wasn't enough of a drinker; the stuff affected him too strongly, it would be horrible. He flitted around the room, inefficiently, tidying inconsequential objects. He carried the waste paper basket into the kitchen to empty it. Regrets and anxiety prevented him from even thinking in sentences.
Stepping on the pedal and seeing the steel pail open its mouth broke the spell. As he dumped the paper in his shoulders straightened and he took a deep breath.
"Well!" said he, "What a fool I am; but how much can go wrong?" It's just a young pupil, isn't it?
With calm steps he moved to the front room and replaced the basket by the piano with a firm hand. Another good breath. "And he will surely know what we will do," he told himself.
But as he sat and waited he began to fidget, even to sweat. He checked his watch, but time was moving by no faster. A minute per minute. He wanted to make a reed or something, distract himself, but Ms. Harris had spoken as though the boy would come any moment.
"I'm acting like a schoolboy," he said, frowning. Immediately, the knock came on the front door. Like a schoolboy Van der Bos wiped his palms on his shirtfront as he went to answer it.
"Mr. van--"
"Do come in! Quick! There." Van der Bos shut the door and checked the street for witnesses. Nothing. The sun washed the street and hardly a leaf stirred.
The room seemed dark when he turned again. He saw oxfords and tan khakis. The 18-year-old boy had an oboe case. He was dressed well enough. His eyes continued upward-- such a perfect complexion!
He was beautiful.
He was speaking.
"Is something wrong?"
"I'm sorry, young man; your name again, please?" There, thought he, that's the right note. His own voice returned him his confidence.
"Peter Stockwell, sir."
