Faith gets into the car that Mori has sent for her. She is in a good mood, relieved to be escaping the tension between herself and Tom, if only for an afternoon. They try not to let anything get through to the team, but it is a difficult situation. They will not be able to repeat their success from Sepang. Nobody is really expecting it. Suzuka is a more difficult track, and they are basically testing their new cars under racing conditions. They would like to ride the wave, of course, and for that the atmosphere has to stay up-beat. This short break might be something they need.

  This is not her first visit to Japan. She has been to Tokyo, to Kyoto, to Osaka, and of course she knows the race track. She is usually fed up with the crowded cities after a weekend. The landscape around the race track is a mix of agricultural and suburban spaces, nothing special so far. The limousine takes her into the hills towards the south west of the track, however, and they are passing through an actual forest. Well, at least the road is winding through patches of trees.

  They stop at a gate that magically opens for them, and eventually they drive up to a one-storey house that looks absolutely traditional. Leaving the car, Faith finds herself surrounded by silence, which is a relief. Also, here in the hills there is a breeze, and the heat is not so oppressive.

  Then Mori greets her, and she feels nervous all of a sudden. If he is, too, it does not show.

  “Welcome.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Come inside, please.”

  She is glad that his manner has not changed. He is polite and a little distant, which makes her feel safe. She can be herself. At the door she removes her shoes.

  The house is, despite its classic appearance, built from modern materials, but great care had gone into maintaining a straight cut. Shoji walls lead them into a room with huge windows that open towards a terrace. There is very little furniture; two sofas and a low table. The dominant thing in this room is a painting in bright colours, hanging in a niche behind one of the sofas.

  Faith stares at the painting and seems to recognise animal bodies of various species, entangled and hard to tell apart. “Wow, this is one hideous thing”, she says before she can think.

  She immediately tries to apologise, horrified at her blunder, but Mori just says, impassive as always, “It was given to me by the artist, who is also my friend.” He points to the sofa in front of the painting. “I sit here. You will sit there when we are going to have tea, which means that you will be looking at it all the time.” He makes it sound as if this is a huge problem to which he has to find a solution.

  Faith points towards the terrace. “Can’t we have tea outside? The breeze is very nice.”

  As if a burden has been taken off him, he calls out in Japanese, and a young man appears who gets told to move the tea things to the terrace. The servant has not looked at Faith.

  “I had no intention to be rude or to insult your taste”, she says apologetically.

  “You have not insulted me. There is not much to insult when it comes to my taste. I use this place to find some quiet. Decorations would only be a distraction.”

  “I see. Yes, I believe, you have created a very quiet refuge here.” This is true. The silence she has noticed outside is almost a tangible presence here in these rooms.

  “So you like it? I can make changes if there is something you do not like. The painting…”

  She smiles. “Let us not talk about changes. I am your guest today, nothing more.”

  “You are right.”

  Faith relaxes again. This has been close. But she is getting the hang of how to talk to him.

  “Come with me to another room. There is something I want to show you especially.”

  She follows him. Her visit has been planned through as if it is a state visit. The next room he shows her is also quite devoid of furniture. She is starting to suspect that the shojis hide the cabinets and wardrobes. How clever is that! And how beautiful! When she looks around the room, being only vaguely irritated by the bed, she notices the grand piano that resides in the room also, balancing out the bed.

  “Wow. Oh my God!” She is impressed beyond words, not to say stunned. “A Fazioli! Are you serious?” She looks at her host, and for the first time there is a hint of pride on his face.

  “May I?”, she asks before she touches the instrument. He nods, she lets her fingers run across the dark brown wood and opens the lid of the manual. This is incredibly tempting. She touches the keys longingly without moving them. A Fazioli, the best of the best! Nothing against her grandfathers old Bechstein, it is in good shape, but this right here is a state of the art instrument, for sure.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “You can play if you wish to”, he says, pointing at a pair of slip-on shoes beside the chair.

  “Oh my God!” He does not have to tell her twice. Slipping into the shoes and adjusting the chair while sitting down is one sweeping movement. Then she takes a deep breath and touches the keys for real, listening to the E minor chord as it sounds through the room. Beautiful. She plays some more chords, tentative at first, but then with more force. She looks at Mori and nods appreciatively. This instrument has been built to live inside these rooms. They are a perfect fit.

  “Breathtaking”, she says. Then she plays a few bars of Mozart, a bit of Beethoven, some snatches of Schumann. When she has got a feel for the instrument, she directs her gaze away from the keys and out the window and plays a Mahler melody, surprised at how easily the music is coming back to her, and how she has missed letting herself fly with it. She is herself again while she is playing. Her hands remember, her body remembers. She is her best self.

  When the last note has faded away, she rests her hands in her lap for a few seconds. Then she turns her head towards her host and starts. For one second there, his face has not been controlled, and she has seen, in this brief instant, that everything he has ever said to her is the truth. His politeness, the distance he keeps, his inflectionless manner of speaking were only one side of him. She has just had a glimpse of absolute determination and passion that are deeply frightening. Maybe it was hunger. Or need. She feels shaken to the core.

  “A wonderful instrument”, she says at last, when he does not speak. “What do you play on it?”

  “Bach”, he says.

  “That figures. I mean – this does not come as a surprise.” Her big mouth will get her into trouble for sure. Not with him, though. He does not notice.

  “Shall we have tea?”

  She hates to part from the instrument, but she rises, puts the shoes beside the chair and closes the lid. From the terrace, they can see the sea because the trees have been trimmed. Mori does not do a full tea ceremony, thank God, and they do not speak much. Faith has the chance to calm down again. The sky goes dark. The sun is setting behind them, and the night simply comes, there is no drama. The mornings must be magnificent, though.

  “What would you be doing if you were at home?”, Mori asks.

  “At home? In Scotland?” She does not have a home, really. Wake Hall comes closest. “Play the piano”, she says. “Though not a custom made Fazioli. I’d be drinking tea. And I would have been out on horseback, down to the beach.”

  “We can have a stable built, down by the house of my employees”, Mori says promptly.

  Faith repeats what she has said before. “I am just your guest today.”

  He is silent. She glances at him. He looks very tired. It might be the fading light, but he used to look ageless, and now he is grey and exhausted. This is worrying. “Are you okay at all? Are you tired? Should I leave?”

  “No. You must stay.” He seems determined and pulls himself together. “The season is exhausting, indeed. But having you here is a pleasure.”

  “This is why you wanted Tom, isn’t it? You can have him if you need him.”

  “Tom has a contract with you. We can negotiate again in autumn.”

  “You are very generous.” He is practising self-abandonment.

  “Please”, he says. “You know my intentions. I’ve shown you what I have got. You would be safe with me. Don’t make me wait for your decision.”

  Faith is silent. He goes on. “If there is someone else, you must tell me.”

  He is talking about Tom, surely. “There is no-one”, she says.

  “Then I would appreciate it if you told me your decision soon.”

  She sighs. She has not the heart to tell him the truth. “I can’t give you an answer now. But today has been very valuable.” This is no lie. Mori has created a life for himself that balances out the pressure and noise of the circus, and after the past few weeks such a refuge seems tempting. She does not feel put off by him, quite the contrary. She believes him when he says she would be safe with him. This is worth something. But is it enough? She does not think so. “My life is absolutely strange and new right now. If I decided now, it might be an attempt to escape. This would do more harm than good. I am, I can assure you, considering your offer very seriously.”

  “September. Tell me by September.”

  September is in five months. That is a long way ahead. She can live with that. “September.” And with that, the topic is off the table.

  During dinner she tries to discuss racing. They agree that the trend of putting more and more races into the schedule every year is bad. It used to be sixteen races, with a fortnight between racing weekends. They have moved up to twenty-one, and all the races in Europe are back to back. Next season, they want to do twenty-three. This is hard on people and equipment. Logistics are a nightmare. Faith wonders whether they should try to mobilize the other managers against these plans, but Mori does not wish to enter into a debate about politics. She lets him choose the topic.

  It is music. He is still thinking about the piece she has played. He is very knowledgeable, but the piece has been new for him. He has understood the idea behind it immediately, however, which surprises Faith because he misses so many things in personal interactions. Her playing could not have helped; she finds herself amiss, as always. She explains the origin of the piece she has been playing. Mahler has not written for the piano; even his songs are usually with orchestra accompaniment. She has – like many people do – taken the piece and made herself at home with it. She recites the lyrics to him, “I have let go of the world”, which reflect what he has picked up on: an other-worldliness, chosen loneliness, peace found at last. He says that he will look into Mahler’s music in the future. She, in turn, promises to take Bach more seriously.

  When they say good bye, he takes her hand and repeats the weird little kiss on her fingertips. This time, she is not shocked by it. “Don’t start”, she says before she kisses his cheek.