Morok

Chapter VII. Boh Loh Bao

It took Gorenski less than an hour to bring his dishevelled appearance to its usual prim perfection and bake a potion of Boh Loh Bao. Since Liedke loved sweet, soft cakes, the chewy Hong Kong buns with their criss-cross crust pattern and fresh butter would certainly charm him. In return, Gorenski would extract his share of pleasure from the musician in one way or another.

He always found ways to enjoy himself, but beyond superficial satisfaction, he rarely reached anything of value. Such was the nature of his curiosity: he despised conventions, delighted in the outrageous and absurd. He was never affronted when 'normal people' took offence. Instead, he encouraged and incited great extremities.

When Liedke opened the door of his third-floor apartment, Gorenski greeted him and handed him a basket of Boh Loh Bao. As expected, the young musician was so flustered that he froze in the doorway, unable to utter a single word before Gorenski's 'May I come in?' drew him back to reality.

"What are these?" Liedke murmured as he sniffled the buttered dough. "That is the best scent in the world."

"Is it?" Gorenski's lips twitched. "I thought you might like it. There is a certain nostalgic quality to Boh Loh Bao: they are simple and hearty, flavourful and savoury. Like an old friend's embrace."

Liedke stuffed two buns into his mouth, forgetting about manners, much to Gorenski's amusement.

"What is your favourite food?" Liedke asked, chewing.

"Rye bread," Gorenski answered, watching Liedke's eyebrows climb his forehead. "But not the one you can find here. The rye bread I remember breathes warmth and keeps the memories of sun-baked grains alive."

Leaving his coat in the hall, Gorenski proceeded into the spacious living room, where the fabled piano occupied most of the space. Yes, it was indeed an antique Bösendorfer instrument, its unmistakable scent of polished wood, sweet like liquorice and long-lasting like coffee, reaching Gorenski's nose. If properly tuned, its sound could rival a siren's voice.

For a long moment, Gorenski froze, remembering an evening as cool as this one, many years ago, in the sprawling Radziwill palace in Berlin. Anna's distant cousin Antoni was a patron of arts whose salon welcomed the most distinguished people of their time. Floating like a lily over blue waters, his daughter walked through the interconnected halls, her flowy skirts trailing behind. The girl used to say Gorenski had dead-yet-illuminated eyes and that his expressions were inscrutable. She rarely smiled, but when she did, all heads turned towards her. The magnetism Antoni's daughter possessed was much like Anna's. But even her charm paled in comparison to one thin man with an aquiline nose who played the piano.

Whenever his long fingers touched the instrument, conversations died. He was a creator of worlds, a master of spells. He was beyond anyone and anything Gorenski had ever met. And because Gorenski once heard him play, very few other performances impressed him. Even the centuries of his own practice did not bring him closer to the talent that man with dark, pain-filled eyes had.

"What are you thinking about?" Liedke asked, distracting Gorenski from the memory.

"About the greatest musician I've ever known."

"Who was he?"

"He was Polish. He died a long time ago from an affliction that could have been cured."

Liedke frowned. "Why didn't you cure him?"

"I was in Petersburg at the time of his death. And he was in Paris."

"I wonder what he did to impress you that much. I doubt that I can compare."

"You should not. Comparison is the thief of joy. Isn't that how the saying goes? Perhaps there is some truth to it." He paused, looking into the darkness beyond the window. "Or perhaps comparison is nothing but a window into our perception. Perhaps nothing is perfect or unattainable."