Muse

Hochbert composed concertos in his Bavarian cottage. Once the log fire had warmed the room he would settle by his piano for the evening. Isabelle would sit reading on the settee, he could only work if she was in the room with him. He dismissed all the music he had written before he met her, considering it poor and insignificant and never performed it again.

Isabelle liked to sing. She needed no tune, no song, no accompaniment. Sometimes she sang in German. but Hochbert preferred her to sing in French, her mother tongue, and he considered the words that he did not understand far more beautiful than any words he already knew. When she started to sing to him, the keys on the piano started to play, before Hochbert even knew his fingers were moving.

When Isabelle moved in with him they would drink red wine throughout the afternoon and paint the sunset in the evening. At night time they would mix paints and mix spirits. Neither could paint while alone or sober, but as raspberry liqueurs loosened their wrists, they found that sitting in front of an easel was as natural as the countryside views that they painted. Isabelle always fell asleep first, often she would wake to daylight, having no idea how she got up the stairs, being oblivious to what she had painted that night. Hochbert would still be painting when she woke, and she would look at what they had produced. While she slept, he would add starlings to the skyline, paint in every single star that was in the sky that night, not finishing until each one was twinkling. He painted constellations, and during the day would read up on astrology, and taught Isabelle about every star in the sky.

In the mornings he would often play the piano, at first hitting the wrong notes; black keys clanged like hangovers, but he played himself into sobriety and regular visitors to his house would be treated to a performance without the need to mix with the elite in the hope of securing a ticket for the evening's extravaganza. The first time he played the Salzburg concert hall, he saw Isabelle standing by the curtain, sipping whisky. As his fingers of his right hand trilled at the top end of the piano, he imagined her floating across the audience, singing in French, gliding as though connected by pulleys and wires. When the audience leapt to their feet and applauded, he assumed they were acknowledging her.

In the small church they renovated on the outskirts of Strasbourg, he created two white marble statues of Isabelle either side of the steeple. As the sun rose in the east, her best side would shine. Local residents, thrilled to have him in their sleepy village had no idea who the statues were supposed to represent, as Isabelle rarely left the house. She had grown tired of singing and painting, and as a result Hochbert rarely performed. He used the time to create the statues, and when they were completed, craved something to occupy his sober hours. Isabelle rarely left the bedroom, even when she was awake she would stare at the ceiling, motionless, as though made of stone.

It was when Hochbert returned from his final performance, his farewell concert in Venice, that he discovered her dead, naked body, and his attention turned to photography.