Nick and Benny nodded together, said their goodbyes, and were off. Orfie watched Benny bump against a chair, as he took out a pair of cheap glasses with round rims, and put them on his long nose.

Jon turned to his friend. "Charlie, why did you call me boss?"

"For the impression. I told them that you're financing us."

"I see," Jon felt a sudden sense of doom well up in his heart.

The hall was empty and cold. Half the lights were burnt out. A cold draught seeped through cracks. Dust, wrappers and cigarette butts have collected on the floor and in all the corners. Nevertheless, the scene looked inviting, with the guys already setting up their equipment. They tore themselves away from what they were busy with to help Jon push in his organ.

A sombre-looking figure huddled in one far corner, trying to hide his face behind a newspaper. He had on a shabby leather coat with plenty of zippers, threadbare jeans and wide-brimmed hat. It was difficult to guess David Tews' age, but their vocalist's flute-case looked pretty much like its owner. He nodded once to Orfi, then returned to his newspaper.

Tuning the instruments took about two hours. After that, Jon passed sheets of music to the other musicians, and took his seat at the organ. There was also a grand piano standing near the wall, but Orfi decided to leave it for later. A shinnying new synthesiser, which Charlie bought the day before stood near the Steinway.

"This is it?" asked Charlie, looking through the sheet music. – "It won't take more than twenty minutes. And there are no vocals on here."

"You want everything right-away?"

"Of course!" Charlie shook the sheets of music at Jon, the way Cate had done. "I brought someof my old stuff, too – and it has lyrics."

"All right, we'll do yours, but we'll start with mine. You were the one calling me boss, now bear it. I've got so many ideas I want to try. OK, let's hit it!

Jon struck a chord. The sound was good. He began playing the prelude, and after a few bars, the drummer joined in. The guitar slid in almost imperceptibly – Charlie really had class. The bassist was a bit late with his contribution, but he managed to make up for it. David lifted his eyes from the newspaper and listened with interest. A few minutes later, he took out his flute, and carefully assembled it.

When the thrum died away, everyone stayed quiet for some time. Then Charlie put aside his guitar, went over to Jon, and thoughtfully pressed a key with one finger. When the sound died down, he pressed it once more.

"It's the real thing," he declared. – "I don't know if anyone will understand it, but this is real music."

They rehearsed for two months. Jon got more and more demanding, driving his colleagues mad by making them play pieces over and over again. It exhausted everyone, including him. On occasion, Jon would try join in with the grand piano,but the acoustic instrument didn't fit in with the electric sound, although Tews' flute floated through the pauses. It sounded rough, somewhat cracked, but exceptionally expressive.Charlie wasn't too happy with that though – the traditional flute messing with the charge of his electrical guitar. Finally, the moment came when the music wasn't breaking up any more, and they felt ready to appear on stage.

A week before their first concert they brought the state of the hall into relative order. His eye always on the best deal, Charlie managed to get the rent reduced to forty-three pounds a week for the band doing that. Then he also found an artist friend willing to design posters for the band's first gig. In next to no time, the adverts appeared all over Southampton, even in a few places in London.

Jon couldn't sleep the night before the concert. At nine in the morning, he leaped out of bed and rushed to the concert hall, though the premiere was only scheduled for nine o'clock in the evening. He strolled up and down the length of the venue, in between the chairs, smoking nervously – a first time in many years. Finally, he sat down in the first row and fell asleep.

They sat in a small room behind the stage, waiting for the audience to arrive. Fifteen minutes were left before the show was scheduled to start, and the place was only half-full.

"Don't worry, it'll fill up," Charlie kept saying. – "Remember, it's our first time -it's not that bad. When they realise what we're about we'll sell out tomorrow."

The hall went on filling up. Only a third of the chairs stood open when they finally walked out on stage. David approached the microphone and announced the first piece. The moment Jon made himself comfortable behind his organ, helaunched into the song's intro. He lost track of the hall, the dazzling lights, his fellow band members. He didn't even hear David begin to sing – he just played. Jon Orfie played better than he ever thought possible. And it wasn't just him – the whole band was giving its best. Charlie's expressive music, sombre, yet saturated with rough rhythms, impressed the audience, forced them to listen without a thought of anything else. After the last of Charlie's songs the hall exploded with applause. It was more than the musicians expected. After a brief intermission, Tews came up and grabbed the microphone to announce Jon Orfi's newest composition. Jon eased into the music effortlessly, surrounding himself and the audience with melodies that alternate between swells and ebbs, rising high and dipping low. Jon finally finished on the highest note, which remained frozen in the air for several minutes before it died. Silence.

Hands clapped here and there, the sound quickly dying down. Tews then announced the last piece. Jon started playing again, but his high spirits had died with that last, unappreciated note. Something felt wrong. His band felt it, too. When they finished, the hall was dead quiet. Almost half their audience had left after the first piece, and the remaining bunch was already hurrying towards the exit. No one applauded their last song.

Charlie approached Jon and put a hand on his shoulder.

"They just didn't understand it, Orfi," he said quietly. – "But they will, they will. One day we'll be play in the Prince Albert Hall and not in this barn."

They played the same program one more week. Every time there were fewer and fewer people, most of them leaving after the first of Jon's compositions. He began to play as though possessed, frenzied – consumed by a need to take his revenge on an audience that didn't want to listen to him.

When the concerts were finally over, the five of them got together in the same bar to discuss their next move.

"We can't go on like this," said Charlie. -"Our takings are just enough to cover the rent."

"Money!" Bennie frowned. – "Who needs it? We'll live through it all, somehow. But we have to change our repertoire."

"Listen, Jon," Charlie leaned forward, and stared at his friend with earnest eyes. – "Let's try writing together. I'll be the fool that your wise and ponderous work needs so much. It should work. What do you say?"

Jon, thoughtfully looking through a Dionysus booklet, raised his head.

"Sure," he said indifferently. "All right."

In the beginning everything went wrong. Jon and Charlie argued constantly, without moving forward a single step. Bennie became the one to always reconcile them. It happened one late evening, when he arrived unexpectedly at Jon's in the middle of an argument. He sat down calmly in an open armchair, and listened to his band mates raging at each other, occasionally chipping in with some insignificant remark. Somehow the dispute got settled by itself, just by him being there. From that day on, Bennie was constantly sitting in that armchair, always straightening out the glasses perched on his nose.

Two weeks later, Jon took out the last of his money to pay for their latest playbills and the rent.