The Carillon – Part 2: The Evening Concert

Pieter-Jan climbed the tower for the evening concert with his eyes open.

He took each step carefully, one at a time, his heart hammering. Lotte walked ahead of him, whistling a tune, her braids swinging. At the top, he hesitated at the doorway, and then walked straight to the stone arch and looked out.

Ghent glittered below, canals gleaming gold in the sunset.

"I'm doing it," he whispered.

"You're doing it."

"I'm not dead."

"Not even a little."

He laughed, breathless and astonished. Behind him, Lotte settled at the console, cracked her knuckles and began to play.

It was a long, shining fantasy, the bells flinging their music out over the rooftops: bright bursts, slow hanging chords, a silver cascade. People stopped in the square below. A boat paused on the canal. Pieter-Jan stood at the arch with the wind in his hair and, for the first time in his life, was not afraid.

When the last chime faded, the silence was enormous.

"That was..." He couldn't finish.

"Yes," said Lotte, very quietly.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"You make me brave. Do you know that?"

She turned from the console, flushed and glowing. "You climbed it on your own."

"Because you were at the top."

Her heart skipped. "May I kiss you, Pieter-Jan?"

"Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must play my grandfather's favourite song, every Sunday, forever."

"That isn't a punishment."

"I'm told I'm bad at those."

She laughed, and kissed him, softly, in the dusk under the great bronze bells. His hands rose to her braids. It was warm and tender, tasting of coffee and speculoos, while the whole town spread out beneath them and the bells stirred faintly in the wind.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Lotte. "Very green."

On Sundays, the old song rings from the tower at noon. Two people stand at the top. One of them holds the rope. Neither is afraid.

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