Belt and Organ

Nadine Conroy, forty-four years old, dentist, watched the departure board flip to CANCELED for the third time that day.

She had been stuck at the little regional airport in the Auvergne since two in the afternoon. It was now past six. Her phone had run out of interesting things two hours ago.

The text came from Martine, a coworker back in Clermont-Ferrand.

"Long shot. You're stranded out there, right? My cousin waters the plants at the old fire lookout by the field. He's sick. Can you go? Key is under the third stone from the door."

Nadine typed back, "Sure. Why not. Nothing else happening."

Which was true. Nothing else was happening anywhere in her life, apparently, ever.

She asked at the information desk. The woman behind the counter lit up.

"Oh, the tower! Randy looks after it. He's on call for our heating. I'll ring him, he can walk you over. It's a lovely old thing, that tower."

Twenty minutes later a man appeared across the terminal. Big shoulders, work boots, a canvas bag over one shoulder. Late thirties, sunburned across the nose.

"Nadine? I'm Randy Williamson. HVAC. They've got me babysitting the airport's lungs."

"Hi. Martine's favor. The plants."

"Right. The famous plants. Or the famous two plants, anyway." He grinned. "Fair warning, the tower's got more than plants in it."

"More than two plants? Be still my heart."

They walked out along a gravel path behind the hangars. The lookout tower stood up on a low hill, stone at the bottom, glass cabin on top. The wind was pushing through the trees in long slow shoves.

"So how long are you stuck?" he asked.

"Flight canceled. Next one tomorrow morning, maybe. They're putting us up in a hotel but the hotel is the airport lounge with worse coffee."

"Ouch. Well. You picked a good night to be bored."

"Did I?"

"You'll see."

Inside the tower smelled of dust and machine oil. Two sad potted plants sat on the sill. Nadine gave them water from the tap in the little kitchen corner and considered her duty done.

Then she turned around and saw it.

In the far corner stood a street organ. A big boxy thing on a wheeled cart, painted deep red, gold scrollwork around the front, a crank handle on the side. Cracked leather straps. The kind of thing you saw outside old cafes in pictures.

"That's gorgeous," she said. "What is it?"

"A street organ. Barrel organ, some people say." Randy set his bag down on the table. "I found it in a barn outside Issoire about six years ago. Restored it over three winters."

"You restored that? Yourself?"

"Every pipe. Every valve. It took forever." He wiped a finger along the case and came away clean. "It's mostly in tune now. Mostly!"

"Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Prague. I busked there through my twenties. Played one of these in the old town square for coins. A repairman let me hang around his shop. I soaked it up." He shrugged. "Then I came home and needed a real job. Hence the heating ducts."

"Prague in your twenties. That sounds like a whole other life."

"It was. Different man, almost." He patted the organ. "Want to hear it?"

"Obviously."

He cranked the handle and the thing came alive. A wheezy, galloping carnival tune filled the little cabin. The wind outside hummed against the glass like it was trying to harmonize. Nadine got goosebumps.

"That's amazing. It sounds like a carousel and a pub fight had a baby."

He laughed, a real laugh, head back. "Best description I've heard. It's got maybe forty tunes on the barrel. I can swap barrels, but that's a whole evening's work."

"Teach me something," she said. "I'm stranded. I need to learn something tonight or the day was wasted."

"There's a crank version of this one. Simple. You keep the speed steady and it basically plays itself. The art is patience. Slow hands."

"Slow hands. I can do slow hands."

She said it before she thought about it. He looked at her and something passed over his face, amused and measuring at once.

"Can you?" he said.

Nadine was across the room, near the window, one hand on the sill. She laughed it off. "Dentist. My whole job is steady hands. Ask any of my patients."

"Steady, sure. But patient?" He let the tune wind down. The last note wheezed out. "Here's what I mean. Playing this organ, you can't rush it. The crank has its own pace. You feel it want to speed up and you don't let it. You want the tune and the tune says wait."

"You're giving me a sermon on crank speed."

"I'm giving you a sermon on not taking what you want the second you want it." He leaned against the table, arms crossed. "You strike me like someone who takes what she wants. Am I wrong?"

Nadine opened her mouth. Closed it. Her last actual want-something had been... she honestly couldn't date it. Years back. A fling with a pilot when she was twenty-three, and that had mostly been because he was there.

"No," she said. "You're not wrong. It's easier."

"It usually is. Easier and blander."

"Okay, philosopher. What's your alternative?"

Randy reached down and unzipped the canvas bag. Nadine watched him dig past a toolbox and a rolled sandwich. He came up with a flat black case, set it on the table, opened it.

Inside, folded on velvet, was a steel belt. Curved plates, a waist band, a small front shield with a padlock loop. It looked old-fashioned and machine-precise at the same time. Clean, oiled, cared for.

"I collect them," he said. "Old ones, new ones. I restore this kind too. This one's modern, adjustable, lined with soft leather. Completely safe."

Nadine looked at it for a while. The wind pushed at the glass.

"And the lesson is?"

"You wear it tonight. All night. You can't take what you want. The want stays with you, and you sit with it, and by morning you'll know something about yourself most people never find out." He said it plainly, no sales voice, no wink. "You'd keep the key. I'd have none. It only comes off when you decide. Say no and we play the organ and that's the whole evening, no hard feelings."

Nadine touched the steel. It was colder than the room.

"This is a very strange airport favor," she said.

"Martine's cousin has interesting friends."

She laughed. Then she was quiet. Then, surprising herself:

"All right. I'm in. But I keep the key and the second I say stop, it comes off."

"Agreed. That's how it works." He took a key from the case and put it in her palm. Her hand closed around it. Small. Solid.

"Jeans off, or down," he said. "Your choice. I'll fasten it over your underwear, nothing else touches you."

Nadine kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned her jeans, and worked them down over her hips. Cool air on her legs. Randy lifted the belt with both hands, gentle, like it was a rescued bird.

"Tell me if anything pinches. I mean it. Anything."

"Belt me up, Mr. Williamson."

The steel settled against her skin and the cold of it punched the breath out of her. She gasped, loud in the little cabin, one hand flying to the table.

"Oh. Oh, that's..." She couldn't find the word. Cold didn't cover it. The band cinched snug around her hips, the shield flat and firm and immovable between her legs, and every nerve down there woke up at once just to find the door locked.

"Too tight?" he asked, hands off her already, waiting.

"No. No, it's..." She breathed out, shaky. "God. I can feel everything and I can't have any of it."

Randy nodded, slow, like she'd just passed a test.

"That's the lesson starting," he said. "Now. Want to learn the crank?"

"So the belt stays on while I play."

"That's the whole point of the lesson."

Nadine looked at the organ, red and gold in the lamplight, then down at the steel locked flat against her. "Fine. Teach me."

Randy pulled the bench out from the organ and wiped the dust with his sleeve. She sat, and the shield pressed up against her, snug, and she made a small sound and pressed her lips together.

"Feel that already, do you?"

"Don't be smug. You're the one who locked me in it."

"You locked yourself in it. I just supplied the hardware." He stepped in close behind her. "Hands on the crank. Right hand. Slow circles, like