LVI
The punches of his heels into the floor kept on echoing around the hallway where some students were loitering, and they seemed to be looking at him with fiery eyes, and for every look of Micael's eyes around him was a hold in return. He could see the very same students as his loitering, with the very same uniform: Dark blue dress shirt, black trousers and the logo just above the shirt pocket; he knew he was at the right place.
But he had forgotten the whereabouts of the A-12 room, and how to get there. And so, he wasted no time into asking some of the students waiting for some of their friends to finish their class, and he did. He walked slowly towards one group of people of which were talking about the differences on their social lives, as Micael could overhear the words spewing out from each and every one's lips. They were four of them, and his feet then started to walk towards the white empty bulletin board's besides where the schoolers were standing by, one after another.
And then he reached their places, with his hands held tight into his attaché case, where all of his belongings were hiding inside, and his lips then started talking towards the British boys reminding them of their own businesses.
"Uh, hey. Mind if I ask for a sec, mate?" Micael quickly uttered with his mind in a repertoire about the words A-12… A-12… A-12... and it was the only thing circling his mind completely. Not Aedri. Not the child. Not even Jack. And so, he proceeded his guts and waited for the boys' answers, and sooner, there was one who answered him with seemingly all of his knowledge, and then he talked like butter, and Micael carefully listened.
"What's?"
"I am just looking for A-12. I just recently came here today," Micael uttered, and the students followed a laughed behind their heads, and Micael shrugged his shoulders invisibly, and talked once more.
"To die? Really? You sound so Australian to me, mate," the gut followed then reiterated his laugh, and so did his friends. Curious was he, Micael nota question but a thought of which may enlighten those of laughing hardly: "Oh, yes. I am. I just came recently -" "A-12's just around the third corner, right-headed. You're late, I must say. Name's Angelo," said the guy who then answered his question quite nicely, and then handed his hand into the air afront of Micael's. He wanted to have a friend.
And so did Micael. He then grabbed Angelo's hand and shook it gently with his arms, and then talked faster tan he thought he could, and he did. "Nice to you meet you, mate. By the by, I'm quite late. Looking forward into seeing you guys soon especially you, Angelo." "No worries, Micael. Sir Richard held a conference and he talked about you. We have a LOT of things to talk about. See you," and Micael's hand let go of Angelo's hand, and quickly scurried between the crowd of students waiting for their businesses to come, and while Micael was in a hurry, he got a glimpse from a wall clock placed atop of the white bulletin board right before he went on, and he read it with blurry eyes under his round glasses.
Eighteen past eleven. He was really late and must be in a hurry, and he did. He never bothered on anyone wanted to greet him, but no one ever really did. He was relieved, as wasting time onto someone right now would be foolish and one helluva gamble, and his feet started to catch their pace.
With him only thinking about A-12 and the room, which were just the same, he never gave himself the chance to look around and at least be mesmerized by the garlands adorning the halls, but he continued. It was basically like those he had seen from his graduation way back Melbourne, and with his running, the nostalgia had hit him right above his neck freely, but he never bothered. It seemed very similar, but he knew he was living somewhere Jake, Keith and company would never be, and so he continued.
LVII
Then he turned right as he went past three corners with the heels of his shoes clinging about the cream-tiled floor which had adorned what was underneath, and with very near pattern for every square of the tiles, it was pleasing. Though black lines had only adorned the floor, Micael was never bothered into looking and turning his chin down to his neck, and he did, and he was no stranger at all.
From his point and along the shouting of his heels, he could see he door of his classroom from afar; a mere thirty feet in distance, and he kept on passing one room into another with his straight shoulders and neat dress shirt being held upon by the buttons around his very body, and he had never wasted his time and looked at the see-through windows with had functioned to be walls onto some classrooms he was passing by, and there were classes.
A lot of them, and sooner, his eyes went on into trying to look and scan around the students., and they were busy playing their own instruments in some sort of orchestra practice with the professor of unknown face and sonorous voice leading the class as a solidified conductor.
And Micael's ears were no escape. All he wanted to do was to listen and look at the gestures of the professor's hand, and the outcries from the students' (there were fifteen of them; seven on violin, four in viola, three on cello and one accompanist) instruments, and their cries followed unto the very ears of Micael while he gracefully walked down the hallway with the attaché case held tight unto the grasp of his seemingly untiring fingers.
And he listened. He could the practice was already the dance of their fingertips kissing the side of the wooden fingerboards and the arco coming from their right fingers and then the end of the bow hitting the strings nearer than the bridge, and there, Micael immediately recognized the piece they were playing, and with his ears just close into having relative pitch, it was something very of his jam, and there, he then continued into walking gracefully.
"Nocturne. Op. 9 No. 2, it is. What a great day to start one's day here," he whispered himself as he heard the second bar flying beyond the bouts of the violins and the cellos' rests, and the next classroom was different.
...