Anji walked alone through the city of tigers. It was a fast walk, a bad walk, shouldering and dodging crowd. Sunlight splashing off concrete and glass, bright faces and clothes.
She panted in an alleyway for thirty seconds, seeking refuge from songs and symphonies. But shadows pursued her out of the corner of her eye, thrusting her back into the lunchtime crowd.
She had lost her sunglasses somewhere along the way, and the hot noon sky made her squint. The buildings of Port Any were scattered low and thin between avenues and malls planted with brilliant native trees, flaming reds and oranges. Anji's boots crushed fallen leaves as she let the crowd carry her along, sending up a smell of springtime and spice.
A tiger lay across the pavement, its lanky body stretched out in the sunlight.
Anji tried to stop, but the crowd jostled and bumped her, forcing her forward in tiny increments. The tiger's heavy body was an orange-gold mound, shining in the sunlight. Lying down, it was as tall as a young child. It panted in the warmth, yellow eyes watching the humans as they stepped awkwardly around it, trying not to tread on its restless tail.
The tiger eyed Anji as she stumbled past it. She caught the edge of its yellow gaze, and turned her head away as though that meant it couldn't see her any more.
When she was past, and safe, Anji looked back. A little girl was crouching down to scratch the tiger between its ears.
There was a merry-go-round in the plaza ahead. Nearby was a busker with a mandolin, face hidden by one of the wide-brimmed hats everyone seemed to wear; a woman selling chestnuts, shrilling a tune in a language Anji didn't recognise; a weary organ grinder with a dancing knee-high amoeba. The calliope at the carousel's heart overwhelmed them all with its jingling and piping.
She spotted one of the Waytes' red and gold uniforms, but was too embarrassed to approach the policewoman. A young man in an embroidered scarlet waistcoat and lime-coloured shoes was selling tickets for the carousel. She stepped up to him. 'Are you all right?' he said at once. 'You look like you've had a shock.'
There was no point in telling him. She'd told four people, and none of them had believed her. 'I need the Doctor,' said Anji.
'I'll call a medic for you.' The young man reached for the computer woven into his shirtsleeve.
'No,' said Anji. She knew what he was seeing: a lone lost tourist, unsettled and confused, trying to blend in by wearing local clothes: the loose hemp shirt and trousers, the sandals, a red and gold comb in her shoulder-length black hair. 'No, no. I mean I need to find the rehearsal hall. That's where the Doctor will be.'
'Which rehearsal hall? The Jerry Lynn Williams, the Albinoni, the Keiko Abe, or the Vermilion Rooms?'
'Albinoni. I think that's the one.' Anji massaged her left temple with a knuckle. The blasting of the calliope made it hard to think. The organ flashed inside the whirling animal circle, a mass of steaming pipes half hidden by mirrors and coloured glass.
'You're nearly there, then,' said the youth. 'Go back the way you came, then turn left down Akunastrasse. Look out for the statue of the angel.'
The swans and tigers on the merry-go-round had what looked like real feathers and fur. They chased one another, ridden by shrieking kids, glassy yellow eyes staring out.
'Are you sure you don't want to me to call a medic?' said the ticket collector. 'It's no trouble.'
'I can deal with it,' said Anji.
'Well, hey, enjoy your visit.'
She tried and failed to summon a smile of thanks. As she pushed her way through the crowd, the young man started singing along with 'The Merry-go-round Broke Down'. Across the plaza, the amoeba went wild.
The temperature plunged as she stepped into the gloom of the rehearsal hall. Spotlights were moving over the seated crowd and their instruments, switching on and off experimentally. It was as though the musicians were the audience, chatting and rustling, looking out at the empty amphitheatre. Waiting for her to perform.
She stumbled down the aisle, holding on to the backs of the chairs. Her legs started to tremble, as though they were made of some squishy substance, too soft to hold her up.
The conductor appeared from the side of the stage and went to the podium. She aimed for him, the one figure who wasn't facing her, the one familiar figure. He stood in a pool of pale light, examining the score. The instruments were tuning up, or playing chaotic phrases.
Sharply, the conductor raised his arms over his head.
Instantly, the orchestra snapped to attention, the muddle of sounds clattering to silence. The lights stopped their chasing game, changing into a soft illumination of the players, with a tight spot on the conductor. As he brought his arms down in a fierce gesture, the hall filled with a roaring buzz. Anji knew it was music, but she couldn't untangle the flooding jumble of sounds. Her brain had gone deaf. She couldn't hear a thing.
It. Was. Getting. Louder.
And suddenly it cut out. The hall was full of head-ringing echoes. A single, slender figure was standing, violin at the ready.
The Doctor's golden-brown hair shone in the theatre lighting, curling to his shoulders. He wore a loose white shirt over hemp trousers and a black waistcoat embroidered with brilliant orange designs.
His bow sawed sharply up and down in a complex arpeggio. The instrument's soprano voice curved and soared. The sound made Anji dizzy, breathless.
He seemed to see her, suddenly, his eyes locking on hers in the dark. He didn't stop playing, his surgical fingers flashing over the fingerboard, faster and faster beneath his teasing grin. The back of Anji's head was pounding. She closed her eyes tightly, but still he wouldn't stop.
Now the orchestra was joining in again, following the Doctor's frantic music, but the conductor was twisting in his pool of light to frown at her, and the sound of the violin was twisting as well, curling around and around the hall, and she couldn't follow it, her head turning and turning to try to catch the sound, her hands flying away from the seatback that was holding her up.
She was on the sloping carpet when the sound cut out.
Anji woke with her hands folded on her stomach. There were three people standing around the bed, three faces watching her, like mourners. She drew a violent breath and half sat up from the pillows.
The Doctor crouched down beside the bed. 'Are you feeling better?' he said softly.
Anji closed her eyes for a moment. He was a fake. He looked and sounded like a man, a human male with white skin, a long, strong-jawed face and large, pale eyes. But if you touched his skin, if you held his wrist, he was the wrong temperature, he had the wrong pulse. He didn't even have a name. She called the alien 'Doctor' because she didn't know what else to call it.
Anji opened her eyes again. It was her friend the Doctor, smiling at her, gently.
'I'll be all right,' she said. Her voice sounded cracked. He put a glass of water into her hands.
The others stood at the foot of the bed. They were the genuine article, two ordinary men: Fitz Kreiner, unshaven and scraggle-haired, fiddling with a cigarette, looking as always like someone you wouldn't want to share a taxi with; and Karl Sadeghi, composer and conductor, peering at her through his glasses.
'You're in one of the dressing rooms,' explained Karl, in his soft, hesitant voice. He had full lips and friendly grey eyes marked with the beginnings of crow's feet. He spoke with the Port Any accent, a lilting melange of German and Middle Eastern sounds. 'We thought it best to, to pause the rehearsal until we were sure you were all right.'
'Heck of a symphony you've got there, Karl,' drawled Fitz.
'It wasn't that.' Anji sat up. 'It was the tiger in the library. Stop that!' Karl wiped the smile from his face.
The Doctor was still crouched by the bed. 'Tell us about the tiger,' he said.
