Benoit was sixteen on the night his grandfather died. He climbed onto the roof, curled up against the warm chimney, and looked over the rooftops of Le Septième.

His grandfather had been ill for months. The tiny bed had been pushed against the window where he would watch the street and its people. In the evenings, Benoit’s mother sat beside him, and talked about old times.

When he died, they both cried.

That night, Benoit listened to the noisy traffic, police sirens, and the animated chatter from Café Maxim below. As it got later, the traffic quietened, and voices were replaced by the clatter of plates being washed in the kitchens. By the early hours, most Parisians were asleep.

It started to rain, and Benoit found the sound of raindrops trickling down the sloping roof strangely reassuring.

The city grew quiet, and the people of Paris slipped into their beds. A church bell chimed one o’clock and Benoit listened carefully.

It was a familiar sound.

A mournful trumpet played across the dark rooftops, and it was his grandfather’s tune.

Benoit thought about the battered old trumpet that still lay beside the empty bed, the one that used to play Stardust.

***

Sebastien was in the market when somebody told him that Landry had died in his bed.  

The news made him sad, and he went for a walk to remember the good times he’d had with the old man.

With a baguette under his arm, he walked beside the river where the fishermen on the bank thought he looked a lonely sight.

When it began to go dark, he walked through the park and kicked autumn leaves like he used to as a little boy.

Sebastien was twenty-two now and was at the Paris Conservatory where he studied classical trumpet.

He thought of the day outside Café Maxim where Landry had showed him the trumpet he’d found in the attic of an old house in Normandy and then taught him how to play it.

And Sebastien played it quite well and was good enough for his parents to buy him a new one that had cost a lot of money.

Sebastien called at Café Maxim and spoke with Landry’s friends. They bought him a beer and ate the baguette that had snapped into two pieces, and they all agreed that they would miss the old Frenchman.

They raised several toasts to Landry, and it was after midnight when Sebastien arrived home.

He climbed the rickety stairs to the flat on the top floor and opened the French windows. The breeze caused the curtains to billow inwards and the first drops of rain started to fall.

He looked at his shiny trumpet and thought about the first tune he’d played.

The clock from the church chimed once, and he put the trumpet to his lips and played in memory of Landry.

It was Stardust.