The Flute and the Flower Carts

At four in the morning, the flower market is already louder than a school hall. Lorries beep as they back into the loading bays. Men shout prices across the aisles, and buckets of lilies clatter on the wet stone floor. Karim stands behind his mother's stall with a bunch of white roses in each hand. A flute case sits on a crate beside him, wrapped in a plastic flower sleeve.

Today is the day of his audition for the city youth orchestra. It starts at six o'clock, in the concert hall at the far end of the market district. The judges lock the doors at six exactly. A late player does not get a second turn.

"You should leave by five," his mother says. She is counting stems and does not look up. "I can manage the stall with the new boy."

"The delivery for the hotel isn't ready yet," Karim says. "I'll finish it first. Then I'll go."

He always says this. Karim is the kind of person who thinks every job is his job. He does not like to ask for help. He does not like to leave a task half done. So he ties the hotel's flowers into forty neat bunches, and he checks each one twice.

At twenty past five, he finally lifts the flute case. Wilf is waiting at the end of the aisle with an empty hand trolley. He is sixteen and works for the biggest wholesaler in the market. He knows every corner of the building.

"You look terrible," Wilf says. "Did you sleep at all?"

"No time to talk," says Karim. "I have forty minutes to cross the market. I'll take the main aisle."

Wilf laughs. "The main aisle? Have you looked at it today?"

Karim turns round. The main aisle is a river of vans, carts and shouting people. A delivery lorry has stopped across the middle, and fifty florists are trying to squeeze past it. Nothing moves. A man is arguing with a driver who has locked his doors and gone for coffee.

Karim's stomach drops. He tries the side aisles, one after another, but every one is full of crates. He climbs over a stack of empty buckets and runs along the wall. Ten minutes later he is back where he started. He has a wet shoe and a cut on his thumb. The clock above the fish stall says five forty.

"It is not possible," he says, breathing hard. "Twenty minutes, and the hall is half a kilometre away."

"On the roads, yes," Wilf says. "But we are not going by the road."

Karim frowns. "Where else is there?"

"Come with me. And hold your flute high."

Wilf pushes the trolley to a grey metal door behind the cold rooms. The market keeps its cut stems cool in there. The door is marked STAFF ONLY. Karim hesitates, because he has never broken a rule in his life. Then he sees the clock again. He follows Wilf inside.

The corridor is cold and white, and it smells of wet leaves. Rows of lilies stand in silent buckets on both sides. At the end of the corridor, a long line of flat carts waits beside a rubber belt. Every morning, the market sends the empty buckets along this belt to the washing yard behind the building.

"The belt runs the whole length of the market," Wilf explains. "It stops at the yard, and the yard has a back gate. That gate opens right onto the loading door of the concert hall. I have seen musicians carry their cellos through it."

"Is that safe?" Karim asks.

"If you lie flat and keep your head down, it is," says Wilf. "Climb on."

Karim stares at the belt. Every part of him wants to find a safer plan. But the only other plan is to arrive late. He has already tried that one in his head. He climbs onto a flat cart and lies on his back. The case lands on his chest. Wilf jumps on the next cart and presses a green button.

The belt starts with a jerk. Karim slides through a rubber curtain into a tunnel full of fans and pipes. Buckets rattle past on both sides. Somewhere above them, he can hear the market, a loud, muffled sound like a crowd in another room. It is the strangest ride of his life, and for a moment he almost laughs.

Then the belt slows. A line of buckets blocks the exit, and the cart stops with a bump.

"The yard is washing the last load," Wilf says from behind him. "We cannot get through this way. Not in time."

"What do we do?" Karim whispers. He looks at his watch. It says five fifty-two.

Wilf thinks for a few seconds. "The hose room. Follow me and keep your case dry."

They crawl off the carts and squeeze between two machines. The hose room is full of steam and noise, and the floor is a lake of soapy water. Karim holds his flute above his head with both hands. Water runs down his sleeves and into his collar. He thinks about asking Wilf to go ahead, then stops. For the first time that morning, he understands that nobody is asking him to do this alone.

"Take my arm," says Wilf. "Left foot, then right."

They wade across together. At the far end, a small green door stands half open, and daylight comes in under it. Wilf kicks it wide. The back gate of the yard is just ahead. Behind it Karim sees the tall glass wall of the concert hall.

They run. Karim's shoes squelch on the pavement, and the flute case bangs against his leg. A man in a black jacket stands at the loading door with a key in his hand. He is already turning the lock.

"Wait, please," Karim shouts. "I am here for the audition!"

The man looks at him for a long moment. He takes in the wet clothes, the cut thumb and the petals stuck in Karim's hair. Then he steps aside and holds the door. The clock in the hallway says five fifty-nine.

Inside, Karim dries his hands on his shirt and takes the flute out of its sleeve. It is perfectly dry. He wipes his face, breathes in slowly and walks onto the stage. Three judges sit at a long table. One of them looks up from her papers and smiles at the petals.

Karim lifts the flute to his lips. Then he lowers it again and turns to the judges. "Shall I start with the slow piece or the fast one?"