Appassionata (17 page)
‘You’re not keeping the orchestra down enough,’ shouted the professor to a sweating Swede, who was flapping on the rostrum as though he were about to fly through the vaulted roof. ‘We can’t hear Flora.’
‘Just as well,’ Flora grinned at the Japanese leader, who had a lean beautiful body and a face like a Red Indian. ‘It’s the cadenza next. I’ll need scaffolding and oxygen to reach that top A. What the hell’s happened to L’Appassionata?’
To fox any press who had in fact been humiliatingly non-existent, Abby had been smuggled in by a back door. Shivering behind dark glasses, dying of nerves, she was dickering whether to rush out and be sick again. How could she do justice to such a beautiful piece, particularly when the orchestra were only playing it for the first time?
The soloist, Abby decided, was extremely good. She needed to work on her technique; she ground to a halt twice in the cadenza, and burst out laughing when during a really sad bit she’d caught a friend’s eye in the audience, but generally she executed the high notes effortlessly and joyfully and in the lower register the sound was mellow, dark and mysterious.
She was also extremely attractive. Her figure was hidden by baggy black trousers and a thick black cardigan, but she had a clear pale gold skin, merry green eyes, a plump face ending in a pointed chin and her shining bob was the same warm burnt-sienna as her viola.
Above all, she played with total insouciance keeping up a stream of
badinage
with the orchestra, chewing gum and reading her tattered poetry book every time there was a pause. Now she was sitting on the lean thigh of the Japanese leader awaiting the next victim, a plump Greek called Adonis, who had soft white hands and gold teeth to match his gold corduroy shirt. All his friends trooped round behind the brass section to video him conducting.
badinage
with the orchestra, chewing gum and reading her tattered poetry book every time there was a pause. Now she was sitting on the lean thigh of the Japanese leader awaiting the next victim, a plump Greek called Adonis, who had soft white hands and gold teeth to match his gold corduroy shirt. All his friends trooped round behind the brass section to video him conducting.
‘Like photographing the captain of the
Titanic
,’ murmured Flora, getting to her feet.
Titanic
,’ murmured Flora, getting to her feet.
Sweat was glistening on her upper lip, a russet lock had fallen away from the tortoiseshell slide. There was a chorus of wolf-whistles as she took off her black cardigan to reveal a dark green T-shirt embroidered with yellow daisies and tucked into a wide leather belt.
‘Vy d’you have to distract me viz striptease?’ grumbled Adonis. ‘Now don’t vorry, I vill follow you.’
‘I don’t vant you following me, I want you with me,’ said Flora, raising her viola.
Adonis tried very hard, but the orchestra were all over the place. The genial professor sighed. He was going to have his work cut out with this lot.
That soloist is smart, thought Abby wistfully. Adonis was now going much too fast, but she always caught up.
Glancing sideways, she noticed the boy with the baseball cap. Totally still, really listening, he followed every note Flora played. What a beauty, thought Abby, he’s the one who ought to be called Adonis.
A punch-up was narrowly avoided because Adonis skipped another page and missed out the hunky trombonist’s last entry yet again.
Abby, who’d been studying the concerto for the last fortnight, couldn’t bear to hear it so butchered. But would she do any better? The notes of the score swum meaninglessly before her eyes. Oh God, she hoped she wasn’t going to be sick again.
Adonis was followed by Lorenzo, a handsome Italian who made beautiful gestures, but who seemed more interested in ogling Flora and the video cameras.
‘This one’s got two left hands,’ murmured the professor as Lorenzo kept smoothing his hair with his right hand.
‘You’ve occasionally got to beat in time, Lorenzo,’ he called out. ‘No matter how emotional you feel, you’ve got to first and foremost be a traffic policeman so the orchestra can follow and know where they are, particularly in a piece with so many changes of tempo.’
‘I try again.’
This time extravagant waving and fists clenched to heaven were followed by four bars of total silence.
‘Where am I?’ Lorenzo smote his noble brow.
‘In the Duke’s Hall,’ giggled Flora.
‘You’re lost,’ said the professor.
‘But not forgotten.’ Parking her chewing-gum on the side of the rostrum, Flora gave Lorenzo a kiss.
‘That is a disgusting habit, Flora,’ reproved the professor.
‘I don’t know what score you studied, Lorenzo, but I don’t think it was Bartók’s
Viola Concerto
.’
Viola Concerto
.’
The orchestra grinned. Lorenzo turned scarlet, and started to argue.
‘Discuss it with me later,’ said the professor firmly. ‘We’ve got time for one more before lunch.’
The rest of the conductors, waiting behind the horns, leapt to their feet like MPs frantic to speak, but the professor had nodded to the back of the hall.
‘Here comes Abby,’ said Flora, sliding off the leader’s knee.
The Japanese boy looked round.
‘That is not her.’
‘Bet you a tenner.’
‘I don’t have your kind of money.’
Few of the audience or musicians recognized Abby. She was so thin and wore black jeans, a Black-Watch tartan shirt, dark glasses and no make-up. Her hair was short and curly like the young Paganini. The scarlet pouting lips, the clinging minis, the wild gypsy voluptuousness had all gone.
‘Car-worker rather than Carmen,’ murmured Flora.
Abby gave nobody any time to give her a cheer. She carried no score, only a baton, as she loped up the hall and jumped up onto the rostrum. As she whipped off her glasses, the orchestra could see the imperiousness in those strange, unblinking yellow eyes, which was belied by the white knuckles and the frantically knocking knees. For a second she was grabbed by utter panic, her mind a snowstorm. How could she have been so stupid as to conduct without a score?
Then she said quietly; ‘This is a beautiful piece, let’s give it some shape and feeling.’
She suggested some small alterations to the strings and woodwind, then turned to the brass and the percussion. ‘I’m afraid you guys don’t have much to do, which makes it easier to goof off. I’ll try and make things as clear as possible for you. Good luck.’
Her hand, as she raised it, was shaking so crazily even Bartók couldn’t have captured the cross-rhythms, but once she brought it down the entire hall realized who she was, because she was in a class of her own.
The beat of her right hand was knife-edge clear and, although her left hand was a little stiff, she still couldn’t splay her fingers or cup her hand, she managed to show the orchestra exactly what she wanted and in addition convey the emotional intensity she needed. The one vestige of the old Abby was the way she swayed to the music like a dancer.
But she had only to glare at the brass to shut them up and she completely enslaved the trombones by bringing them in exactly right and giving them a radiant smile of approval afterwards.
Flora found it nerve-racking having the world’s greatest violinist beside her, but she loved the way Abby glanced round to synchronize orchestra and soloist, and swept aside the orchestral sound so Flora could always be heard.
Are these the same musicians? Is this the same piece? thought the professor in rapture, letting Abby run through the entire movement without stopping, and then leading a whooping, cheering, stamping round of applause.
‘You have all the marks of a great conductor,’ he told Abby. ‘You have nerve but not nerves. It will be a joy to teach you.’
Everyone was longing to congratulate her, but they were too shy and so was she, so they all left her and scampered off to lunch.
Abby was just pulling out her music case from underneath her chair to put away her stick when she heard a voice say: ‘Excuse me.’
Swinging round, Abby found the soloist and the boy who had been sitting at the end of her row. Standing up he was at least two inches taller than Abby, and when he whipped off his baseball cap, he revealed a beautifully shaped, freckled forehead and hair an even darker red than the girl’s. Abby wondered if they were brother and sister. The girl did the talking.
‘I know it sounds corny, but we’ve got every one of your records. That was a fantastic performance. We wondered if we could buy you lunch, just to celebrate.’
Abby longed to accept but she was so near the edge, that she snapped back: ‘I’m far too busy to waste time eating.’ And then stalked out.
Five minutes later, Flora tracked her down in a distant practice room, trying not to be overheard by the pianist bashing out Liszt’s
Dante Sonata
next door. Abby was huddled against the blue velvet curtains, her shoulders shaking.
Dante Sonata
next door. Abby was huddled against the blue velvet curtains, her shoulders shaking.
Flora had long been haunted by a description of a vivisection clinic where the animals had their vocal chords cut on admission so, however bad the pain became, all you could hear was desperate rasping. This was the sound Abby was making now.
‘You were seriously good,’ stammered Flora. ‘In fact the only thing to cry about is how awful we were. Mind you, you were lucky to find somewhere to cry, practice rooms are harder to get here than tickets for your old concerts.’
Looking up, Abby saw the kindness in the girl’s eyes belying her flip manner.
‘I’m sorry,’ she croaked. ‘The last time I was on a platform I was playing the Brahms concerto with the CBSO.’
‘I know,’ said Flora. ‘Everyone knows everything about you. Although what a brilliant conductor you’d turned into was certainly hidden in the mists of Lake Lucerne.’
‘It was your solo,’ gulped Abby, fishing for another tissue.
‘I can quite understand that.’
‘No, you play real good. You’ve got a fantastically natural sound, I guess you reminded me of myself.’
‘I should do,’ admitted Flora, ‘having based my style entirely on yours. All our generation has, music schools are churning out more little Abbies than an ecclesiastical property developer!’
Abby’s lips twitched.
‘At least come and have a drink.’
Outside in the sunshine the boy was leaning against the railings, his nose in the selected piano works of Chopin, making notes with a pencil.
‘My name’s Flora Seymour, by the way,’ announced the girl. ‘And this is Marcus Campbell-Black.’
Abby perked up. ‘You must be Rupert’s son.’
Marcus waited, never knowing if the next bit was going to hurt or not.
‘Goodness, you’re like him,’ Abby admired the long, dark, curling eyelashes and the exquisite bone structure. ‘It’s
just
like looking at a fabric sample in a different colour.’ Except Abby couldn’t ever imagine Rupert blushing or being lost for words.
just
like looking at a fabric sample in a different colour.’ Except Abby couldn’t ever imagine Rupert blushing or being lost for words.
‘Rupert came to see me in the hospital and gave me this.’ Delving in her jeans pocket Abby produced the silver clove of garlic. ‘To ward off evil. Do tell him I take it everywhere and give him my best.’
‘He said he’d met you,’ said Marcus guardedly.
Round the corner he opened the door of his Aston Martin for her.
‘You go in the back,’ said Flora, ‘then you’ll have room for your legs.’
‘Georgie Maguire:
New Man
.’ Abby picked up a tape on the back seat in excitement. ‘This must be her latest. Oh wow! Christopher, my ex and I, “Rock Star” was our sort of big tune. I know it’s terrible shmaltz and I shouldn’t say so, but I just adore Georgie’s music.’
New Man
.’ Abby picked up a tape on the back seat in excitement. ‘This must be her latest. Oh wow! Christopher, my ex and I, “Rock Star” was our sort of big tune. I know it’s terrible shmaltz and I shouldn’t say so, but I just adore Georgie’s music.’
‘You should,’ said Marcus, starting up the car and ignoring Flora’s kick on the ankle. ‘Georgie’s Flora’s mother.’
‘Omigod!’
‘I’ll tell her you’re a fan,’ said Flora. ‘She’ll be really pleased, she’s a terrific fan of yours.’
Abby looked at Flora with new respect.
‘Gee, I’m sorry I was rude earlier.’
Flora shrugged. ‘Mum’s the same. She can’t bear strangers muscling in, particularly when she’s coming down after a concert. And she goes ballistic if people drop in at home.’
Abby noticed Marcus wheezing as he drove. Petrol fumes were floating on the hot air and the walk to the car had made him breathless. Reaching into the pocket of his shirt he got out his inhaler and squirted a couple of jets into the back of his throat.
‘Marcus is asthmatic,’ explained Flora. ‘Thank God we can forget about that for a bit.’ Pulling the Bartók concerto out of the stereo she threw it in the glove compartment.
‘Put it back in its case,’ grumbled Marcus. ‘And if you must smoke, don’t use the floor as an asthtray.’
Flora grinned. ‘Don’t be a fusspot.’ Then, turning round to Abby, continued, ‘I can’t get over how different you look.’
‘I cut my hair and my losses. Which did you think was the worst of those conductors?’
‘Adonis by a very swollen head,’ announced Flora.
‘I can’t think how you followed him,’ said Marcus.
‘If you learn to follow any idiot, you get more dates later,’ Flora added scornfully. ‘Conductors are so thick. They carry a white stick to tell everyone they’re deaf. Marcus has been wonderful,’ she added to Abby. ‘He’s been playing the piano version for me all week.’ Leaning across him, she chucked some more chewing-gum out of the window which landed on the shiny dark green flanks of the Bentley drawing up beside them.
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