Appassionata (85 page)
He wished Flora were here. He had so wanted to tell her about Alexei, but each time he’d bottled out. She was so busy playing chamber music with Julian and Old Henry and taking singing lessons that he never saw her.
By the front gate he noticed a white scented branch of philadelphus had been bashed down by last night’s downpour. As he broke it off to give it a few more days of life, he heard the telephone ring. Frantic with excitement, slipping on the mossy flagstones, he raced into the house. But it was only Helen, pumping him about Abby. Wasn’t it fascinating that she was conducting Rannaldini’s old orchestra? Rannaldini was kinda put out, said Helen laughing without amusement, but she thought she’d go along anyway.
Rannaldini was in Rome, she went on, expected back tomorrow. How was Marcus’s asthma? She rattled out the questions. Was he practising too little? Too much? Had he heard whether he’d qualified for the Appleton? She didn’t listen to any of his answers.
She sounded uptight when Marcus said Flora was away, then relieved when he added that she and Trevor were staying with her parents. Was Helen frightened of all Rannaldini’s exes? wondered Marcus, as he studied the Bartók, pencilling in reminders, as he listened to her.
Outside he could see Scriabin stalking a mouse, teetering along the fence, plumy tail aloft, like the sail of The Corsair’s pirate ship. Stealthily she crept towards him, on her velvet paws, thought Marcus.
He could bear it no longer. The moment Helen rang off he dialled the Ritz only to be told that Mr Nemerovsky had checked out, gone straight to Abby, no doubt. Marcus banged his burning forehead against the window-pane.
Work was the only salvation.
‘Always practise as though you were playing in front of an audience, even if it’s only the cat,’ Marcus remembered his old teacher’s words, so now he played for Scriabin, nearly breaking the keys in the fireworks of the last movement, working off his anguish until he was wringing wet. The sun had also appeared round the brow of the hill, blazing into his studio.
As he flung open the window, he could hear shouting and a time bomb tick. He must be hallucinating, for there, getting out of a taxi, smothered in the same grey wolf-coat that he had been wearing at the gala, was Alexei.
As he tore across the lawn into the darkness of the cottage, Marcus realized he had forgotten to put the branch of philadelphus in water. Brandishing it like a white hot, scented sword to defend himself, he opened the door.
‘I ’ave no money,’ said Alexei simply. ‘Can you pay the taxi? He will take cheque.’
‘I’ve got the cash,’ Marcus tried to curb his elation. ‘It’s only a fiver from the station.’
‘I come from the Reeetz.’
By the time Marcus had settled the bill, with a cheque which would probably bounce, Alexei had made himself at home, dipping chunks of brown bread into tara-masalata and pouring Abby’s vodka neat into two ice-filled glasses.
‘For you,’ Alexei chucked a little grey bag at Marcus, which clinked as he caught it. ‘Roubles for when you come to Moscow.’
Alexei tossed back one entire glass of vodka and handed the other to Marcus, who shook his head.
‘I’ve got to work. I’ve got a concert on Saturday. I don’t know the piece yet, anyway,’ he stammered, his blushing crimson cheeks clashing with his dark red hair, ‘Abby isn’t here.’
‘Of course, zat is vy I am here.’
Marcus’s heart was beating so fast, only Alexei’s flying feet could have kept up with it. Grabbing a rolling-pin, he bashed the stem of the philadelphus ferociously, before ramming it into a pale green Wedgwood jug. The heady sweet scent was overpowering.
‘I ought to work,’ he said obstinately.
‘I ought to walk,’ mocked Alexei. ‘I need country air in my lungs.’
He refused to remove his wolf-coat.
‘In Eengland, I am always cold.’
Outside, the sun highlighted his night-owl pallor, the flecks of grey in the thick straight black hair.
Last evening’s eye-liner still ringed eyes that were just slits of amused malice beneath the heavy lids. A half-smile played over the rubber-tyre mouth. A cocksucker’s mouth, his father would call it, thought Marcus, Oh God, help me.
Alexei walked, as he danced, with a springy step leaning backwards, chin raised, head thrown back proudly, idly whistling tunes from
Romeo and Juliet
as he went. As they reached the wider path along the edge of the lake, he took Marcus’s arm – it was like walking with a bear. Marcus prayed they didn’t bump into any of the Celtic Mafia. He was having great difficulty breathing, and longed to collapse on the bank amid the meadowsweet and watch the dark blue dragonflies dive-bombing the water lilies.
Romeo and Juliet
as he went. As they reached the wider path along the edge of the lake, he took Marcus’s arm – it was like walking with a bear. Marcus prayed they didn’t bump into any of the Celtic Mafia. He was having great difficulty breathing, and longed to collapse on the bank amid the meadowsweet and watch the dark blue dragonflies dive-bombing the water lilies.
But Alexei was gazing at the mayflies endlessly dancing above the still dark water, making the most of their one day of life.
‘They are like me,’ observed Alexei bitterly, ‘you ’ave sixty, perhaps seventy more years to play the piano. I have ten to dance, eef I’m lucky. I’m not going to drag myself on like a wounded eagle like Rudi.’
‘You could always direct or teach.’
Alexei shrugged. ‘No more bravos, no more centre of attention.’
Reaching the end of the lake, they turned back up a rough track into the wood, going deeper and deeper until only the occasional sunbeam pierced the darkness, throwing ingots of gold light on the carpet of dark moss. It was wonderfully cool after the blazing heat. The birds were silent beneath their green-baize cloth of leaves. Marcus kept his distance.
‘What d’you call this ’ere?’ Alexei was shaking a great acid green shawl slung over the branch of a towering sycamore tree.
‘Old man’s beard,’ muttered Marcus. ‘Some people call it traveller’s joy.’
‘A nicer name, I am a traveller, who will bring you joy,’ announced Alexei, then, when Marcus didn’t respond, asked, ‘How ees anyone as beautiful as you so frightened, leetle Marcus? You should be enjoying your beauty. Brave boys like you should not be afraid of wolves,’ he added mockingly.
Marcus started, opened his mouth and shut it again. They had been joined by Mr Nugent and Mrs Diggory’s spaniel, who often escaped together on illicit hunting sprees.
Now the two dogs were crashing round trampling the last green seed-heads and yellow leaves of the wild garlic. The smell reminded Marcus of Taggie’s cooking and the gentle intimacy of long chats with her in the kitchen, until these had been ruined by the return of disdainful, disruptive Rupert, who was even jealous of a son he despised.
Once again Marcus thought how alike were Rupert and Alexei. Did all gays fall for men like their father?
Alexei walked very fast splashing through the puddles, while the dogs tiptoed round the edge. Marcus was getting breathless – he wished he’d remembered his inhaler.
‘You should take more exercise,’ said Alexei reprovingly.
‘I have asthma. It’s hard to breathe, the pollen and things.’
‘Foo to the pollen! Ees difficult to breathe because I am ’ere, and you know it.’ As Alexei raised his hand to touch Marcus’s cheek, the boy jumped away in panic, his eyes enormous.
Alexei laughed. ‘Just then a beeg grey wolf
did
come out of the forest.’
did
come out of the forest.’
‘I can’t, Alexei,’ gabbled Marcus, ‘I can’t do it to Abby, the last time a man cheated on her, she slashed her wrists.’
‘Hopefully she do eet proper theese time.’
‘Shut up, I love her; anyway I’ve got to marry and have kids, my father’s got to have an heir. I’ve let him down so much already being a wimp, being shit-scared of horses, being terrified of him, not even succeeding as a pianist.’
‘It would feenish him off altogether eef he knew you were in love with a ballet dancer, hey?’
In terror, Marcus gazed into the still but curiously speculative face.
‘Am I?’ he muttered. ‘I’m supposed to be marrying Abby.’
‘You will make her terribly unhappy.’
‘Oh Christ, are you sure?’
This time when Marcus tried to jump away, Alexei held onto his hand with a boa-constrictor grip, drawing him close.
‘No matter how ‘ard the wolf try to escape, he only pulled the rope round his tail tightair,’ he whispered in Marcus’s ear.
The path ahead was really churned up – like walking on turkey fat. Brambles clawed Marcus’s legs as if trying to hold him back. Twice he slipped, twice Alexei caught him.
Then Alexei halted, idly pulling aside the curtains of ivy hanging from the roots of a massive beech tree to reveal a little cave. Marcus had to duck his head as Alexei pulled him inside, down onto a bed of mossy yellow stone strewn with ancient beech leaves.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ Alexei took the boy’s flushed, freckled face between his hands, gently smoothing his cheek-bones to wipe out the dark brown circles beneath the haunted apprehensive eyes.
‘Ees stupid to fight, it is so strong.’ The hard, haughty face was suddenly miraculously gentle and kindly. ‘First time I see you, I want you. You are the only reason I dance at Rutminster for pittance. You make me believe it would be possible to geeve the ’eart.’
Marcus could hear the manic rustling of the dogs after a rabbit, the gruff drone of a helicopter. Through the ivy curtain, he could see the brilliant blue sky thrusting between soaring grey limbs of a beech tree, then Alexei’s big mouth came down on his and Alexei’s body on top of him was as hard and elemental as the mossy Cotswold stone beneath.
A minute later, unable to breathe, Marcus wriggled away, but Alexei was too strong for him.
‘Look at me, silly boy, you ’ave pretty eyelashes, but it would be nice to see your eyes. Doesn’t this make your ’eart pound like nothing before?’
‘Nothing,’ gasped Marcus. ‘You know I love you. It was the same for me, I was utterly lost from the moment you bounded onto the stage like Nimrod.’
‘Neemrod?’ demanded Alexei in outraged jealousy.
‘My father’s lurcher, he’s got killer eyes,’ Marcus gave a half laugh, that became a sob. ‘You’re a cross between Nimrod and my father. I love you, but I can’t do this to Abby.’
‘’Ush, ’ush, look into my eyes. I am real, you are home where you belong. No more pretending, let eet happen.’
He was mumbling endearments in Russian now, which sounded so marvellous in his husky basso profundo voice. ‘You will always remember thees, because it ees the first time. Anyway,’ he added wickedly, ‘I must get out of these boots, I bought them to eempress you and they kill me.’
Back at the cottage dizzy with exhaustion and happiness, Marcus cooked burnt sausages and lumpy mash for Alexei which was mostly polished off by Mr Nugent and Mrs Diggory’s spaniel. The dogs didn’t stay, however, to hear Marcus play Schumann’s
Dreaming
in the fading light. He wasn’t nervous any more. Alexei had ironed all the tension out of his body.
Dreaming
in the fading light. He wasn’t nervous any more. Alexei had ironed all the tension out of his body.
At the end, Alexei got up and put his arms round him.
‘You cannot marry Abby.’
‘I must, it would destroy her.’
‘Not so much as eet would destroy her eef you do. Break it off now. She would be devastated, but only for a month or two. Far better an end with horror, than horror without end. You cannot afford to be tied. You and I are artists, like stars een the sky, we seem close in the night, but we are light year apart. We are pellegrino – eet means orphan and wanderer. We belong to the world, not each other. We are married to Art. Art is far more important than love.’
Not any more, thought Marcus, as Alexei slid two hands deep down inside his shirt.
He wanted to drive Alexei to Birmingham Airport to catch a late flight to Berlin, but Alexei insisted on taking a taxi.
‘Eef you are feet to drive, you should not be. My agent weel pay the other end.’
Alexei wouldn’t leave until Marcus had promised to join him wherever he was in the world, the moment he’d dispatched the Bartók. He also insisted they swapped watches. Strapping his Rolex, which reeked of
Givenchy for Men
round Marcus’s wrist, he proudly carried off Marcus’s schoolboy Swatch, as though it were made of diamonds.
Givenchy for Men
round Marcus’s wrist, he proudly carried off Marcus’s schoolboy Swatch, as though it were made of diamonds.
Marcus was only too happy to be left alone in the dusk, stunned by the enormity of the afternoon’s events. A thrush was singing in the garden, repeating each exquisite phrase.
As he wandered down to the lake, it started to pour, huge raindrops dive-bombing unwary moths, clattering on the leaves, thrashing the lake, creating rings which spread and ran into each other. Marcus thought, watching them, how everyone’s actions affected everyone else’s in life.
‘Nemerovsky loves me,’ he shouted over and over again to the blue-black sky, his belly churning and caving in to meet his backbone as he shivered at the memory.
Waltzing home in the deluge, he was running a scalding bath, about to dream of Alexei before crashing out, when the front door flew open, and in burst Abby and Helen in a state of euphoria. Abby had had a wonderful success with the London Met.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ she told Marcus earnestly. ‘After four years, they still retain Rannaldini’s precision and special timbre.’
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