Ladies From Hell (27 page)
He was tall, taller than she had realized, and older too perhaps; the blue eyes faded a little, mouth tortoise-wrinkled at the corners. But there was no mistaking. She caught her breath, trapped; and he smiled. He said, “Miss Welles, good afternoon. I am Paul Eulenstein.”
He crossed to the piano, laid the notes he carried on its top, sat hands on knees and raised his brows. He said, “Come closer, please. I do not eat young ladies.”
She did as she was told.
He raised his hands, dropped them again. He said, “I am twenty minutes late. I apologize. I have been talking, on the telephone. Always, when I am on the telephone, people make me talk and talk, and will not let me go. Do you know why?”
She shook her head. She feared she couldn’t speak.
He said, “It is because I am old. And they are patient.
They think, if they wait, that perhaps I will die. Then they will say, ‘I, and I only, was the last! The last to speak to Paul Eulenstein!’ Do you see? But I am stubborn. I do not die!”
She smiled; and he rose, began to pace the floor. He said, “Now I will tell you a secret. To conduct music, for me, is like telling jokes. You do not understand? Then I will explain.”
He tapped his pocket. He said, “I have many friends. Very many friends. But I do not know many jokes. So I keep a little book. In it I write what jokes I have told to whom. Do you see? In this way, when I tell a story, I know it is never to the same person twice. If the story is new to everyone, then it is new to me. Over and over. And all my friends think, ‘What a clever man he is!’”
He sat back at the piano, spread his hands as if to encompass the keys. “Also with music,” he said. “When I am touring, I will not conduct the same piece twice in any town. They come to me and say, ‘The subscribers will be different tomorrow, everyone in the hall. Everyone!’ But I am cunning, I do not believe. I think, ‘Perhaps one, just one, has come again! He has slipped in past the door! He will hear me again, and the music will not be new.’ And he will think, ‘He is not a clever man at all but rather a silly one, who wears too-bright bow ties!’”
He smiled again. He said, “That is why the music is always new. One hundred times, two hundred, five hundred times and it is still new, every night. Because the people who listen are new. Do you see now? Good! Then already we have made great progress!”
He took a pair of glasses from his pocket, opened them with a little flourish, consulted for the first time the sheaf of notes. He said, “You have studied the piano. That is excellent. For the young singer this is most important. You have chosen your voice for an instrument, this is purely melodic, the piano not so. You will learn a new literature, other than your own. And you will not become overtired. Also there are books I shall want you to read, I will give you their titles in a moment and
you can find them in a library. The way is hard, all ways are hard, but faith can move the largest mountains. There will be much to do …” And on and on, while she wondered at his energy. She thought, ‘But to talk like this, to tell me all these things, he hasn’t even heard me yet. He might not think I’m any good!’ Yet by the time he finally held out his hand and said, “Now, what have you brought me?” the fear had gone, she could smile at him in return. Later, when she at last realized the point of the performance, she thought, ‘That is why he is great. Because he understands what is happening, inside other people.’
The corridors, the maze of passages beyond the great stage, seemed full and buzzing. She pushed and jostled, desperate, seeing the Militia uniforms, hearing the scurrying footsteps, shouted commands; and the way was barred. She drew herself up, knowing her eyes were blazing. She said, “Where is he? What is happening?
Let me pass
…”
He was sitting in his dressing room, the dark coat round his shoulders and the scarf. For the first time, he looked old; old, and incredibly tired. She ran to him; she would have spoken, but he took her hands. “No, my dear,” he said, “no words. For you, I no longer exist. I can bring you no more luck.”
He shook his head. “It is not the music,” he said. “They hate me two times over. First, because I am a German; then, because my name is Owlcup. Mr. Owlcup. Some others of us they called Wood Devils. Perhaps it was just …” He rose then, supporting himself momentarily by the arms of the chair; and she was thrust aside. He said to the uniforms that flanked him, “Gentlemen, if you are ready …”
The death took place last night in a London nursing home of the pianist and conductor Paul Eulenstein. Charged six weeks ago with doctrinal non-alignment, Eulenstein was awaiting trial by a Peoples’ Tribunal for crimes against the British State
.
The lamps were brightening in their lines. She dropped her head and waited; and the applause was starting, first here and there, deepening to a footstamp from the students round the stage and
spreading still, to the blocks of blue, they were on their feet, she saw hands raised clapping above heads, heard the calls. She ran off and back, hearing the volume rise again and steady; then the third time, bowing low, taking Jack’s hand, pulling him forward. Her hair had tousled, she flung it back laughing, flushed a little, turned to peck his cheek; and they wouldn’t let her go, she took a fourth call on her own, a fifth. And it was over at last, tension draining, rattle of the handclaps dying back, turning to the buzz of talk, shuffle and scrape of feet as the Hall began to empty. She ran for her dressing room, full of the hollowness she had felt before, sat face in hands, she was shaking, she made herself be calm, it was over now, please God don’t let the memories come back, not any more. She brushed at her hair, mechanically, began to dab her face. The knock came then, muffled, almost hesitant; she sat a moment quite still, Paul, she thought, what should I have done. She said, “Come in.”
He was a biggish man, running to stoutness. He seemed uncomfortable in the coarse grey uniform, fingers easing at the collar, eyes shifting. He hemmed and coughed, a most unfortunate demonstration, as Sector Commissar it was of course his duty to report, representative of the People, she must surely have been aware. Yes, yes, she knew and did not blame, but he was not yet done. The need for vigilance, the endless need, doctrinal solidarity, a clear enough direction though of course not
stated;
while for his part …
She stopped what she was doing. She said, “What? What did you say?”
The collar again, fumbling; and moistening his lips. A pity really, he quite liked her stuff himself.
And she was white flame, trembling head to foot. She screamed at him, “
Get out! You fucking traffic warden, GET OUT
…!” And he was backing for the door, alarmed, hand behind him rattling at the catch. He said, “
You’ll never sing in public again
.” The door slammed shut; she heard the flustered
footsteps hurry away.
She looked down. She was holding a solvent bottle gripped in her fist, she had no memory of snatching it up. She supposed there had been a moment when she could have smashed it into his face.
She put it down, sat back at the mirror and began, slowly, to peel Pamina’s great lashes. It was after all of little significance. Soon, her husband would return; and she would bear him other, fleshly children.
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Novels
The Furies (1966)
Pavane (1968)
Anita (1970)
The Inner Wheel (1970)
The Chalk Giants (1974)
Molly Zero (1980)
Kiteworld (1985)
Kaeti & Company (1986)
Gráinne (1987)
Kaeti On Tour (1992)
Collections
Machines and Men (1973)
The Grain Kings (1976)
Ladies from Hell (1979)
The Lordly Ones (1986)
Winterwood and Other Hauntings (1989)
For David and Kate Hunter,
with love
Keith Roberts (1935–2000)
Keith Roberts was an English author and illustrator, who did more than most to define the look of UK Science fiction magazines in the sixties. He won four BFSA awards for his writing and his art, and edited the magazine
Science Fantasy
(later
Impulse
) for a time. He was also nominated for Hugo, Nebula (twice) and Arthur C. Clarke awards. He is perhaps best known for his seminal alternative history novel,
Pavane
, praised by George R. R. Martin: ‘No alternate history novel of the past thirty years comes close to equalling
Pavane
’.
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © Keith Roberts 1979
All rights reserved.
The right of Keith Roberts to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London, WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 575 10434 1
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
