Madame Sousatzka (17 page)

But when, after their silent journey home, he blew his mother an invisible kiss down the stairway, he climbed into bed hoping that she would come. And when she did, he welcomed her for having taken no offence at his outburst. He fell asleep looking forward to his next lesson.

Madame Sousatzka had been sitting at her piano almost all night. She hadn't been playing. Occasionally her fingers would rest on the keys and silently depress them. She stared at the keyboard helplessly and hated it. The open piano score of the concerto stared at her from the stand. Ever since Manders had arranged the concert, the score had been there, and after each lesson a new piece of advice or warning had been scrawled across it in red pencil. A few bars preceding a difficult passage had been pointed with warning arrows, and the passage itself was ringed in scarlet. A few of the printer's pleas for pianissimo were scratched out where Madame Sousatzka had disapproved of the editor's interpretation. And the same with certain crescendo arrows which Madame Sousatzka had once or twice inverted. All night she had been going through the score, occasionally playing it on the wood of the piano. She knew immediately Marcus's reaction to every passage. She knew what he would look forward to, and what he would be glad to be finished with. And these latter passages she went over and over again, drumming her fingers on the piano lid, trying to make it easier for him, trying to infuse his sleep far away in North London with new confidence. She would smile for him when a difficult passage had been well dealt with, and leaned back in her chair, while the orchestra took command of the score. And to the imagined sounds of the orchestra she gave all her attention, leaning forward in anticipation of the cadenza. Until the final chord, which announced that the orchestra was retiring for a while to leave the arena to the soloist. And always after the majestic chord came the terrifying split-second silence. Madame Sousatzka had been through the score at least a dozen times during the night, and each time this pause had become longer and more terrifying.

It was getting light and though the curtains were still drawn the sun filtered through the cracks. She heard the clatter of milk bottles on the door-step, and she drew the curtains. The sunlight staggered into the room and she was conscious of the wrinkles on her neck and under her eyes. She wondered whether the milkman was going to the concert, or whether he'd even heard about it. She went quickly to her desk and took out two complimentary tickets from the drawer. She opened the window, and leaned out.

‘Milkman,' she called, ‘you go to the concert?'

He straightened his back and looked at her, astonished that another human being was sharing this hour of the morning. ‘What concert?'

‘My Marcus. He plays tonight. The Festival Hall. You want to go?'

‘Ah, good morning, Madame Sousatzka,' he said. First things first. ‘I saw it advertised. Good luck to the lad. You'll need an extra bottle of milk today.' Business before pleasure.

‘You want to go?' she said, less enthusiastically this time. She held out the tickets towards him.

‘Can't afford it,' he said hopefully. ‘Not on this job.'

‘I give to you,' she said, thrusting them out still further. ‘You are married?' The milkman shook his head. ‘A fiancée?' Madame Sousatzka smiled at him. Again a mournful shake. ‘You must have a friend,' Madame Sousatzka said desperately.

‘My brother,' the milkman said, tracing his shadow on the steps with one foot.

‘You bring the brother, then,' Madame Sousatzka said triumphantly, handing the tickets to him.

The milkman looked at them. ‘Twenty-five shillings!' he gasped. ‘Fifty bob altogether.' He was clearly calculating what allowance he could make on a sale.

‘You come? I see you and the brother?' said Madame Sousatzka eagerly.

The milkman looked at her guiltily. ‘Of course,' he decided. He already began to look forward to it. He wondered what he would wear and how he could get in
touch with his brother. ‘Thank you, Madame Sousatzka,' he said, ‘I'll hurry on the round so I'll be ready. Wish the boy luck for me. You too,' he added, with unconscious understanding. ‘The Festival Hall,' he muttered, picking up the empties. ‘Twenty-five bob a throw.'

Madam Sousatzka closed the window, and suddenly felt very tired. It must be six o'clock, she thought. There would be time for a little sleep before the rehearsal at ten-thirty. She lay, fully clothed, on the divan, silently figuring the cadenza on the silk cushion, and she fell asleep at the end of the final trill. And as she slept, she had a terrifying dream.

Marcus was still trilling and the conductor raised his baton for the orchestra to prepare their entry. But Marcus went on trilling. The conductor looked at him, raising his eyebrows and his baton. ‘The lights are green,' he hissed. ‘They won't get any greener.' But Marcus went on trilling. The audience were getting restless. And suddenly the milkman got up and took his brother's hand. They were both in evening dress, and they carried a milk crate between them. They hurried down the steps to the platform. ‘Stop it, Marcus,' the milkman pleaded. But Marcus went on trilling. ‘It won't stop,' he said. ‘Ask Madame Sousatzka to stop it.' ‘It's playing beautifully,' said Madame Sousatzka, ‘Let it play.' The trill got louder and louder until it sounded like a high-pitched road drill. The conductor stood on tip-toe and raised his baton as far as he could and crashed it to his side. The orchestra came in, unwilling to wait any longer for their cue. ‘I told you to get an extra bottle of milk today,' the milkman said. Marcus was still trilling, and the orchestra meanwhile finished the concerto. They left the platform, desk by desk, as in the Farewell Symphony, and the conductor followed them. And then the audience, until the Festival Hall was empty but for Madame Sousatzka, and Marcus at the piano, still trilling. ‘It plays well,' she said into the empty hall. Marcus stopped playing and turned to smile at her. Madame Sousatzka turned over and opened her eyes. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and she got up and closed the piano. She threw open the window, and sat looking out into
the street, waiting for the day to begin.

*   *   *

Mrs Crominski delivered Marcus to Vauxhall Mansions at nine o'clock. Both Marcus and Madame Sousatzka had asked her to come to the rehearsal, and both hoped that she would decline. Which she did, but for her own reasons. She was terribly nervous. For a whole week she had been trembling at the thought of the concert, and trembling, too, that Marcus might notice it. She felt she couldn't face the concert and the rehearsal too. She had nagged at Marcus to find out whether he needed her to come. ‘If you'll feel better I'm there, then natural, I'm coming.'

‘If you want to come, Momma,' he had said, ‘then come.'

‘I'm not talking about wanting. Is for you I come, if I come, if you feel better.'

‘I don't
need
you to come,' he said, ‘just come if you want to.'

‘Of course he doesn't need when Madame Sousatzka is there,' she sulked.

‘I don't need her, either,' he lied. ‘She's coming because she wants to.'

‘Then I come too,' she said, terrified.

‘It's not necessary, Momma. You rest, and you'll enjoy the concert.'

She had made no further protest.

As she was leaving Madame Sousatzka's, she threw her arms round him. She was practically hysterical with worry and fear for his performance. She kissed him frantically, knowing that she had to say something before leaving, and not having the faintest idea what to say. ‘Best of luck' perhaps, or ‘Don't worry'? Marcus freed himself from her kisses. ‘Don't worry, Momma,' he smiled, ‘everything will be all right.'

She started to walk down the front steps. She still hadn't said anything to him. She stopped and turned to look at him. He was smiling, and waving. She was shocked into the vital necessity of saying something, no matter how ridiculous it was. ‘Don't forget the soft parts,' she said helplessly.

He watched her go, her shopping-bag flopping against
her lisle stockings. He turned quickly into the house, dragging his hand over his eyes. He could forget everything else, everything he had ever learnt, but above all he mustn't forget the soft parts.

Manders arrived at ten o'clock to pick them up. Normally, he didn't go to his clients' rehearsals, but he didn't trust Madame Sousatzka to hold her tongue if she disagreed with the orchestra's interpretation. Although no war had yet been declared, he already felt himself the peacemaker.

‘Well, how d'you feel, my boy?' he said, as they settled into the back of the car. He signalled to his chauffeur to take off. ‘It's a fine day,' he announced. ‘Should have a good house. How d'you feel?' he asked again.

‘A bit nervous,' Marcus said,

‘Well, that's natural, isn't it?' he said. ‘I've found in my experience,' he turned conversationally to Madame Sousatzka, ‘that the greatest artists are always nervous before a concert.' Madame Sousatzka showed no particular interest in his discovery. ‘In fact,' he tried again, ‘if one of my boys isn't nervous,
I
get nervous,' he laughed feebly. The car slowed down at the lights. Marcus shifted between them, rubbing his knees to ease the pain. ‘It always gets them there,' Manders said appreciatively. ‘In the knees. Or the stomach. Or both,' he warned, smiling.

Madame Sousatzka shivered. She had it everywhere, and so probably did Marcus. She put her arm round his shoulder and they melted in their nervousness together.

Manders couldn't feel with them. The tickets had gone well. In spite of the choice of programme, people were coming. He'd managed to throw in the Beethoven Fifth as an extra bait. Almost everyone was familiar with at least its opening bars, and recognizing the tune would give them a comfortable sense of culture. The orchestra had carped a bit, but he'd managed to get his own way. Tickets sold, a fine day, and the Beethoven Fifth for the casuals. In his mind, Marcus had already nothing to do with it.

The chauffeur pulled up at the artists' entrance of the Festival Hall. Manders told him to call back at one o'clock for them. They went inside together to the lifts. A lonely
double-bass player was waiting at the grille. He looked at Marcus and recognized him as one to be dealt with at the concert. He nodded reassuringly, and smiled. It was the closest Marcus had ever been to an orchestral player, and his heart swelled with sudden love for the whole doublebass section. He regretted that they never seemed to have a solo part; with all that amount of instrument, he thought, and never a tune. The lift gates opened and the man lugged his bass inside. Marcus stood next to him, with the bass between. The lift-man pressed a button, a signal, it seemed, that in ascent, all must be silent. The four of them and the bass watched the lift wall descend behind the grille. When they arrived on the hall floor they trooped out silently. ‘See you,' the bass said, as it trundled forward into the corridor, singing with a deep, resonant hum the opening bars of the concerto. The player turned round and winked at Marcus, who followed Manders and Sousatzka into the artists' room.

The room was stuffy and the nervousness of the previous night's soloist still hovered round the dirty glass on the table, the half-filled jug of water, and the ruffled cushion on the chair. A black upright piano stood in the corner, the lid sealed and dusty as if it had never been opened; as if no artist had taken the risk of a last-minute run through. Manders took off his coat, as if to assert that he was in charge; Madame Sousatzka noticed the manoeuvre and did likewise, although like most spreading women, she depended on her coat for cover-up.

‘They'll call you when they're ready,' Manders said to Marcus. He was an old hand at the routine. ‘The conductor will probably want a word with them first,' he added to Madame Sousatzka. ‘That's what usually happens,' he said with the air of an expert.

Madame Sousatzka went over to Marcus where he sat on the edge of the table. ‘You remember, my darrlink,' she said, turning her back on Manders, ‘in the second movement.' She sang a phrase, outlining the melody in the air with her finger. ‘Don't forget, my darrlink, it is only the echo. Very, very soft. You will hear the orchestra. You will play the echo without touching it. Listen to it. An echo is
wonderful. An echo, it happens. From God it comes. It is His approval. I will leave you now,' she said. ‘I will sit in the hall and listen. But we both listen, yes darrlink? We are together.'

Madame Sousatzka put on her coat. She felt she could well afford to leave Marcus alone for a while with Manders. She kissed the top of Marcus's head and started for the door. Then, as an afterthought, she said, ‘If something you don't like, Marcus, with the conductor, you say. If too fast, you say; if too slow, you say also; if too loud, and so on.' She opened the door. ‘And the cadenza of course. You don't play it. No necessity. You play only the last few bars with the trill.' She suddenly remembered her dream that morning. ‘Count the trill quietly,' she whispered. ‘The conductor will look at you to come in.' She walked down the corridor.

Marcus ran up her. ‘Stay with me till they come,' he pleaded. ‘I just can't wait here.'

A little green-coated man rounded the bend of the corridor.

‘Look, he's coming,' Marcus whispered.

The man beckoned to Marcus. ‘Come on, laddie,' he said, ‘they're all waiting for you.'

Madame Sousatzka gently pushed Marcus into the green man's keeping, and she went into the auditorium. She made for a seat in the second row on the piano side, so that Marcus would not look at her.

Marcus was threading his way between the ‘cellos. One of the players leaned over his instrument and patted Marcus on the back as he passed. Marcus turned round to smile at him, and his eye caught the thick wall of doublebass players, and their solid immobility frightened him. He wished for the first time in his life that he'd never played the piano. He felt his hands clammy and a liquid fear in his stomach. He put out his hand to clasp the conductor's rail. He didn't think he could make the piano without some support.