The Ghost Sonata (37 page)

Professor Waldgrave's Confession

 

As a boy, I was considered something of a child prodigy, and my teachers all anticipated a successful concert career. I attended the Royal College of Music in London and promptly won a series of concerto competitions. For a time, life and my career looked very promising indeed.

“Then, everything instantly changed. Almost without warning, a medical condition made it impossible for me to perform. No doctor could pinpoint the exact cause of the syndrome that made pain shoot through my fingers and arms whenever I touched the keyboard; all I knew was that I could no longer play. Naturally, I was forced to cancel my concerts. I assumed I would recover, but months and years passed without any improvement, and in the meantime, a fresh crop of young, talented performers had emerged from the competition circuit, ready to take my place on the concert stage.

“The unthinkable had happened: I had been completely forgotten before my performance career even got started.

“I had no choice but to turn to teaching. I was lucky to get a post at Oxford University, but in all honesty, I was always secretly bored by my students.
‘Why would there ever be a future in this for you?'
I wanted to ask them.
‘Why are you wasting my time?'

“I also turned to writing about music, and before long, I was known as one of the most caustic music critics for
The Independent
newspaper.

“It was around this time that I began to perceive a flurry of interest in a performer I only vaguely remembered from my days as a student at the Royal College of Music—someone called Rhiannon Maddox. I had scarcely noticed her when my own star was on the rise. Now this Rhiannon Maddox—who had not been able to win even a single major competition—was becoming famous.

“She gave international concerts. She produced edgy music videos. She dyed her hair acrylic red or pink and wore ridiculous clothes designed by student fashion designers. She appeared in concert with Madonna and was photographed in silly, gossipy magazines like
Tatler
.

“I admit it; I resented her success, and I vented my frustration by writing scathing reviews of her concerts. What disturbed me was that nobody seemed to notice that she was merely a rather ordinary piano player and a very successful self-promoter.

“Then—everything changed. I stopped caring about Rhiannon Maddox's brilliant career because in a single day, my own life became far more interesting.

“It happened one afternoon, when an elderly woman brought her thirteen-year-old grandson to my studio to inquire about private lessons. My first impression was that, with the exception of his ill-fitting black raincoat, he had the rather ordinary, adolescent look of a boy I would expect to be interested in football instead of piano. On the other hand, he didn't have the nervous discomfort of a young person whose parents had forced him to attend piano lessons. He was very calm and in complete possession of his thirteen-year-old self. He actually looked as if he
wanted
to be there.

“‘Sorry,' I told the grandmother, ‘but I'm afraid I'm not taking new students at present.'

“‘I've heard you would be the best person to work with a truly
gifted
student,' she said.

“I was skeptical about the probability that this boy was ‘truly gifted,' but I couldn't help feeling flattered. ‘May I ask who told you I'd be the best teacher for him?'

“‘Charlie told me himself. He has an old recording of your Bach Preludes and Fugues, and he says it's his favorite piano recording, don't you, Charlie?'

“I admit it: I was hungry for flattery, and hearing this made me feel suddenly generous. ‘Well, then,' I said, ‘let's hear him play.'

“Moments later, I was offering to teach Charles at a minimal cost. I had assumed it would never happen, but by pure chance, I had actually discovered a genuine talent—a true ‘diamond in the rough' that simply needed my help in order to shine.

“Each week, Charles Drummond turned up for lessons at my house, and each week, I became more amazed by my extraordinary student. In many ways, Charles was a normal teenager: he loved fantasy novels and mysteries; he loved exploring the outdoors with his pet dog and rowing down the Thames. His grades were good, but he said he hated school. Tragically, both of his parents had died by the time he was seven, and he lived with his grandmother in the tiny village of Binsey.

“But as we know, Charles was not at all ordinary. The most striking quality of his talent was an uncanny intuition—an almost psychic gift. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly how a composer would have wanted a piece to be played.

“‘You should make this part lighter—more classical and less heavy,' I advised him once during a lesson on Mozart's Fantasy in D Minor.

“‘No,' said Charles. ‘It should be dark. He wants it dark in this section.'

“‘What do you mean,' “he wants it dark?”' I demanded. ‘
Who
wants it dark?'

“‘Mozart, of course.'

“‘Charles, based on my extensive research into this era of music, I think I have a better idea than you of what Mozart would have wanted.'

“‘He wants it the way I'm playing it,' said Charles stubbornly. ‘He says that if there had been a grand piano like the one I'm playing under his fingers when he was alive, he would have used all of its abilities. He would make it sound heavier here.'

“‘And how—may I ask—did a long-dead composer tell you these things?'

“‘I can't tell you
how
I know,' said Charles. ‘I just know.'

“And the thing was, I was convinced that he was absolutely right.

“So when I learned that my colleague Professor Winterbottom was organizing an international competition for young people to be held at Oxford University, I decided it was time to introduce Charles Drummond to the public. On some level, I suspected that once I shared my prize student with the rest of the world, he would no longer belong to me alone, but for the moment, Charles was mine. There was absolutely no doubt in my mind that he would win the competition.

“‘Charles,' I said one afternoon following a piano lesson, ‘we've never talked about your career plans. I think you could have a successful concert career.'

“‘I know.' The boy never pretended to be modest.

“‘What I mean to say is that you're good enough that you could actually become
famous
once people discover you. How do you feel about that?'

“‘Okay,' said Charles, ‘but I'm really a composer.'

“This surprised me because I hadn't seen any evidence that Charles was a composer. Charles had never shown me anything he had written. ‘Have you actually
composed
something, Charles?' I asked.

“‘I'll show it to you when I'm finished,' was his reply.

“But I heard nothing more about this invisible composition, and I thought no more about it. After all, I was keeping Charles quite busy preparing for the First Annual Young International Virtuosos Competition.

“Well, the day of the competition arrived, and after the first round, people were already talking about Charles, as I knew they would. Everyone wanted to know:
Where had this boy come from and with whom had he studied?

“It was just as some parents of considerably less-talented children approached me to ask whether I might be taking on new students—a moment when I felt particularly pleased with myself, I might add—that I glanced across the room and felt a sudden wave of nausea. In an instant, my perfect day was ruined.

“There—sporting a flowing gown made of gauzy green material and an absurd hairdo with tiny braids—was Rhiannon Maddox. I had heard a rumor that one of her latest ventures was positioning herself as a star teacher, a champion of young talent. And now she was hovering over my Charles like a sinister weeping willow.

“
Why did Charles look interested in talking to her?
I wondered.
Why was he handing her a piece of paper?

“When the two of them disappeared together, I had to follow. I found them in a practice room. Charles was playing something I hadn't heard before—something haunting, dissonant, and genuinely beautiful. Rhiannon was listening with her eyes closed and a lit cigarette in one hand.

“‘Have you heard this piece your student composed?' she demanded when she saw me staring.

“And here's where I made my biggest mistake. ‘Of course I've heard it,' I lied. ‘It needs a bit of work, in my opinion.' And in an instant I saw something in Charles's face change. He seemed to stare
through
me. We both knew I had lied. I knew I had lost his respect.

“‘Come now, Charlie,' I said, simply wanting to get away. ‘It's late.'

“‘Remember what we talked about, Charles,' said Rhiannon. She handed Charles a small piece of paper as if passing him a secret note. He stuck the paper in his pocket, and this infuriated me.
After all
, I thought,
who is she to communicate in secret with my student
?

“Charles followed me sullenly to the car park. ‘Charlie,' I said as we drove down the dark country road leading to Charles's house, ‘your composition sounded interesting, but you should have played it for me first before sharing it with Ms. Maddox. She has some rather unorthodox ideas.'

“I remember how he stared out the window as if plotting some escape. ‘She asked me to play it,' he said. ‘She said I perform as if I'm improvising, and she guessed I would make a good composer.'

“‘We can work on your composition after the competition is over, if you like,' I offered. ‘Right now you should stay focused on your next performance. You really have a great chance of winning this.'

“‘I'm going to play my
own
composition in the next round.'

“Well, I immediately suspected this must be the result of some sabotage on Rhiannon's part—retaliation for all those scathing reviews of her performances I had published. ‘Charles, you know there are rules about what you can play in this competition,' I reminded him. ‘Doing such a thing might disqualify you.'

“‘Professor Maddox thinks I should perform it.'

“‘Of course she does! If you get disqualified, one of her own talentless students will have a greater chance of winning. It's sabotage, pure and simple.'

“‘She thinks I could
win
if I performed it. Besides, she also invited me to take some lessons with her in London. She could introduce me to people who will work with me on my composing. I don't
need
to win this competition; she could help me.'

“And then I knew that the worst thing I could imagine was actually happening: the person I hated most was stealing my prize student. She would launch his performance career to the public and claim credit as his teacher. Without realizing it, I began to drive faster.

“‘Charles,' I said, probably staring at his sullen profile instead of the road in front of me, ‘I don't think that's a good idea. Professor Maddox actually knows very little about music. Her performances are wildly inaccurate and she has a chaotic approach to putting together concert programs. I think, at this very sensitive stage in your development—'

“‘At least she
has
a concert career,' he retorted.

“And those were the very last words we spoke to each other, because when I looked back at the road in front of me, it was too late to avoid the oncoming van that had just veered into my path. The next thing I knew, I awoke in hospital with several broken bones. Charlie, I learned, had died instantly.

“The death was ruled a terrible accident.

“Days later, I inquired about a lost manuscript of music near the site of the accident, but nothing could be found. Until I heard it again today, I assumed the only copy had been lost forever.”

52

The Aftermath

 

Standing next to his father in the lobby of the Sheldonian Theater, Julian looked uncharacteristically stiff and uncomfortable. His father stood with his arm locked around his son possessively, offering a fierce, red-faced grin to the small crowd of people who approached to congratulate Julian on his performance.

“He played just brilliantly!” an elderly lady declared, pushing through the crowd to gaze at Julian and his father with an appreciation close to reverence. “You must be so very proud of your son, Mr. Graham.”

“I'm very proud, indeed!” Julian flinched as his father squeezed his arm a bit too tightly. “Back at home he's known as our local Liberace!”

Julian flinched. “I
don't
play like Liberace.” He felt as if he were literally shrinking: in a split second, his father had managed to deflate him with a single condescending reference—annoyingly, the same reference Professor Waldgrave had used to criticize his performance in the first round of the competition.