The Gradual (11 page)

The hotel where we were staying told me that phone calls to Glaund had become possible recently, so I went immediately to my room and booked one. I was made to wait for more than an hour while connections were attempted. I don’t know what happened, what went wrong, but getting through turned out to be impossible. I was told, variously, that the number at my home was not obtainable, or that all lines to the mainland were busy, or after one protracted attempt with strange and disjunctive noises rattling in my ear, even that my phone at home appeared to have been disconnected.

Later that day I wrote Alynna another letter telling her about this and saying that in a few days’ time we would be heading home. Whether it would reach her before I did I had no idea. I mailed it anyway.

In the morning of the day of the concert I went with several of the other musicians on a short tour of the island, driven around the hinterland of Waterside in a modern, air-conditioned bus. The climax of the trip was an ascent of the roads and tracks that led to the summit of the Gronner.

As we climbed, circuiting the precipitous sides and terrifying slopes beneath us, the driver guide gave us an account of the importance of this volcano to the island. She described it as one of the few active volcanoes anywhere in the Archipelago. It was the icon of Temmil, she said: the profile image of the Gronner was on the island flag, it appeared on the reverse of Temmil-issued simoleons, it was used as a brand by many businesses and shops. The rich soil of the lower slopes produced fine wines, appreciated in countries around the world. The mountain had not suffered a major eruption for more than a century, but a haze of hot smoke and gases swirled constantly around the main crater and issued from numerous fumeroles on the broken sides below.

When we were as close to the summit as possible the guide parked the bus. She invited us to ascend the remaining distance to the lip of the caldera on foot. I began to follow the others but as soon as we clambered down from the vehicle I changed my mind. It was freezing cold at this altitude and the air was smoky, smelling of ash and sulphur dioxide. It made me cough more than I liked. I waited inside the bus with a few other unadventurous souls, while the rest stepped away and up, soon moving out of sight as the smoke and steam concealed them.

I was content to remain inside, looking down from my window through the wisps of passing vapour at what I could see of the fantastic view far below: the aquamarine sea, the dense forest on the plain to the north of the mountain, the white fringes of the coastline where the surf broke on the shores. Music sprang spontaneously to mind – I hummed happily to myself. Above everything else I relished the stunning, directionless daylight of the high-clouded sky, the sun brilliant but lost to sight above the nacreous layer.

Sitting there peacefully, breathing warmed and filtered air, I wondered if it would ever be possible to return to this place, to become a deserter, so to speak, from the grim belligerence of Glaundian life. I wanted to live out my days in this paradise. That is how Temmil seemed to me then: an island of physical perfection, where music constantly vibrated through my soul.

I was aching to return to my studio at home, fulfil the dreams of melodies and harmonies that flooded through me, but I did not ever want to leave this place.

That night, the final concert. That night, Cea Weller.

I was in my reserved seat in the front row. My piano concerto was the third item in the programme, immediately following the first interval. I listened intently to the orchestra, conducted by our guest Bayan Cron, as they opened with the familiar and well-loved humoresque
Musical Explorers
, by Micckelson. This was always popular with audiences, because of the way different instruments took turns to deliver one of a series of semi-comic solos. It required a light touch, and Msr Cron, who in person I had found imperious and self-centred, handled it well. He appeared to be enjoying the comic pieces, and from time to time would turn to the audience and let loose an anguished or roguish smile whenever one of the famous dud notes was blown or struck. After this came a selection of theme tunes from classic films. The audience was loving all this.

After the interval, the music became more serious, beginning with my piano concerto. A concert grand was wheeled in for the performance. The interval felt to me as if it was lasting forever, but in the end the orchestra re-assembled, Msr Cron returned to the podium, and Cea Weller made her entrance. Clearly a well-known figure on Temmil she was greeted with enthusiastic applause from the audience. I joined in, of course, but by this time I was in a state of nervous tension, as I was whenever something of mine was played in public.

Cea Weller played the first movement well, but I was still anxious about how she would handle the second, slow movement. This includes a long cadenza requiring several intricate passages, the right hand slightly out of time with the left. She performed it brilliantly, and she and the orchestra swept, without a break, into the final movement, the rondo allegro. I could hardly bear to stay still, and at the climax I leapt to my feet, my arms waving excitedly. Fortunately, many members of the audience also rose to their feet, so I was not alone.

As the applause continued, and the conductor, the soloist and the various sections of the orchestra took their bows, I was invited up to the stage by the maestro, and stood beside Cea Weller as she repeatedly bowed and waved to the audience. She was cradling a huge bouquet in one arm.

Then Bayan Cron led Cea Weller and myself backstage, as the applause at last died away.

I was too excited to return to my seat in the auditorium so I sat through the remainder of the concert in the hospitality room behind the stage. Two large video screens showed the concert continuing, with the music relayed through speakers. I was on my own, with just staff from the concert hall readying themselves for the celebratory reception that would come at the end of the concert. Cea Weller had been taken away by Msr Cron to another part of the building, presumably to her dressing room, so I did not see her again.

Finally it was over. The second encore was played, the ovation rang out, and at last the conductor and the musicians came down from the stage and filled the room. In no time at all everyone was drinking fast and talking noisily. It was the end of the tour, and it had come to a tremendous and successful conclusion. Short congratulatory speeches were made, there were jokes and a little teasing – the chief timpanist was presented with a metronome, to acknowledge the fact that he had made so many insistent claims that the orchestra was stepping out of time from him. Our guest conductor, Msr Cron, was handed a stave, one of the odd little devices we had been told to carry with us everywhere. He seemed pleased but nonplussed. It was all in good part.

‘Msr Sussken?’

A quiet voice at my side made me turn away from the others. It was Cea Weller. For a moment I had trouble recognizing her. She had changed out of the formal gown in which she had performed, and was wearing a blouse and skirt. Her hair, which had been pulled back into a stiff bun while she played, was now loose and at shoulder length. She was holding two glasses of sparkling wine and she handed me one of them.

‘Congratulations on your performance,’ I said politely. ‘It was magnificent.’

‘I wanted to say how much I love all the work of yours I’ve been able to listen to,’ she said. ‘It’s sometimes difficult to find recordings from the northern countries, but I have bought everything of yours that I’ve found.’

‘Thank you.’

She said, ‘I have some friends here who would love to say hello to you.’

I realized that behind her and around her was a small group of people, who were standing attentively while she and I spoke. She introduced them to me one by one: they were all involved in music in one way or another. Four of them were professional musicians, while two others were journalists: one was a writer for a magazines, while the other was a critic and musicologist. I only barely caught their names. We chatted politely and conventionally for a while but the party was getting under way and the noise level was rising. The concert had been a triumph and everyone was high on adrenalin. I exchanged a few opinions with Cea and her friends, received and gave several compliments and as the staff went past with the trays of glasses, we drank more and more wine. Gradually, the others moved away. After a while, because of the noise in the room, Cea and I backed out of the crowd and stood by ourselves in a narrow corridor outside.

We were talking much more informally – about some of the pieces I had written in the past, some of the conductors and orchestras she had played with, islands we had both visited. I told her my worries about Jacj, and she gave me a little information about charities in the islands which attempted to trace soldiers who were on the run from their units. People came down the corridor and as we moved briefly aside to let them pass, she and I returned to our place, standing a little closer to each other every time. I told her I was married – she said she was too, but she and her husband had separated the year before. She said her father and mother were both musicians – her father was still playing regularly, but her mother had retired. Her father was apparently one of those people she had introduced to me earlier, but I hadn’t heard all the names and I wasn’t sure which one of them she meant. She told me she was working hard at the moment: the concert tonight had been a highlight, but she had a full diary for the next few months, and the next day had to travel to an island called Demmer. She was to perform a series of recitals.

At one point she asked me about my part in the tour, and I talked about that for a while, but it led naturally into me telling her about the rock musician who had been copying some of my music. When I said he lived on this island she said there were a lot of young musicians here. Temmil Waterside was renowned for its music scene and there were many bars, clubs and other venues where music was played. I told her the name, And Ante, but she said it could be anyone – many men on Temmil had names like Cornand, Anders, Stephand, Ormand – some of them abbreviated it to And. We laughed about the musical pun.

The party continued but Cea and I left together, walking down the hill from the concert hall complex. She had her hand on my arm – I later put my arm around her and she leaned her head on my shoulder. We saw the night sea, the lights in the harbour, the bustle in the town centre, the doors open to the hot night with music and voices spilling out from within. Hundreds of people were walking about. It’s called the
promenadá
, she told me. When we reached my hotel she went inside with me and we spent a happy night together.

Then came, inevitably, the awakening to a new morning, a bedroom in a hotel, a virtual stranger beside me. The memories of the excited post-concert party no longer seemed to provide the context, the excuse. That was already over – normality had returned. While Cea dozed in the bed next to me, slowly rousing, I began to think guiltily about the implications of what I had done. I was about to return home to Alynna, to whom I had always been faithful. I blamed myself – Cea had done nothing.

Then she was awake, and after a brief affectionate hug we went about the slow business of the morning after. We had both drunk too much at the party so there were those after-effects to cope with, plus the unfamiliarity we had with each other. I knew so little about her, what I had seen of her, how she had played. She must have been feeling much the same about me. What was there in her life that she must return to?

When we were both dressed I walked out of the hotel with her and we stood together for a few minutes in the ornamental garden at the side of the building.

‘What next, Sandro?’ she said. ‘The tour is about to move on, isn’t it?’

‘We’re crossing to Hakerline Promise this afternoon – they’ve laid on a special boat. There are no more concerts. This will be a break before we return home.’

‘I’m leaving for Demmer today,’ she said. ‘Two weeks of recitals.’

‘So we’re unlikely to meet again?’

‘Unlikely – but not impossible. Maybe we shouldn’t try.’

‘I think so too. You all right with that, Cea?’

‘Of course. We’re both adults. It was a great party – let’s leave it at that. It was good while it lasted.’

There was a taxi rank at the hotel. When her car had driven away, I returned to my room to pack. I realized then that I had said nothing to her of my hopes and plans of one day moving to Temmil permanently. That was probably as well.

We tour members settled into a large, modern hotel a short distance outside the town centre of Hakerline Promise: it had its own beach, boats for hire, fishing areas, restaurants, bars. The remaining admin staff from Ders Axxon’s organization left us there.

On the second day in Hakerline Promise I walked down to the beach below the hotel and stared across the strait at nearby Temmil. The dark shape of the Gronner stood against the sky, a thin stream of its outflow drifting with the wind away from the island. That small island represented my future – of that I was certain. It was difficult, painful, all but impossible, to contemplate returning to the dour northern landscape of Glaund and trying to write there. Restlessness filled me. Guilt about the night with Cea – other uncertainties too. What would happen when I returned home? Would Alynna want to come with me to Temmil?

I had felt my ideas about music changing as I travelled. My ascetic, theoretical modernism, with its experimental clashes and pauses, a delight to the intellect, was being drastically challenged. I now longed for the surge of romanticism, the delirium of colour and rhythm, the exhilaration of wide-open lyricism. I wanted to write sea shanties and children’s musicals and I wanted to celebrate the love affairs of famous people.

It made me smile to think such things.

I could not help remembering Denn Mytrie, the young Muriseayan composer I had shared a record with, years before. I had privately scorned his romantic composition, then grown to like both him and it. I had seen some of the reviews in Glaund City newspapers of our shared disc: at least two of the critics openly sneered at what they saw as his naïve musical values. (I had never sent him copies of those reviews and I hope he never came across them.) At last I was understanding how his music came into being, the texture of his open society of islanders, the enjoyment of simple things. I now wanted to write music that would make those same musical prigs disdain me too. But first I needed to return home, spend a great deal of time with Alynna, and in due course let the new music of these islands take me wherever it willed.