The Maestro's Mistress (32 page)

His interest in DVD recording was
the newest development. He planned to begin yet again and put his entire core
repertoire on film. ‘The medium of the future,’ he had told Tara decisively.

Wanting to have entire control of
the operation, artistically and financially, he had formed his own film company
and set about the task without delay. He had started with the cycle of the nine
Beethoven symphonies. ‘Beethoven has been my bread and butter,’ he liked to
joke. ‘But on video disc he will be the jam.’

Now, after three hours of editing
work, Tara stretched her stiff limbs and gave a small groan of fatigue.

‘When is Alessandra coming home?’
Saul asked suddenly, surprising her. She had been convinced that he was totally
immersed in the music.

‘In the next day or two.’

‘You said that the last time I
asked.’

‘You’ve been away yourself since
then.’

‘That is because of my work. She
should be here. This is her home.’

Tara felt a lurch of unease.

‘She must bring the horse back
here,’ he said. ‘I shall be interested to see how she is progressing with it.’

‘In the past it suited us for
Alessandra to stay with Rachel and Donald when we went away together,’ she
said. ‘If she chooses to stay there of her own accord I think we have to
respect her wishes.’

‘She virtually lives there. She
must come home. And the animal also.’

Tara agreed that he had a point.
She wanted her daughter back too. But she knew that this was basically an issue
between Saul and Alessandra. She decided to point this out to him. Rather
sharply. He listened attentively.

‘So! It is all my fault. Very
well, I shall take the responsibility to change things.’

Years ago she would have given
him a playful squeeze and said something jokey, like, ‘Use a little tact,
darling. She’s not an orchestra.’

Watching the film reel
relentlessly on she said, ‘Are you sure people will want to buy films of
nothing but symphonies being played?’

‘I am convinced. They will be a
resounding success. But if not, well, they are there. If in a hundred years
people want to know about Saul  Xavier, the films will tell them.’

Tara stared at him, a cold hand
gripping her innards. He was talking about a memorial. For the first time she
felt the music had somehow slipped down the priority list of his mind. This was
Saul Xavier the great maestro driven by a new motive – the terrible fear of
dissolving into obscurity.

She stepped up to him and put her
arms around him. It was time to go to bed. At least she could give him some
moments of comfort there. He dropped a kiss on her hair. ‘Will you stay with me
and look at a new set of reels?’

She breathed in deeply and began
loading again.

Her weariness was swept away by
the unfamiliar and arresting images which swam onto the screen. This was the
first of Xavier’s new projects on the filming of opera. The one on the screen
was Mozart’s
The Magic Flute.
Tara had not seen this production which
had been filmed in Munich only days before.

She watched in fascinated anticipation.
At first. Then with a creeping sense of cold dismay she saw that the film was
seriously flawed – over literal and lack-lustre. The pace was slow. The images
of the singers were ugly and disturbing. There were too many close-ups of
contorted mouths singing and veins on necks swollen and grotesque. Operatic
singing had always struck Tara as a hugely physical activity. Singers needed to
be seen from the distance of the auditorium, not at point blank range.

The outdoor scenes were no
better, containing too many lingering views of inky skies populated only by a
grossly artificial moon. As for the dramatic scenes with dragons and monsters
they were ludicrous to the point of ridicule.

She glanced at Saul but he seemed
perfectly satisfied. Maybe he even enjoyed seeing the singers portrayed as
ridiculous. A chill ran through her. Was he losing his touch? That couldn’t be.
He was still comparatively young. In his full mature prime in fact. She had
seen him irate, arrogant, tetchy, despotic. But never weak or inept. That was
unthinkable.

‘Darling I’m absolutely whacked.
I’ve just got to get some sleep,’ she told him.

He turned abstractedly, gave a
distracted wave. ‘You go up. I won’t be long.’

She almost ran from the room. At
the top of the basement steps she paused, leaning against the door and
breathing heavily whilst her heart thumped in her chest. She recalled his
telling her he wanted to do a whole series:
Carmen, Rosenkavalier
, all
four operas in Wagner’s cycle The Ring of
Nibelung.

Dear God!

Two weeks later Xavier was
directing a special rehearsal of Wagner’s
The Flying Dutchman
prior to
the filming of the live performance that evening.

The idea of putting all the great
opera masterpieces on film had taken a grip on him with a vengeance,  bringing out
a ferocity of purpose even she had not seen him display before.

Anxious about his well being she
had attempted to accompany him on all his work assignments where possible,
acting as his personal assistant, confidante and unequivocal ally. They were
constantly together, the inseparable couple. They made a handsome pair and the
newspapers frequently carried photographs of them; the saturnine Xavier and his
faithful consort Tara Silk, her dark eyes gazing up at him, her long hair
swinging back from her face in a thick luxurious sweep.

Sitting in the front stalls half
listening to Saul unleashing his most bitter sarcasm on the hapless wind
section of the orchestra, Tara was distracted by thoughts of their daughter,
wondering what she was doing at this moment. Alessandra had evaded the issue
about bringing Tosca home with the usual protests about events at the
prestigious riding centre just down the road from her grandmother’s cottage.

‘Darling, have you given up on
us?’ Tara had asked playfully when she last telephoned.

‘Of course I haven’t. The current
series of shows will be over after this weekend. And anyway Tosca needs a rest.
Daddy can come and get us.’

‘Yes. Right. Or I’ll come if he’s
busy.’

‘He
never
comes!’

Tara laughed. ‘Well…’

‘Why can’t he have days off like
other people? Or maybe turn his brain down a few notches so he’s on the
wavelength of lowly earth creatures like me.’

‘Alessandra!’

‘He’s like someone possessed.
Sometimes I think the music will kill him.’

‘Alessandra, stop it!’

‘Oh – bloody hell!’

‘Bloody hell back!’

The phone had crashed down.

Tara knew she was digging herself
into a dangerous hole, lavishing time and care on the father at the expense of
the daughter. And deep in her heart she knew the reason; it was necessary to be
more and more with Saul in order that the gap of outlook and philosophy yawning
between them did not widen into an unbridgeable gulf.

She pulled her attention back to
the rehearsal. The atmosphere was becoming ever more tense. Saul  seemed unable
to stand back and allow the players and singers the free rein they deserved. After
all they had been performing the opera regularly twice weekly for some time
now. All that was going to happen tonight was that the cameras would run. It
was a technical exercise surely, not an interpretative one.

She pressed her fingers on the
bridge of her nose as Xavier took issue with the young soprano singing Senta,
the girl who falls for the Dutchman. It was some minor artistic point. The
singer, unnerved and edgy flashed retorts back at him. Anger crackled from the
stage.

Saul laid down his baton and
vaulted up onto the boards. The cast watched him with wary and hostile eyes:
the great Xavier, ambassador of music, a priest of his profession – a dictator
with an ego the size of Tower Bridge and a heart of stone.

Sweat prickled in Tara’s palms.
She watched Saul cradle the girl’s neck in his fingers, cringed as he gave her
a playful yet vicious pinch. Catching her breath she waited for the inevitable
exit of the victim in tears.

And then, astonishingly, Saul had
leapt down from the stage, picked up his jacket and with an unmistakable
gesture of farewell was striding away down the auditorium and through the rear
exit doors.

A hush fell on the auditorium.
Everyone froze.

The leader of the orchestra looked
at Tara with mingled exasperation and mute appeal.

She took a long intake of breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said automatically.

The cast began to shift about, a
murmuring started. The leader spoke to her softly from the orchestra pit. ‘You
take over, Tara. We can’t afford to upset everybody even more.’

The cast partially heard and
instantly grasped the sense in the suggestion.

Anton Moll, playing the Dutchman
stepped forward and called out to her. ‘We need to get this thing turned
round,’ he said. ‘Get some good feelings going around here. Time is marching on.
And time is money in this day and age. Help us in our hour of need Tara!’

It was impossible to reject such
a plea. Tara stood up. ‘Fair enough.’

She knew the opera’s score inside
out. She knew the stage play back to front. She adored the music. She had
conducted countless music school and youth orchestras. So be it, she thought
grimly, taking her place in the pit and picking up Saul’s baton.

Half an hour before the
performance was due to start, the cameras were loaded up, the orchestra
present, the audience arriving. Maestro Xavier was nowhere to be found.

Tara, deadly calm with shock and
concern as to his safety and whereabouts, was still making phone calls. She had
thought it possible that he would have gone to make his peace with Alessandra
but Rachel had seen no sign of him.

‘Alessandra’s upstairs doing her
homework for once. So if he does turn up she’ll be here safe and sound.’

‘Don’t let her know there’s a
problem. There’s no need to worry unnecessarily.’

‘Right, and don’t you worry
either, my darling. Conductors are an indestructible breed.’

Feeling sick with anxiety now
Tara put in a further call to Roland Grant. It was the fourth of fifth time she
had done so in the last few hours.

‘Any news?’ she asked
desperately.

‘Nothing.’

‘I can’t believe it, he never
misses an engagement.’

‘He’s been driving in the fast
lane for an awful long time. Maybe he just needs a break. He’ll be fine Tara.
You know Xavier.’

A long shuddering sigh. ‘Yes.’

‘And you can handle the
performance tonight with no problem at all.

‘You haven’t found anyone else?’

‘No. And I have to confess I
didn’t try too hard. This is quite definitely your baby. Not only can you do it
– you’ve earned it.’

‘I just hope that is what
he
will think when he finds out.’

The audience was seated and the
members of the orchestra now taking their places. The camera crew were
stationed, their director outwardly calm and relaxed in jeans and T-shirt.

Tara sat in her dressing room
taking a last-minute look at the score.

It was five minutes to curtain
up. She could hear a distant melody of trills and scales, the magical sound of
the orchestra warming up: mournful sighs from the oboes, flitting cadenzas from
the violins, deep-throated growls from the double basses. A classic jumble of
musical anticipation. Her spine tingled.

She had especially requested that
there would be no last minute announcement of her standing in for Xavier, but
rather that written notification should be placed in prominent positions in the
foyer so that those who wished could choose whether to go or stay and no one
would feel cheated.

Two minutes to go. Anticipation
mounted in the front of the house. Behind the curtain tension fizzed.

Tara recalled the night at the
Golden Hall in Vienna. It seemed like another life. Tonight there was no
anxiety about demonstrating brilliance. Simply a job to be done – and done
well. And then, please God, a reunion with Saul.

Wearing the simple black dress
that had been hurriedly found for her in the costume section, she threaded her
way through the crowded pit to the shallow podium.

The members of the audience were
hushed. They had not instantly registered her presence. She was slight, modest,
smiling. Not yet a heroic figure.

The orchestra welcomed her warmly
with a ripple of applause and a gentle stamping of feet. The audience pricked
up its ears, craned forward and then broke out into a delighted storm of
applause.

Tara turned briefly to
acknowledge them. She was more interested in checking that the camera crew were
ready, that the orchestra was unified and steady.