The Secret Knowledge (18 page)

“Sure, but I don’t want to miss lectures.”

“Revolution has its limits, right?”

He laughs, she joins in.

“Better go.”

“Bye, Paige.”

The conversation has lifted her mood, she walks home thinking about her meeting, it’ll probably go nowhere but you never know. It isn’t down to Conroy or Mrs White or her mum and dad: it’s about people like Julian Verrine. Again she plays the fantasy of Sean opening the newspaper, a photograph of her at the keyboard.

Next day she arrives promptly at the restaurant, a place she’s never been in, popular with media types by the look of it, stylishly minimalist like a picture in a magazine. The waiter sees her lingering at the entrance and comes to attend; she gives Verrine’s name and is taken to a table already occupied by a slim man in his thirties wearing a light grey suit. He stands and greets her warmly.

“Paige, great to meet you, so glad you could come.”

He has a firm handshake, deep suntan, finely trimmed beard and an expensive looking watch. Later, when Paige tries to describe him, she’ll find that this is all she can say about Julian Verrine.

“How’s the piano playing?” he asks brashly, she tells him she’s studying Chopin and he nods approvingly. “Can’t do better than that. David’s never been too much of a fan, though.” Immediately they have alighted on the subject of their common acquaintance. “Heard anything?”

“My new teacher worries he might have harmed himself.”

“Let’s hope not,” Verrine says earnestly. “It would be so out of character.”

The waiter brings water and offers them a selection of bread rolls, a piece of theatre that puts her in mind of Mrs White’s comments about show business. It occurs to Paige that as a pianist she’s training to be a kind of retail assistant, serving up musical morsels with a flourish. Verrine orders a glass of red wine, Paige sticks to water. She asks him how exactly he knows Conroy.

“We go back a long way.”

“You’re his agent?”

“I’ve helped set up quite a few of his performances. Not an impresario as such, but I have contacts. That’s what it’s all about, you know. Contacts.” His moisturised skin creases easily into a smile as he raises his glass to toast their new partnership. “Now, tell me about Klauer.”

The sudden change of topic takes her aback. “What about him?”

“You still have the piece?”

“I gave my copy back to Mr Conroy. He told you about it?”

Verrine cuts into his roll, disembowels it and pushes some of the white fluff into his mouth, scrutinising Paige who for a moment sees his eyes flick to her breasts before he takes a sip from his glass to wash down the bread. “Did you play all of it?”

“Only the slow movement.”

“Odd case from what I hear. Shot himself and survived, something like that.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

The waiter comes again, the next stage of the performance, inviting them to order. They haven’t looked at their menus; Verrine glances at his and opts for steak, Paige finds her attention falling more on the prices than the elaborate descriptions, hopes she hasn’t misinterpreted the arrangement, and orders a risotto involving morel mushrooms and pine kernels. She has no idea where such things come from or how they’re harvested, they seem to exist only for places like this.

“Chopin, eh?” Verrine resumes. “Poor fellow’s buried all over the place, heart’s in Warsaw and the rest of him’s in Paris, though it’s what he wanted, apparently. Know about his eyes?”

“Where are they buried?”

“Paris, I presume. But no one knows what colour they were. Liszt wrote that they were blue, others swore they were brown, some say hazel. Rotted away to dust now, so we’ll never find out.” It’s a sad and distasteful image but Verrine doesn’t notice Paige’s reaction or else doesn’t care, instead he pursues the thought. “So many things we can never know, because they make no difference. The colour of a man’s eyes, even if he’s alive or dead.”

“You mean Mr Conroy?”

“I meant Klauer. Dead now anyway, regardless of how things went. History doesn’t care either way.”

“Not necessarily.”

Verrine looks pleased to have elicited some resistance. “Are you going to tell me about the butterfly effect? Tiny details changing the course of history? I don’t believe that nonsense.”

“You’re a fatalist?”

“No, I believe we can all make a difference. I just don’t waste my time on details.”

“I’m guessing you don’t play an instrument.”

He laughs. “
Touché
. You’re right, I could never have been a performer. But I’ve helped launch a few careers.”

The waiter has reappeared, this time to replace redundant cutlery that had already been on the table when they arrived, with implements deemed appropriate to their order. Details, Paige thinks. Maybe Verrine’s right, we waste too much time on ones that make no difference.

“I want to know more about the Klauer piece,” Verrine says.

“You already know more than I do.”

“But you’ve played some of it, you know how it sounds. What did David say about it?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“I want to hear it from you.” Verrine’s look is momentarily steely, Paige can imagine him as boss of some big company, calmly firing an employee after years of faithful service, and again his eyes move to her breasts though this time they stay there a little longer. She doesn’t dislike his attention, instead she feels herself drawing power from it, and almost without thinking, she flexes her back, a movement that swats his gaze like a fly.

“The Klauer’s an interesting work,” she says confidently.

“Romantic or modernist?”

“Hard to say.”

“If it was a film soundtrack, what sort of film would it be?”

This is hard too; Paige thinks of the slow movement and tries to imagine the actors it would accompany, but all she can see is an empty landscape, remote forest or wetland, somewhere beautiful yet bleak. “Arty,” she says.

“I was afraid you might say that. No chance of making that your concert debut, then.”

“I already told you, I don’t have the score.”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” Verrine reminds himself. “But would you be able to play any of it from memory if you had to?”

“Why might I have to?”

“I was simply wondering.”

Their meal arrives; the risotto is a little tit-shaped mound that looks like a starter. Fortunately Paige isn’t hungry, Verrine’s manner has somehow taken away her appetite. He slashes his bloody steak with enthusiasm. She says, “You mentioned on the phone about possibilities. Performances.”

“That’s right.” He chews a piece of meat and looks as if he’s thinking of her body.

“So how would that work?”

“One step at a time, Paige. First I’d like to find David so the three of us can discuss this together.”

“Mrs White can give you an opinion.”

“I’m not looking for a reference,” he says with a voice that’s suddenly cutting, effortlessly dismissive. “I want to know why you’re pretending you haven’t heard from him.”

She feels the blood fall from her face. “What?”

His manner abruptly changes. “Only joking, Paige.”

“Why would you think he’d contact me?”

“Because you’re special.”

Conroy’s delusion: definite star quality. Paige says nothing.

“We’ve got to find him.”

So none of this is about her after all; Verrine wants to get in touch with his act. “What if he’s killed himself?” she says bluntly.

“He hasn’t. I know David, the pattern’s familiar. He’s prone to paranoia, sometimes feels he needs to run away and hide. Conspiracies, threats, he suddenly sees them popping up everywhere and can’t cope. Usually resurfaces after a few weeks but I can’t wait that long.”

“Look, Mr Verrine, I never had much to do with Mr Conroy, his mental health isn’t my business. I’ll be honest, I thought we were going to talk about my career, not his.”

Verrine is barely listening, he summons the waiter with a wave of his hand and orders another glass of wine to replace the one he’s drained. Then he says, “It’s you I want to talk about, Paige. But you’re wrong about David, closer to him than you realise. You’re his new discovery, his little star, he shows you something incredibly precious, shares it with you, this lost work he wants you to learn, a secret he keeps even from his wife.”

“I thought he didn’t have one.”

Verrine’s smile is undented. “Joking again. So let’s talk business. You’re young, pretty and talented. That’s a combination I like. But a career doesn’t simply happen, it has to be made. First thing we want is an endorsement, David’s won’t do because to be perfectly frank his opinion no longer carries the weight it used to. I’m thinking maybe Paul Morrow.”

“Send him a recording?”

“We set up a meeting and you play for him.”

She can’t believe this is real. “He’d honestly do that? Hear me play?”

“It’s exactly how he started, Pogorelich heard him at Steinway Hall.”

Paige can imagine it already, the instrument in front of her and Morrow just out of sight, can feel the pressure as she reaches for the keys. Her whole life resting on a single make-or-break performance, the verdict of one person.

“Well, Paige? Think you’d be up to it?”

“Mrs White would never let me.”

Verrine laughs. “Your teacher? What’s she got to do with it? It’s David who’ll be coaching you through this one, assuming we can find him. Though we won’t tell him the plan, of course. You’ll play for Morrow and if it’s a thumbs up I can guarantee we’ll be negotiating a recording contract within days. Better do something with your hair, though, and think about your wardrobe, I’m obviously no expert on that side of it but you’ve got a good figure, Paige, you should show it off. Bit of cleavage.”

It’s dizzying, this sudden vision of herself being wanted and admired. “Can I say anything about it to my parents?”

He shakes his head solemnly. “This is business, Paige, the big bad real world. Not a word to anyone, otherwise we risk blowing everything. What will you play for Morrow?”

“I suppose it would have to be Chopin.”

“No way,” Verrine says at once. “Forgive me, Paige, but to impress Paul Morrow with Chopin you’d need to be world class, and no matter how much David rates you, you’re not in that league. We’ve got to be realistic, it’s promise we’re selling, not achievement. It’s got to be a piece Morrow doesn’t already know, in fact I’m thinking it should be a piece that nobody knows.”

“Klauer?”

“Right on the money. So we drag David out of wherever he’s sulking, make sure he hasn’t turned the Klauer score into paper aeroplanes or roll-ups, get him to take you through it. You learn the whole thing, start to finish. When Morrow hears it, who knows, maybe a new star is born. Here’s to a beautiful collaboration, Paige.” He reaches across to shake her hand, the same firmness she registered at the start, only now the grip lasts longer, his palm is cool, she thinks hers must feel soft and wet. Then he gives her his card, elegantly printed and embossed, bearing what she assumes must be the name of the agency he works for.

“So there’s only one small problem,” Verrine adds as she puts the card away in her purse. “We need David. If he calls, as I’m sure he will, you know what to do. Arrange to meet him and tell me about it at once.”

Paige leaves the restaurant feeling elated at the prospect of playing for Morrow, yet despondent that it all still hinges on Conroy. Verrine calls a couple of times over the following days but on each occasion Paige’s report remains negative. She visits Morrow’s website, gets to know the rugged face she may never meet, Googles Chopin and checks what Verrine said about his heart, his eyes, it all matches, meaning it’s true, or that Verrine got his factoids from Wikipedia. The company name on his card turns out to be some kind of media conglomerate, the fancy site goes on about passion and mission without ever really specifying exactly what they do.

When Verrine next calls he tells her the meeting with Morrow is scheduled, still weeks away. He’s a busy man, Paige sees the filled diary in her head, imagines the powerful feeling of being acclaimed but feels the balancing weight of failure and rejection: Morrow is as hypothetical and unreal as his website. Again she tells Verrine she hasn’t heard from Conroy, and now his irritation shows. “We’ve got to find the fucker.”

“If I can’t get the score we’ll need an alternative.”

“There is no alternative,” Verrine says witheringly. “Get it or the meeting’s off.”

“But…”

“We only get one shot, Paige, and it has to be done right. Klauer or nothing.”

She can’t understand why he’s so adamant, there are plenty more unknown compositions in the world. Mrs White seems pleased with Paige’s progress, but while playing the Scherzo in C sharp minor for her later that week, the picture in Paige’s mind is of decomposing eyes, a rotting heart. During the customary break for tea and biscuits Paige asks with fake casualness about the issue that matters so much to her: has there been any news?

Mrs White nods. “He sent a resignation letter.”

“Then he’s all right.”

“From what I hear, it wasn’t the standard kind of resignation. Said he needed to stay hidden until he could defeat forces trying to destroy him. I’m not sure if he’s getting any kind of psychiatric treatment but he clearly needs it.”

“Does anyone know where he is?”

“I don’t think so. But he got in touch and that might mean he’s ready to look for help.”

A whole week goes by with no word from Verrine, then she gets a call.

“Paige?”

“Mr Verrine, I…”

“This is David Conroy.”

It’s what she’s been waiting for, though now that it’s happening she feels no relief. She’s been convincing herself that the audition with Morrow would be a waste of time, Conroy’s sick and best avoided.

“Are you alone, Paige? Can anyone hear us?”

“I’m on the bus.”

“Get off now, I’ll call again in five minutes.”

She’s on her way to a doctor’s appointment but does as he says, getting up in the swaying vehicle and alighting at the next stop, in a residential area she doesn’t know. She waits on a quiet corner, long enough to consider how she’ll handle it. When he rings back she asks at once, “Where are you?”