The Tooth Tattoo (22 page)

Diamond tried to look as if he had.

Cat was into her story anyway. ‘They worked wonders with me and put me in for Young Musician of the Year. Didn’t win, but made the final and got noticed. I must tell you – and you won’t believe this – in those days I was thin enough to slot into a toaster. Long, blonde hair that I wore in a pigtail. Anyway I learned the repertoire and at fourteen had the cheek to play the Dvorák with a youth orchestra and overnight I was touted as the next Jacqueline du Pré. They wanted me to loosen my hair and record the Elgar looking all frail and angelic. That’s what she made her debut with and is mainly remembered for, but of course she could play anything. She was the real deal. Did you see the movie?’

‘Somehow it passed me by,’ Diamond said.

‘Far better to watch some footage of Jackie herself. There’s a lovely video of her with Barbirolli. And to think that they wanted me to ape her just to get famous. Catriona Kinsella, aged fourteen and a half, dug her heels in and said she wanted to be herself. Sucks to the Elgar and sucks to wearing a long white dress. It was a teenage rebellion in a music context. Everyone, my parents, the school, the marketing people, bore down on me and said I was flushing a brilliant career down the toilet. The battle went on for almost a year. I started eating, seriously stuffing myself with chocolate, fried foods, pastry, the lot. In a matter of weeks it started showing and in a year I was the lump of lard I am today.’

‘Your way of taking control of your life?’

She raised her right thumb. ‘Tell that to Weightwatchers. I shaved my head as well in case anyone missed the point. I continued to play, of course. The joy has never gone away. I’ve played as a soloist with some of the great orchestras. Vivaldi wrote twenty-seven concertos and I’ve learned almost all of
them. What I absolutely refused to do was put myself in the clutches of the popular classical music merchants. If you follow music at all you’ll know the process. They take second-rate artists with pretty faces, groom them, call them the voice or the player of the century and turn them into stars, whether they’re singers, violinists, pianists. The quality of the sound is crap, they’re off-key, and the great gullible public doesn’t seem to notice. I could find you literally hundreds of finer voices and better players completely overlooked.’ She stopped and shook her head. ‘I’ve lost my thread, haven’t I? This is one of my pet beefs.’

‘You saw off the vultures.’

A broad smile. ‘That sums it up. I might have made millions, but as a musician I’d have been dead meat. When all is said and done, you keep your musical integrity. These second-rate performers know they cashed theirs in. So I scraped away in an orchestra making real music and no money. Gave lessons, did some work on film scores and TV commercials. That’s allowed in my scheme of things. I wasn’t cheating anyone. This went on for a few years until I met Ivan and he told me he was thinking of forming a string quartet. Ask any string player and they’ll tell you that’s their dream, to play in a high quality quartet.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘Ivan? In the Liverpool Philharmonic. I was temping for a month, but he was the leader. Very solemn, very earnest. I didn’t think we’d get along at all, and I was gobsmacked to be asked, but desperate enough to give it a try. Ivan is all right, a bit pompous, only it’s not self-conceit. That would be death to any ensemble. He respects the music and his tone quality harmonised with mine from the beginning. That’s as vital as technical ability.’

‘I expect if he gets too serious you know how to bring him down to earth?’

‘I do my best. He doesn’t lack emotion. You hear that in his playing. He just finds it difficult to express his feelings in everyday life. We were talking about Japan just now. Ivan
used to visit the geisha houses and I always thought that was a perfect arrangement for him, very proper, with clear rules, just like the chess he plays. He’d be waited on and entertained by these gorgeous young women. No hanky-panky at all. Hints of it all around, but the rituals forbid it. He felt secure. He doesn’t like surprises.’

‘How does he deal with all the success?’

‘Of the quartet? He doesn’t let it go to his head.’

‘The groupies?’

‘You’re on about them again? Listen, Ivan’s not a young man. If he was in danger of making a fool of himself, which isn’t likely, I’d tell him. I keep my boys in order.’

Diamond believed her. He was getting a useful insight into how the group functioned. ‘Getting back to the time when the quartet was formed, how did you find the others?’

‘We needed a second violin and a violist. Ivan knew of a Ukrainian called Yuriy and I remembered Harry from a summer school I did at Dartington. Two totally different personalities. Yuriy was a bear of a man. You’d expect him to have been a percussionist, but he was a red-hot fiddle player. I think there was gipsy blood in him. He’d launch into gipsy music in the middle of a rehearsal discussion just for a laugh, or to take the heat out of an argument, and it always worked. He was great company and a good influence on Ivan, but he did over-indulge with the vodka. I think he got lonely. He had a wife back in the Ukraine and they’d separated on some understanding that they’d stay in touch. Eventually he went back to her. Happy ending for her – I think – and not so happy for us.’

‘And Harry?’

She sighed and shook her head slowly. ‘Poor, benighted Harry. He was my recommendation, so I still feel responsible. A gifted violist, no question. He adored the instrument and talked it up at every opportunity, which made him an easy target for viola jokes, of which there are many. He was with us a long time, but I never felt I got to know him as well as I wished. On tour, he’d clear off and not say a word about
where he was going. We all did our own thing. I hit the shops, Yuriy the bars and Ivan the local chess club.’

‘Or the geisha house.’

‘When possible. You don’t find many of those on the average tour.’

‘So where do you think Harry went?’ he prompted her.

‘None of us knew and he didn’t encourage us to ask. He’d be back for rehearsals and play divinely, so we had no reason to complain until the day he didn’t show up.’

‘Don’t you have any theories?’

‘Got into bad company, I suppose, but whether it was of his making or theirs, I don’t know. We were in Budapest at the time. He must have had his viola with him, because it wasn’t found at the hotel. It was a Maggini worth probably two hundred thousand pounds, and it didn’t belong to him. He had it on extended loan from some rich patron. This happens. We poor beggars can’t afford instruments of that quality and the owners buy them as investments and want them played. Harry vanished and we found some dreadful stand-in from a local orchestra. We sounded like four cats stranded in the Battersea Dogs’ Home. For months after that we were a lost cause. Couldn’t fulfil our bookings. We didn’t know if Harry would suddenly reappear. It would have been easier if he’d just put a gun to his head. At least we could have looked for a replacement.’

‘In the end, that’s what you did.’

She pulled a face. ‘With mixed results. A series of violists who weren’t up to it musically. There’s a treacly, sentimental tone – a lingering in the action of the slide – that is death to any quartet. We heard it from the first guy and told him in the nicest way to look for another job. The next stand-in was a woman whose fingering was sloppy. She couldn’t sustain the vibrato and it ruined our tone quality. I think she didn’t have the expressive feeling within herself. When we asked her to make the sound continuous it was worse, forced and insincere. God knows, we tried and she did, too, but it was obvious it would never work. She knew it. She walked.’

‘Was that when you found Mr. Farran?’

‘Mel? After a much longer gap. We’d just about broken up. Anthony – he’s our second violin and a whole different story – became so impossible that Doug found him a job with the Hallé. The Staccati was a forgotten group. Quartets are breaking up all the time and everyone in the music world assumed we were finished, but dear old Ivan wouldn’t accept it. He’s a brilliant player and he could find work anywhere and yet he loves quartet playing and he wouldn’t accept that we were through. He used all his contacts to look for a truly gifted player and Mel’s name kept coming up. Luckily for us he wasn’t committed to any orchestra so we pounced. Good result, too. He’s fitted in well.’

‘Better than Harry?’

She hesitated. ‘It’s early days. Harry knew the rest of us and our quirky ways so well. He was a lovely guy and I miss him. The day he disappeared I toured the streets of Budapest looking for him. I still would if there was any realistic hope. But Mel is shaping up nicely.’

‘This has been helpful,’ Diamond said. ‘A real insight into the quartet. The one you haven’t said much about is Anthony.’

‘Special case,’ she said.

‘In what way?’

She shook with laughter. ‘You name it. I’ll say this. Anthony is a terrific violinist. Technically he has the edge on Ivan, but I wouldn’t want either of them to know I said that. He could make it as a virtuoso if his head was right.’

Diamond leaned forward and almost fell off the stool. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Not exactly wrong, just out of balance. He sees the world in a different way from the rest of us. Very focused. His power of concentration is amazing. But he has no sense of humour and he makes no allowance for the feelings and opinions of anyone else. Music is all-important to him. His work-rate is phenomenal. He’ll master a new score sooner than any of us. It used to worry me that he had no life outside the quartet. Over the years I’ve come to accept that he found his goal in
music and he wants nothing else. Any change of arrangements can throw him. That’s why Harry going was a major crisis. I seriously feared Anthony would kill himself if we didn’t get playing again. It’s that essential to him.’

‘A personality disorder?’

‘I would say so. Have you heard of Asperger’s?’

‘I don’t know a lot about it.’

‘It’s a form of autism, but the people who get it can still function at a high level.’

‘Is that what he’s got?’

‘It’s in that area. They call it the autism spectrum, apparently.’

‘How did you recruit him?’

‘We needed a second violin to replace Yuriy.’

‘Who returned to his wife in the Ukraine?’

‘Yes. And almost at once Anthony appeared and asked for an audition. News travels fast in our little world and he’d got word that Yuriy had quit. I’m not even sure Yuriy had actually left. It was obvious at once that this earnest young man was twice the player Yuriy had been. He told us frankly that he’d pulled out of three string quartets and a trio in two years because they weren’t up to standard and we looked at each other and wondered if we would make the grade. He was so damn good that we decided to give it a whirl. In the first weeks he was with us it felt as if we were on trial, not Anthony.’

‘Did you go on tour with him?’

She laughed. ‘It was a hoot. In many ways he’s like a baby. The basic things in life pass him by. He forgets to shower, to eat breakfast, to carry money. He can’t be relied on to pack. You tell him and he’ll do it. Next time you have to tell him all over again. Between us, we cope with him and get a few laughs along the way. Anything you say, he takes as gospel truth so we have to be careful not to speak ironically. Once at rehearsal I had a noisy chair – a regular hazard for cellists – and I said in jest that I’d had baked beans for lunch. “No you didn’t,” Anthony says. “You had an egg and mayo
sandwich. I saw you.” Fortunately he’s right up with the music, and that’s what counts.’

‘How is he with the audiences?’ Diamond asked.

‘I don’t think he’s aware of them. He’s immersed in the music.’

‘You meet some of them afterwards, no doubt?’

She pointed at Diamond. ‘Hey, this is the groupie question in another guise. You’re a sly one.’

‘Better answer it, then, in case I turn nasty.’

‘The leeches get nowhere with our Anthony.’

‘They’re going to try. He’s good-looking.’

‘We know that, but he doesn’t. He has no self-image. If they just want an autograph he’ll sometimes oblige even if he can’t fathom why it’s required. If they ask a musical question such as the most common one – “Is your violin a Strad?” – he’ll answer. But if they were to ask what he’s doing after the concert he’ll tell them he’s going back to the hotel for a room-service meal and a sleep, which is true. End of conversation. He’s got a way of dismissing them with a look.’

‘So you don’t think it’s possible he could end up spending the evening with a woman through some misunderstanding of the sort you mentioned?’

‘She’d need to be very devious. And she’d need to understand how his strange logic works.’

‘And if he felt he’d been tricked?’

Cat shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even like to think about it.’

‘Doesn’t he like women?’

‘He isn’t capable of liking anyone, male or female. If you’re asking me about his love life, there isn’t any. He goes to sex workers when he gets randy. Paying for it suits his mentality. No relationship, no affection. And he feels no shame. He’ll tell us straight he was with a whore next time we meet. I expect he’d say exactly what happened if we asked. He can be very candid.’

‘Yet you say he’s a brilliant violinist. Isn’t it all about expressing emotion through the way you play?’

‘Right on. And communicating emotion to your audience. He succeeds and that’s the biggest mystery to me. It’s almost as if he comes alive through the instrument. Pathos, tenderness, humour, even love. Where it comes from I can’t tell you. His soul, I suppose, finding an outlet that doesn’t exist in the locked-up person he is.’

This was getting into areas outside Diamond’s competence. ‘The only person I haven’t asked you about is your manager.’

‘Doug? He’s normal enough and that’s a good thing. He looks after the business side, makes sure we earn enough to survive. All the gigs and recording sessions are down to him. He tells us when and where and we decide what. The musical decisions are ours.’

‘So was it his decision to bring you to Bath?’