The Virtuoso (17 page)

Oh, I adored those lessons and I adored that woman. I’d leave her house each week drunk with music, humming the suites of Bach all the way home. I was devastated when she left London at the beginning of the war and I was shunted off to Neville Majors like some greyhound switching kennels.

I still loved the music, of course. And I guess I must have been good at it. Just not good enough. Not great. I didn’t have the fury. The madness. I suppose I ought to be glad.

Martha was at the door just now, banging away to be heard over the C minor. Next thing, her little bonneted head was poking around the door and she was bellowing out that Mr Maddever was on the telephone (checking on me, no doubt). Told her to tell him I was fine but slightly busy—she’s quite used to my lies, dear woman—and I’d see him before the concert at the Pontefract at six. Dear me, that’s only two hours away. So I asked her to bring me a strong coffee and a bite to eat.

No, I didn’t lie—I
am
busy. I’m listening to my records.

So anyway—my career as a musician. All gone. One must get used to that in life, I suppose: watching one’s childhood dreams drifting like debris out to sea.
In the summer of 1950 I went to see Noël perform Khachaturian’s Piano Concerto at the Proms. Each time I saw him perform, I sensed something—a
hunger—
growing within him that extended to his playing, to his approach to the music and in his choice to perform such demanding, even punishing, works. He’d once joked to me that it was only by pure luck that he’d been born with fingernails that weren’t too embedded in the pulp of his fingertip, so that he could bang away on the piano without drawing too much blood. I considered his increased daring as being part of a growing musical maturity, carrying him even further away from the swarm of pianists that had flooded post-war London with their tiny repertoires performed with such chilling expertise.

Sitting back and watching him from the floor of the Albert Hall, gazing at his solitary figure at the foot of the massive black Steinway, I saw a lone explorer venturing out into a blizzard, propelled onwards by Lord only knows what. The Khachaturian groaned and sighed with muted snaking sounds, chords pounded over dizzying cadenzas; we might have been seated within a rumbling volcano. I often wondered what Noël was experiencing when he played such works—music that seemed to take him to the very edge.

The lights rose gingerly and the audience started to shift from their trance. I was not ready for speech or any human contact at all, so when I stood, turned to
my left and found myself face to face with the gentleman next to me, I immediately looked away.

‘I’m sure we’ve met before…’

I turned back towards this clipped, velvety voice. He stood tall in a Burberry coat and spoke with a refreshing smile. I thought of a Scots pine, with its heaving stillness and balsamic breeze. Behind him was an elderly woman I assumed to be his mother, who barely came up to his shoulders and who was done up as if for a coronation.

‘You’re a friend of Tippett’s, aren’t you? I’ve met you at Morley College. Gerald Maddever.’ We shook hands and the woman’s tiara-crowned head peered over the miniature lace-covered hand she had perched upon his shoulder.

I was sure we’d never met, but introduced myself and explained that I didn’t know Tippett personally but often attended the Morley College concerts, so perhaps we’d bumped into each other there. He was a good ten or so years my senior—his hair, a fertile crop, was already peppered with grey—and underneath his coat I noticed an immaculately knotted lilac silk tie and a string of carved beads that hung halfway down to his waist.

‘Trappist monks,’ he said casually. ‘Mother picked them up in the Philippines when she was visiting her healers.’ He glanced down and started to twirl the beads with his long manicured fingers. ‘Arthritis,’ he added, and turned to her and smiled.

‘I’m also a friend of Noël’s…’

He looked at me enquiringly, his eyes shining every colour from brown to smoky blue, like a wintry forest landscape.

‘mewton-Wood.’

‘Oh, of course. Yes,’ he said with a huge purring grin that made me blush. ‘Lovely boy. Didn’t he play magnificently tonight? A most exciting musician, isn’t he? There really is
no one
else like him.’

I was beginning to find Gerald rather attractive; I edged a little closer.

‘I’ve always been very fond of Denis Matthews—I mean aren’t we all?—but then whenever I come and see Noël perform, Denis’s playing just starts to seem so awfully timid. Don’t misunderstand me, he plays Mozart superbly, but you could never ask Denis to play the Khachaturian or the Busoni or the Hindemith. I mean, it would just be plain rude, wouldn’t it?’

‘Absolutely.’

Gerald raised his eyebrows, nodded and continued. ‘But then, there’s Noël’s problem: he’s far too masterful a musician. Nobody wants to be bothered with all that—they just want their pianists to keep pumping out the Beethoven Third and the Tchaikovsky First. They’re what get bums on seats! The
Ludus Tonalis
, the
Fantasia Contrappuntistica—
most people simply can’t understand those works!’

‘Yes, but even the Tchaikovsky First was booed off stage at its premiere.’

‘Yes, we critics are a ghastly bunch,’ he said and laughed. ‘I say, how about we continue this over a
drink? I was just about to pop Mother in a cab; she wasn’t feeling at all well today—this humidity—and I said to her, Mother, what you need is a night at the Proms. And wasn’t I right, Mumsy?’

She beamed at her son, threaded her arm through his and squeezed it.

‘Righto,’ he grinned at me. ‘Let’s find Mother a cab and be on our way.’

We went to Le Ducé—or
le doose
, as Gerald called it—on D’Arblay Street. The sign at the door had a picture of a French-looking eighteenth-century prancing dandy; inside, the wood-panelled walls were thick with framed photographs of helicopters, soldiers and bombers, as well as mounted medallions and other war paraphernalia. The crowd was solely men, mostly in suits, some with their hair oiled back, some wearing hats and gloves, and others sporting carnations in their lapels. They were mainly in pairs, or in small groups gathered around lamp-lit tables; a few leaned against the bar, cigarettes dangling from their fingers.

We ordered gins-and-tonic, found a table near the entrance, then Gerald lit me a cigarette.

‘I like it here,’ he said, surveying the room while rubbing the silver lighter against his breast and returning it to his pocket.

I looked around with that feeling of surprise I always get when stumbling upon any unfamiliar environment, that abrupt awakening to the fact that so much of life passes me by unnoticed—I only have
to wander down the wrong laneway to find an entirely new world stretched out in front of me, a world I would have never known to exist. ‘Yes, I’ve never been here before. It’s awfully friendly.’

Gerald started laughing. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. You know, it’s
sturmfrei,’
he said in a perfect German accent. ‘The safest place around. You’ll see Ducky bring around the hat later.’ Then he leaned in close. ‘For the Police
Benevolent
Fund.’

I looked away, about the room, catching the gaze of a gentleman who smiled in my direction, as if in confirmation.

‘Noël comes here,’ Gerald continued. ‘When he’s not in Germany, if you know what I mean.’

I smiled, not sure at all what he meant.

‘I’m sure the British Council over there would have him performing at the
Musikhalle
every evening if they could,’ Gerald said.

‘Yes, I’ve heard the German audiences adore him.’

‘Oh no, not that,’ Gerald laughed. ‘I’m talking about the Director of the British Council over there, Bill something-or-other—forgotten his name. Don’t think he’s very
fond
of what Noël gets up to back here.’ Gerald took a sip, and then before he’d even brought down his glass he raised his eyebrows and nodded towards the entrance behind me. ‘Well, I say—speak of the devil. Let’s say hello, shall we?’

Noël had just walked in from the street and stood a few yards away, his skin glistening from the mid-summer humidity.

It had been over three years since we’d last spoken; in that time, he’d toured Europe and Turkey, recorded the mammoth Busoni Concerto with Beecham, as well as several other Schumanns. Even though I’d been reasonably successful at banishing any romantic thoughts from my mind, each time I read articles and notices, or saw him on stage, I’d experience a sudden tremor of weariness, like a marooned voyager looking up at the sun as it travels across the sky. As if time had become a measure of physical distance, and it was actually me, though stationary, who was drifting further away.

But seeing him there so near me, it was suddenly as though only days, and not years, had really passed.

A small chap in a teal smoking jacket jumped up from a table to greet him. ‘Have you met my affair?’ I heard him ask Noël. He had impish eyes, an aquiline nose and black strands of hair swept across his shiny dome.

‘No, Kip, not
this
week’s,’ Noël replied.

‘Oh, get you! You’re just jealous I’m not available.
Vada—
the goldilocks,’ and he turned and nodded towards a young man with blond curly hair. ‘Isn’t he divine? His father’s a
lord,’
and he broke off into giggles.

We joined Kip, a West End actor, and Noël. I turned to Noël and congratulated him on his performance.

‘Good Lord,’ he responded, laughing, shaking my hand and patting me on the arm. ‘Fancy seeing you here!’

Gerald was soon engrossed in conversation with Kip, bending over to chat with this fellow who barely made it up to his shoulders, while I asked Noël about
his recent tours. ‘Oh, the Poles are wonderful,’ he told me. ‘They think every Englishman wears a coronet and drives a Daimler,’ and, ‘Well, I won’t forget the Ankara concert in a hurry. An enormous black cat walked on stage and curled at my feet at the beginning of the cadenza in the Bliss Piano Concerto. I had no idea it was there but the orchestra were so distracted they completely foozled their entry.’

He hadn’t changed at all, I thought—as beautiful as ever.

‘And what have you been up to?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ I said before launching into some tale about graduating from the Academy. We chatted away for ten minutes or so, about all manner of things—the cricket, touring musicians, Noël’s weekly tennis game. He was chuckling away, making jokes about everything—‘Hey, what’s the different between a bull and an orchestra? The bull has its horns at the front and its arsehole at the back!’—and seemed, I foolishly thought, so genuinely pleased to see me that at the first opportunity I asked, ‘I’ve got tickets for next Friday’s performance of the
Snow Maiden.
Why don’t you come along?’

‘That sounds smashing, I’d love to—’

I downed my gin and looked about for somewhere to place the empty glass, which was trembling, noticeably, in my hand.

‘—only I’m heading back to Germany again. Then around Europe for a bit. And I’m afraid I’ll only be back for a week before setting off for Johannesburg.’
He laughed—more of a snort, actually—as if the entire touring business was a tiresome joke.

I barely registered what Noël said next; all I could hear was the echo of my own small and pleading voice. I imagined him meeting kings and queens, performing for film stars and millionaires, and I now began to wonder if he was only speaking with me to be polite.

‘You’re rather fond of Germany, it seems.’ I dragged on my cigarette as if it held the only air in the room.

‘Well, yes. Charming chap who works for the British Council over there organises everything superbly. Treats me like royalty, takes care of absolutely everything. One time I was there, the dear man even saved my life.’ He let out a spontaneous laugh.

I decided to leave, hoping he’d forget this entire conversation. I wished him all the best on his tour, tapping my cigarette in the air and watching the small grey flakes feather their way down to the carpet. Next to me, Gerald was chatting with a dark-haired man holding a bowler hat upside-down at his chest—Ducky, I presumed. I nodded goodbye to them both, but the entire time I could feel Noël looking at me and hear his jolly voice—‘Wonderful to catch up. Sorry to hear that arm of yours is still playing up’—splintering through the smoky sounds of the bar and my mumbled goodbyes.

Gerald was laughing with Ducky when he noticed me leaving and signalled for me to wait. I pretended I didn’t see him, pulled out two pennies and dropped them into Ducky’s bowler hat as I pushed past the
other guests and walked towards the door. From the corner of my eye I saw Ducky smile, his chin growing enormous and his eyes wrinkling up like raisins, weaving a ‘Thank you, sir’ seamlessly into his monologue, to the tinkling sound of the coins landing in the bottom of his hat.

I opened the door, stepped over the kerb and straight out onto the street, wishing that someone might come along and mow me down. But I was just tooted and yelled at to get off the road. So I headed down D’Arblay Street into the first pub I came across, and stood at the bar, waiting for someone to buy me a drink. It wasn’t long before a retired Oxford professor started plying me with champagne, then kindly invited me to accompany him home.

As I sat in the front passenger seat of his car, inhaling the resiny waft of leather, we drove in silence through the streets of Mayfair, and all I could think about was this tall, faceless man in a khaki British Council uniform, standing on the platform at Hamburg’s Hauptbahnhof Station, waiting for the London train to pull in.

William Lang Fedrick was his name.

I found the fact that he chose to call himself Bill and not William rather amusing. Bill certainly wasn’t a very
noble
name, not the name of a concert pianist. But then, Bill was
not
a concert pianist; he was a bureaucrat, of sorts. The Director of the Cultural Relations branch for the British Council in Germany.

Gerald sat back with his cigar, arms splayed to the side, his long legs stretched out and elegantly crossed at the ankles. He reclined his head as if he were gazing up at the stars and not at the ceiling rose in his library. He seemed more interested in the rings of smoke that floated up from his mouth than the information he was relaying to me about Bill.