The Virtuoso (21 page)

I remember the day the notice came out in the paper for his recording of the Bliss concerto, telling of
most ingenious and brilliant passage-work and cadenzas,
a
thrilling account of a defiantly romantic concerto.
I carried the paper around with me all day, then in the late afternoon, stepped onto the train at Liverpool to see Noël sitting in the corner, his head buried in volume four of
The History of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
I rushed up to him and said hello and was about to congratulate him on the notice when he jumped to his feet and started reciting, by heart, long extracts from Gibbon’s tome.

I took a seat and patiently listened as Noël ranted and rambled, not quite sure how else to respond. When Noël finally broke off his monologue he sat down next to me, leaned in close, raised his eyebrows, looked around the carriage and whispered, ‘Tell me—I haven’t got my glasses with me—are there
any good-looking boys about?’ Then realising we were at his stop, he jumped up and waved as he leapt out the door.

In the summer of ‘53, Noël performed at the Festival Hall twice, as well as the Proms, the Aldeburgh Festival, the Edinburgh Festival and the St Ives Festival, where he premiered a sonata Bliss had dedicated to him. Hindemith publicly announced, ‘If you want to hear my music the way it is meant to sound, listen to Mewton-Wood perform it’; the conductor Malcolm Sargent proclaimed Noël ‘a genius’. Noël appeared unstoppable.

The only times he ever upset his increasingly large following were during the occasional performances when something would rattle him and he would
go through his tone.
Once, during a performance of Saint-Saëns’
Le Carnaval des Animaux
, the orchestra hashed their entry at the end of one of his solos. Noël’s jaw and temples rippled, his hands came crashing down on the chords, and I felt the entire audience bristle, fearing for the piano’s safety.

Then, in the green room after the performance, Noël flirted outrageously with a young clarinettist from the orchestra. I was annoyed that he had lost his temper on stage, and now, rather than talking with critics and conductors, he seemed more interested in hunting down a bit of trade. When I approached him to say hello, without intending to snap I said, ‘I’ve told you before not to sit down before walking on stage—
your trousers were all creased!’ He jerked his head back—I wasn’t sure if he was shocked or bemused—so I added, ‘You know your crotch is the first thing people look at when you walk out!’ and winked, which sent him into fits of laughter.

I kept an eye on him from the other side of the room as I chatted with John Amis, who mentioned in passing that Noël was terribly depressed about how few times he’d been asked to perform at the Festival Hall. He said that up until that summer, in the two years since the Festival of Britain, Denis Matthews had played seven times and Noël had only been asked to play once.

I was surprised by John’s words, and said, ‘But everyone adores Noël.’

As I was speaking, though, a strange sensation came over me, a feeling of both panic and sadness, as if I were suddenly aware that everything was rapidly coming to an end. It all seemed so clear to me that these were the last few quivering moments before a momentous breakthrough, before real international success. It was now only a matter of time until a major recording contract was signed and Noël and that blasted man Bill left for America, possibly not to return for several years.

I looked around the room at the large crowd that had gathered here after his performance—London’s most notable musicians, politicians and aristocracy—and then glanced at Noël over near the wall, talking to the young clarinettist over the rim of his champagne
glass, and was seized by the terrible feeling that all of this would soon be gone.

At the beginning of autumn when the leaves on the plane trees first started blanching and withering on their limbs, Noël and Bill bought and moved into their own home, a Georgian terrace in Hillgate Place, Notting Hill. I didn’t see much of either of them around this time. Bill was now Exhibitions Officer for the British Council and was frequently away setting up shows and liaising with other cultural officers (Noël spoke of the exhibitions Bill curated as if they were symphonies Bill had composed), and Noël was recording a long list of concertos for the small Concert Hall label with the conductor Walter Goehr. I, on the other hand, was out drinking every night, only just managing to hold down my job at the library, having recently received my final warning after blowing up at a student for returning a record to the wrong shelf.

Noël was telling everyone that Bill was the best thing that had happened to him, that he couldn’t stand it when Bill went away. Yet it was in those days and weeks when Bill was out of London that I’d see more of Noël. He’d be at the Rockingham, the Fitzroy Tavern, the Lily Pond or the Copa Bar, surrounded by a group of friends or admirers, a cigarette in one hand, a champagne in the other, and a gin-and-tonic, ordered by some young hopeful, bubbling quietly on the bar.

One evening when Bill was in Germany I bumped into Noël as he was heading out the door of a bar in
Charlotte Street. He was broadcasting the following day, Stravinsky’s choral ballet
Les Noces
, and suggested that we go out for a drink afterwards. I had the afternoon off and, as he wasn’t sure what time they’d be finished, he proposed that I come to the BBC Maida Vale studios and sit in on the recording, then we’d head out somewhere from there.

I’d seen Walter Goehr, a tiny dark-haired Berliner, conducting at Morley College and with other orchestras, but had never made his acquaintance, so when I arrived I slipped into the recording booth and picked up a paper to read while the choir, percussionists and pianists set up. I’d only nodded to Noël through the glass, but even with my head buried in the
Guardian
I could hear his jovial laughter rising over the din of drums and cymbals being assembled, and singers running through arpeggios.

Once the recording began the large white studio transformed, as if a net had been cast and pulled, drawing everyone together. The men and women who’d been scuttling about tightening stands, carrying percussion and warming up their voices, all fused together—a chanting choir, four grand pianos, mechanical percussion—producing one eerily melodious sound. Faces hardened, not a flicker of emotion was shown by the singers or instrumentalists evoking a Russian peasant wedding. The music leapt mid-beat from one phrase to the next, the pianos rippled, the timpani rumbled, the snare hissed and the whispers of the choir bit like bullets. Walter
Goehr, with a stern brow and clenched jaw, struck the air with his arms as if he were conducting a fleet of tanks.

I put my paper down as the music stormed towards the end, anticipating those final wedding-bell chords played by all four pianists—B, C sharp and its octave—over the top of the solo baritone. Then a moment before the first of the chords, Noël jumped in a fraction too early—it was only a split second, but enough to ruin the bell-like effect. The red light on the studio wall lit up, the music collapsed in a heap and the perfect tension that had been breathed into the room, inflating it like a balloon to the point of explosion, had suddenly expired, and the air became a swarm of bees expelled from their hive.

Noël was the first person to leap up from his seat, his face scarlet, straight towards Walter as if he were about to strangle him.

‘Walter, you bloody fool! You brought me in too early!’

I turned my head to avoid witnessing the scene, wanting to slink outside, but worried that if I moved Noël might turn his wrath on me. A moment later I looked back and the commotion had completely blown over; Walter and Noël were laughing, and Noël was slapping his big hand on the little conductor’s back.

‘I say,’ Noël called out, turning to the technician who sat next to me in the booth. ‘It’s awfully stuffy in here—do you suppose you could fetch us all some water?’

The recording was completed in one more take, Noël packed up, spoke to Walter and several of the musicians and singers, then joined me in the booth, shaking my hand and picking up his coat.

‘So how’d it sound in there?’ he asked, lighting a cigarette as we stepped out on to the street.

I couldn’t ever recall him appealing for any feedback; on the contrary, he usually seemed to forget about a performance as soon as it had finished.

‘It went all right, I suppose.’ I was still bothered by his outburst—that he could have behaved so unprofessionally. ‘The sound was a bit tinny though, a bit thin,’ I said, digging my hands into my pockets and looking straight up the street, as if it really didn’t matter anyway.

‘You thought so? Yes, I was wondering…’

‘And the tempo seemed to lag a bit at times.’

I’m not sure what came over me, why I said the things I said, why the music now sounded so terrible to me. But my mood had sunk and they were the only comments I could think to make. I didn’t feel like going out for a drink with Noël any more; I regretted coming along, and in the silence that followed each of my remarks I thought about heading home.

Noël offered to take me out to dinner; I shrugged and nodded, holding on to my sour mood as if it had been ordained upon me. We took the train to Oxford Circus; Noël chose a French restaurant on Berwick Street, close to my digs—I knew immediately what he was up to—and after two courses and a bottle of
wine, he led me around the corner to a quiet basement bar that was filled with wooden tables in small nooks, dimly lit by red lanterns. The staff all addressed Noël by name, and within moments of our taking a table an ice bucket and bottle of champagne arrived beside us.

‘I’ve started writing an article for
Musical Review
on the Immortal Beloved,’ I said, leaning back in my chair and looking about the room as if I’d be just as happy sitting at any other of the tables, where pairs of well-heeled gentlemen sipped wine, smoked cigars and allowed the food sitting in front of them to grow cold. ‘Gerald thinks there’d be interest in me writing a book on the subject, but I don’t know that I could be bothered,’ I lied—I’m not sure why.

There has always been ongoing debate in musical circles about the mysterious love letter found in a locked drawer in Beethoven’s apartment on the afternoon following his death, thought to have been written by the composer fifteen years earlier. In the letter, Beethoven expresses delirious passion for the woman to whom he wrote,
Unsterbliche Geliebte
—his Immortal Beloved. Given that Beethoven was considered to have been a loner, without ever having had a single serious romantic relationship, the letter is one of the most intriguing personal documents in musical history. Every now and again, such as had happened recently, someone would stir up a controversy, claiming they’d uncovered proof of the identity of this enigmatic woman.

‘Really? My money’s on Therese Brunsvik, the one
whose portrait he kept in the secret drawer. Unless you’re going to suggest someone else?’

‘No, I haven’t a clue who she was. I actually don’t even want to know.’ I flicked my cigarette in the ashtray and smiled, beginning to perk up a bit. ‘It’s far more romantic that way.’

‘How very Wagner of you,’ Noël laughed.

‘I do find it fascinating that we presume to know every square inch of Beethoven’s life.’ I waved my cigarette around in the air as I spoke, feeling quite theatrical. ‘We know his favourite lines in Homer, Virgil and Shakespeare; that he ate goulash at the White Swan restaurant each night and once threw his meal at a waiter and that the gravy dripped down the man’s face. We’ve all heard that Prince Lichnowsky constantly visited him to hear him play, and how the prince would be locked out and made to sit on the steps with the servants. There’s little of his life that we can’t account for. Yet the one thing that supposedly meant more to him than almost anything else: his love for a person whom he called his
true home
, who made him both
the happiest and the unhappiest of mortals
—we know nothing about this at all.’ I fixed my gaze on Noël as I slumped back in my chair, my jacket hanging wide open, suddenly imagining his naked body seated opposite me, and everything I’d like to do to him that very moment.

Noël sat back, drawing on his cigarette, squinting at me through the smoke. ‘Perhaps he never sent the letter; perhaps
she
didn’t even know how he felt. That’s often the way with these things,’ he smiled.

‘Perhaps. Anyway, I don’t believe her actual identity matters. She might as well have been his maid, a character from a book he’d read, or his so-called
heavenly muse.
’ I wasn’t at all sure if I believed what I was saying myself, but the idea seemed compelling. What’s more, I was drunk and having fun holding court. I put my glass down and looked over to the bar, where a young waiter in waistcoat and bow tie stood alone polishing wine glasses, completely absorbed in thought. ‘In fact, I’m not sure the Immortal Beloved even existed. I think he made her all up. Life was too goddamn wretched without her.’

Noël laughed out loud, one hand resting on the table and tossing his head back. I laughed as well—I didn’t care if I sounded ridiculous. I’d have been happy to argue my newfound resolution all night.

The waiter informed us of last drinks, and when our second bottle of champagne came to an end, I started fiddling around in my pockets as if preparing to leave. A look of panic shot across Noël’s eyes. As I stood and walked to the door I could feel him close behind, the hairs on my neck prickling upright.

We headed towards Oxford Circus, without discussing where we were going. I was walking towards my place and assumed he was coming. We stumbled along, neither of us saying a word. I regretted that I hadn’t dragged him into the Gents at the bar when I was feeling frisky and full of myself earlier on. I was now in one of my drunk, maudlin moods, which seems absurd looking back, given that I was finally—as an
adult—taking him back to my digs. It wasn’t the fear of rejection that dampened my spirits this time, but more a tired resignation to the roles we were both performing. I saw us acting parts in a play, charged with lines and emotions, carrying out an inevitable plot from which afterwards we’d both walk away. It seemed so overly rehearsed. I longed not just for the Noël of eight years earlier, who would have laughed and joked all the way down the street, but also for the old me, who might have found some source of beauty in the moment. Even the physical closeness between us failed to prick my senses; it only served to accentuate the gulf that yawned open, and highlight the thought that fleetingly punctured my inebriated mind: that it was only in this broken-down, desperate state that the two of us would ever meet.