In the Claws of the Eagle (28 page)

It wasn’t an ass and cart, but a rickety old car, hired from a garage in Galway, that Izaac eventually watched drive away, leaving him to survey his new property and his new world. The property was a thatched cottage. It had been empty for a year and looked it. There was grass growing from the thatch and the walls needed a coat of whitewash, but it was its
surroundings
that held Izaac spellbound. The cottage was tucked into the arm of a small semi-circular bay. The tide had been in when they arrived, so full that it seemed that one deep sigh from the Atlantic beyond and the cup would overflow. While they had unloaded the vast pile of things that Paddy had insisted on Izaac buying for his bachelor existence, the tide had secretly slipped away. So now, when Izaac turned from waving goodbye, he found himself gazing at a golden
half-moon
of sand with, in the far distance, a line of white breakers marking the sea. It drew Izaac like a magnet, crispy little pink flowers led down to the shore. Here he stepped cautiously on to the sand; it was firm.

Michael Joyce had stopped on the ridge looking down into the bay when he saw the car leaving. The cottage stood on his way 
to the place, on the opposite side of the bay, where he kept his boat in a sheltered creek from which he could launch it at any tide. He had heard that someone had taken the cottage. He could see him now, walking out on the sand, picking up
sea-shells
like any child. The man’s driver had told Kevin, the man at the petrol pump, that the new owner was foreign; a
bachelor
who – God help him – had had a bad time in the war. As the figure was virtually out of sight, Michael diverted down past the cottage to look at the state of the place. He made a mental note of the hole in the thatch on the back of the roof and the meagre pile of the turf in the lean-to as he passed.

Izaac had taken off his shoes and rolled up his trousers. Even on a calm day, the Atlantic rollers sent wavelets thick with foaming bubbles up the sand. They massaged his feet. The sun, sinking towards the horizon, glowed on the mountains; a warm and friendly barrier against things sinister and things past. He could hardly see his new little house. He must find out how to paint it. His supper had to be cold, as he couldn’t get the strange fuel to light. He managed to light a candle but the oil lamp defeated him. When he opened the door in the morning, to his surprise he found a fresh fish on the windowsill.

A year passed. Twice a week Izaac would get the bus into Galway where he gave violin lessons to half a dozen worthy but uninspired pupils. His humble ambition now was for them to pass their next grade in their violin exams. In an unfulfilled sort of way, he was happy. He was known to the locals as ‘The Professor’, and they watched over him as a sort of mascot. Things would happen to his little house without any 
prompting from him. The thatch would be raked down and a hole in it repaired, and one day just before Easter, he came home to find the walls newly whitewashed. He got to know his neighbours by trying to find out which one to pay. A cheque would arrive monthly from his Swiss bank and he would think, gratefully, if sadly, of Uncle Rudi and his little bags of gold. There was still no word of him, nor of the rest of Izaac’s family. Michael Joyce, the fisherman, would often call with a fish and stay for a chat and a bottle of stout. Izaac developed both a taste for Guinness and a Galway lilt to add to his Austrian ‘brogue’. He was urged to come down and play in the pub when the
traditional
musicians were there. He played Viennese airs for them, but when he tried to join in their traditional sessions it was a disaster. He could play the notes, but there were rhythms and subtleties he knew he could never master.

‘A powerful violinist, but he’s no fiddle player,’ was the
verdict
in the pub.

Spring came, and Izaac became restless again. He practised his violin, and played for his pupils, rather as he did in the pub, to amuse. He realised more and more how much he had relied on Louise, until the idea that he couldn’t play without her crept into his mind like a maggot. Her picture, still wrapped, lay propped against the wall. Time and again he was on the verge of opening it when he lost his nerve. What if her picture was no longer as he remembered it? Would she be reproachful for what he had done, or worse, would her eyes now be glazed with the violet bloom of death? On these
occasions
he would go out and climb the rocks above his house and let the Atlantic storms batter at him until these images faded. So the picture had remained unopened.

The post came by bicycle, ploughing through the blown sand where it invaded the road. There was the monthly
envelope
with a Swiss stamp and less frequent letters from ‘Wien’ 
with an Austrian one. This always brought out a smile in the Professor. When an official-looking letter with a Galway
postmark
arrived, the postman lingered in case the foreigner needed help with it.

When Izaac asked, ‘What does this “
Feis Ceoil
” mean?’ the postman was already fishing in his pocket for his glasses.

‘Well, now sir, it means Music Festival, sir. Would you like me to read it for you?’ Izaac, not at all affronted, agreed. ‘Dear Mr Abrahams, Knowing your reputation as a distinguished violinist, the Music Festival Board would like to invite you to participate in our annual Feis. We would be greatly honoured if you would conduct a master class for the winners in our strings sections. The fee … ’ The postman, pink to his hair, hastily thrust the letter back at Izaac. ‘We’re honoured to have you here, sir. Will I call for a reply tomorrow?’

‘No, no need.’ He began to close the door and then changed his mind. Would he? Could he? He wouldn’t really have to play. Let them do the playing … Just a bar or two.
Yes
!
If he refused this, he might as well give up music completely. He opened the door; the postman and his bicycle had foundered in the sand. ‘Herr Post!’ he called. ‘Can you spare me five
minutes
? I will reply!’ As he could find neither ink nor paper it took longer than five minutes. ‘Herr Post’ didn’t seem to be in a hurry and a bottle of stout eased the time.

To be honest, the master class was a disappointment. While there might be splendid fiddle players in the west of Ireland, classical players were few and far between. Izaac found
himself
with time on his hands so he began to play what the great Fritz Kreisler used to call ‘lollipops’; short pieces to bring a smile to the face of an audience. Izaac was beginning to enjoy himself when he noticed, perched alone on one of the empty 
seats at the back of his circle, a boy of perhaps six or seven who wasn’t smiling. Izaac looked away … then he looked back. The intensity of the child’s gaze began to bother him. It was a challenge, but Izaac didn’t feel ready for a challenge, he was out of practice. He’d finish with the Schubert ‘Rosam …’ But he didn’t because, without any warning, he found himself remembering the music room at home in Vienna. There were people in the room. They had their backs to him and looked strangely large, but facing him, in a positive drift of scarves, was the Cloud Lady. Her eyes were fixed on him and she was playing for him … for him alone.

It felt as if the Stradivarius was rising on its own. There was only one piece of music that he could play in the
circumstances
. He tightened his bow, flexed his arm, and played. The Galway audience stirred uneasily. Here was something new, and a little frightening, but Izaac wasn’t playing for them. He was playing for the child at the back just as intensely and just as irresponsibly as Helena had played for him. He played Helena’s ‘Humoresque’, the piece that she had played for him first when he was a three-year-old. The Strad responded. Technically, Helena would have been ashamed of him, but
musically
her piece had probably only once been performed so well. While Izaac played he watched the boy’s face as
challenge
changed to awe, and then to rapture. As Izaac lowered his violin he saw the boy turn to the girl sitting beside him with a radiant smile just to share his delight. The girl was Louise.