The Concert Pianist (18 page)

‘The azaleas were obviously superlative,' said Oswald, presenting the canapés to Philip. ‘Where are my servants?'

‘I saw Kevin lingering in the hall,' said Arthur.

‘He's very good at lingering, is Kevin.'

‘He lingers rather well, I've always thought.'

Philip gazed steadily into his champagne glass.

‘You did not play!'

He looked up to see Konstantine gazing at him.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, involuntarily.

Konstantine waved a hand, brushing it away.

Philip had no idea how to continue. Somewhere along the line he had lost the power of speech. He sat there like an idiot.

‘You are brave,' said Konstantine, dabbing his mouth with the handkerchief.

‘It wouldn't have been easier to play,' he managed.

‘I think for you at that moment it was harder to play one note than for me to climb Eiffel Tower.

Philip caught Arthur's eye.

‘He hadn't done enough practice,' said Arthur. ‘Must remember to ask for my money back.'

Oswald chuckled. ‘Nobody ever got their money back from a temperamental keyboard lion like Philip.'

Philip blinked.

Konstantine continued to stare at him, expecting more. He was incontinently interested.

‘I couldn't face the Funeral March Sonata,' he said lightly, quickly.

The Russian made some business of clearing his throat.

Arthur and Oswald seemed pretty uninterested in the exchange. Arthur was in a quasi-vegetative prepreprandial state, and Oswald had catering stratagems on the brain.

In profile Konstantine looked more haggardly ruminative than ever. He used every furrow in his forehead to shift thought. ‘But,' he said, swallowing and blinking at the same time. He made a special effort to look Philip in the eye, to advertise his reply with the most saucery glare. ‘This is only the Second Sonata. Then you go up. One half-tone to Third Sonata. One semitone. Everything is different.'

‘
Is that Julius?'

‘Julius!' cried Oswald.

‘Everything changes.'

Philip looked over his shoulder and then back at Konstantine. He wanted to bury the subject before anyone else came in.

‘You understand?'

‘I wasn't playing that sonata.'

Konstantine took in a gulp of air, frowned at the evasion. ‘It's there all the time. Whether you are playing it or not.'

‘Hello, gentlemen.'

Konstantine looked up, mouth agape, and discovered the refreshed presence of Julius Robarts in ironed shirt and chinos.

Arthur staggered to his feet to receive the newcomer and bring him over to Konstantine.

‘Happy birthday,' said the American, bowing to greet the old man. ‘It's an honour to be here.'

Konstantine released Julius's hands and subsided back into the chair. ‘From Boston?'

‘From Boston and Rach 3 with Marek Nolson. Hi, Philip.'

Philip smiled. He was unbearably tense.

‘It was good?'

‘It was OK.'

The old man was perplexed. ‘What is OK?'

‘Five Rach 3s in five cities and five days. OK is good enough.'

‘You are modest, perhaps.'

‘Cedric!'

The word had no sooner sounded than Konstantine's face transformed. From somewhere he gained the strength to get on his feet and trundle across the floor to an intense grappling of hands and patting and hugging with the seraphically beaming figure of Cedric Bowles, who had just arrived and who took him in his arms like a long-lost friend. Oswald's face was creased with smiles. Arthur was enchanted. Cedric embraced and pressed flesh with all the aplomb of a fifties matinee idol turned geriatric star attraction at the Yvonne Arnaud. A former leader of the Covent Garden orchestra, he had been smiling without let-up for forty years.

Conversation became more general, and by the time Cynthia Cross and Dame Elizabeth Barrett arrived, Philip felt that Arthur had somehow time-warped them back to his heyday in the late
fifties.
He slowly moved to the edge of the throng, allowing Konstantine the undiluted company of his oldest friends. Before long he had slipped off unnoticed and found himself in the evening air on a country lane, walking easily and aimlessly. He happened on a pub in due course and sat at a table in the garden with a pint and a packet of crisps.

Later, in bed, he could not sleep. He tried to read, and then slid down again into the cool of the pillow. His thoughts rambled and tumbled and turned, and after a while he found himself picturing Clarissa and Peter in France, a scene he had not recalled for years but which now came back in all sorts of detail. He had joined up with them on the third week of their honeymoon in Provence, along with a few others. They were staying in a villa near Cotignac, going out for dips in local rivers. Peter swum around nude, trunks on his head. Clarissa sunbathed topless amongst riverbank grasses, a glass of wine between her fingers. Above the river an escarpment of rock dangled tapestries of vine. He remembered sauntering through the meadow after lunch to a pile of rocks where he sat on his own for an hour, enjoying the heat and the sound of the crickets, and the sense of a past alive with sprites and nymphs and naiads, as though all those classical creatures were the imaginary fruit of an urge to inhabit landscape in the most literal way possible; and as he sat, entranced by the glittering leaves of the Lombardies, he saw her rise from her hide by the stream in only the slip of a bikini bottom, relishing the sensation of air on bare skin as she moved from the rug and the towels and took a path around tall grasses, stepping into the haze of the meadow, a blossomy gauze rising to veil her back and shoulders, till only her head was visible, and then only the sideways progress of her pink headband; and he could tell from the motions of that head, which halted and inclined and remained for long moments quite still, that she was wading with her whole soul into that meadow, allowing the bees and swallowtail butterflies to play around her, and the lavender to brush her calves, and the shadow of a pine to run over her breast and shoulders.

He lay in the darkness of his room embalmed in these thoughts, which developed to things that were purely imagined, Clarissa and Peter coming and going on the villa balcony, Peter reading under the feathery shade of a mimosa; and as these images developed a life of their own and the faces seemed so near and present, as informally
alive
as the faces of people captured on home videos, the idea of their non-being seemed meaningless. He lay on his side, clasping the edge of the pillow between his hands. Moisture came to the corner of his eye. He would hold on for a bit. He would join them in the tranquil shade of the black river, swimming behind them over the streaming reeds, rolling and turning in the silky water, till their figures blurred and dislimned in the grey shallows of sleep.

Chapter Thirteen

Friends from all over the world had taken time out of their concert schedules to be in Herefordshire on a Sunday morning in May, and as the distinguished, the elderly and the elegant filed through the hallway to the terrace (where silver glinted on linen and flowers spumed from vases) it seemed more like a wedding reception than a birthday party. Sunlight sparkled and danced on the scene.

There were perhaps a hundred people on the lawn, the Russian contingent, antique British musicians with walking sticks and parasols, young conductors at the height of their celebrity smiling gloriously. They arrived with cards and gifts and easy laughter. There was a bustle around those, like Lola Montrero, who had travelled furthest. Konstantine was in heartier form, greeting all comers on the terrace. He made a thorough job of embracing and double-kissing every guest. Tender eye contact with one well-wisher would be followed by a bear-hug with the next, each new person causing a joyous spasm on his ruined old face.

Oswald's young men from the pub circulated in tunics bearing trays of champagne. Oswald himself swooped and wheeled like an inexhaustibly perfectionist maitre d', dropping one minute into the kitchens to chivvy caterers, bustling the next past Barry or Kevin with a snap of his fingers at an empty tray or bottle. His elastic face crushed into charming expressions of welcome for arriving guests. He ushered and complimented, escorted and introduced; then slid through a side door to recapture his misanthropy like a gulp of fresh air.

Philip, meanwhile, busied himself on the sidelines. He popped corks and filled glasses and relayed empty trays to the pantry,
avoiding
eye contact wherever possible. His aim today was to be helpful and to keep on the move.

Arthur was grandly stationed at the end of the terrace. He was sedentarily magnetic, nonetheless, and had drawn to his side a retinue of the amiably ancient. Cedric and Aldous Braeborne were chipping in jokes, and Arthur was chortling pleasantly. ‘By Jove, she's here,' he erupted. ‘It's Galina!'

Philip turned to see Galina Berberova hugging Konstantine and winking at Arthur, which caused the old boy to launch himself towards the only woman who had ever queered the perfect pitch of his sexual convictions. The insurmountable diva received his toothy peck like a blushing Venus scaled by admirers. Konstantine gazed on in craggy rapture.

Beyond them stood Vadim.

Philip was alert, though he did not move. Too many people were around for him to make an approach.

His heart beat faster. He should have called him before. It was awkward here. The onus was on Philip to take back what he said, but now it was too late.

He glanced around, seeking a refill. The depth of his unease surprised him. It was not so easy to take back the truth, to swallow it up. The truth was his doing, something he had to get out of his system to make the friendship tenable. Apology was impossible, of course. He swigged back his drink and decided to collar Vadim later on. He would have to be sharper and stronger than his protege, and this was going to be difficult because his confidence was low. Only a kind of numbness insulated him from the depressing sight of so many pianists. Everywhere flocked eminence, reputation, youthful swagger. And along with eminence sauntered glamour. In the corner of his eye he saw a startlingly pretty woman: red mouth, golden locks, long eyelashes. She bobbed in the crowd like a trophy.

Vadim leaned towards her a second later, and whispered in her ear. She took his hand and smiled brilliantly, a scandalised smile.

Philip averted his eyes to avoid complicity. He was pained and embarrassed. Poor Marguerite. If wives could be abandoned so carelessly, what hope for mere friends?

When he risked looking back, Vadim had joined the line-up to meet Konstantine. He was holding a cigarette and a wine glass. Momentarily he glanced at Philip, but without recognition.

There
was now a bottle-neck by the door; more pianists, a traffic jam of talent plodding towards Konstantine: Slava Chuikov, Aram Kalajian, Detlev Schwindler, Marganita and Boris Bergamot. They all edged dutifully forward, faces prepared for the moment of greeting. Even the crabbiest oldsters were held in check. Even the great Lola Montrero, who played like no one else, allowed her power to fade a few degrees in Konstantine's immortal presence.

‘I hope for Medtner's sake a bomb doesn't go off,' said Julius, at his side suddenly.

Philip nodded.

‘The only pianists in the world currently programming Medtner Five are right on this terrace.'

He needed to move.

‘Hey, Philip, I liked your Chopin disc.'

‘Shall we say hello to Lola?'

‘Always a good idea.'

Lola was pleased to see him but more interested in Julius, which was acceptable. Philip separated himself from the duo and had the misfortune to catch Vadim's girlfriend's eye. She smiled quickly, and came over to say hello. Her name was Jonelle. She was an American academic researching a book about pianists, which she pronounced ‘penists', and she knew all about him. Philip answered her questions economically whilst looking for an out. A pleasant enough girl, she was doomed to humiliation in Vadim's hands.

Oswald tapped a glass to gain attention, announced lunch, and commended everyone to the placement.

Philip had engineered a seat next to Aldous Braebourne and Lady Carmichaels, neither of whom would ask personal questions or refer to cancelled concerts.

‘Kevin!' he called out, as he took his seat.

Kevin turned on his heel.

‘Be a sport and get us a bottle of champagne.'

After lunch people strolled around the grounds, or took coffee in the drawing room, easing off a bit before the concert, which started at five. Ten minutes before time a handbell was rung on the terrace, recalling everyone to the music room. People drifted in from the garden and the house, taking their places on the semicircle of seats
on
the parquet, and waiting eagerly for the music to begin. Konstantine was in the centre of the floor, sweet master of ceremonies, bringing performers to their seats and directing the not-so-agile around the music stands. Oswald adjusted a blind to moderate the afternoon sun, and Arthur moved sheet music on the lid of the piano. The members of the Ambrose Quartet uncased their instruments and readied their bows, and after some good-humoured badinage between audience and those on stage, Arthur came to the fore and permitted silence to fall.

Philip watched him from a seat in the corner. Everyone was present and comfortable and Konstantine sat in readiness, eyes cast down.

Arthur cleared his throat and looked about him.

‘What a lovely host of faces I see before me.' He beamed goodwill in all directions. ‘Thank you, my dears, for making a dream come true. To see so many wonderful people gathered together in one place is the ultimate luxury. I'm thrilled beyond words and so happy. Because now we can celebrate the joys of friendship, and the ineffable artistry of our beloved Konstantine, who will be eighty-eight in about five and a half minutes.'

There was a burst of cheering and good-hearted applause.