The Gradual (36 page)

However, the larger news, about the eruption itself, was optimistic. The pressure of the discharge was lessening and volcanologists were predicting that within a day or two the mountain would be starting to stabilize. Two settlements on the north side of the volcano had been evacuated but there were no reports yet of any serious casualties.

So the day went by. It was a memorable time for most people on the island, no less for me, although perhaps for slightly different reasons. Minor earth tremors continued at unpredictable moments throughout the day but the danger from the volcanic outflow diminished. I returned to the piano, listened to the recording I had made and began the slow, painstaking work of transcribing.

I had never known work like it – I had to invent the method as I went along. I had created the work myself, spontaneously, completely, but now I was having to re-create it in reverse, following the recording, which was itself taken from a sort of recording of my own creation.

I could not get in touch with Cea. The phones remained unusable. I was missing her, but I was also starting to worry about her. I knew she had been planning to take her mother out – had they been caught somehow by the eruption? She had said she would try to see me in the evening but nothing had been arranged. I had no idea where she lived although I assumed it was somewhere in Waterside. The only way I knew how to contact her was by phone.

Long after dark I walked down into Waterside through the quietude of the warm night, to see if by chance Cea might be playing at the bar again. I was anyway curious to see how the town seemed after the disruption of the day but to me it looked fairly normal. There were no evident signs of damaged buildings and no new fissures in the ground. The town was quieter than usual though, and when I found the bar I discovered it was closed.

I went down to the harbour. The dark shape of Hakerline loomed across the narrow strait, with a blaze of intense light coming out of Hakerline Promise. It was so vivid I felt I could almost hear the raucous sounds of the night-time revels. I stared for a while, then I turned around and looked inland. From here it was normally possible to see the peak of the Gronner, but in the darkness that was of course difficult. I could see an intermittent flashing of yellow or orange glare, close to the crater.

Later, I walked back to my house.

Two days passed. Silence from Cea, a gradual diminution of activity from the volcano. The telephones were said to be returning to normal, but for some reason I could still not get through to Cea. I continued to try at two- or three-hourly intervals.

On the second morning, after a change of wind direction, spill from the outflow passed over the Waterside, dimming the sun and leaving a shroud of fine grey dust everywhere. This was a minor inconvenience compared with what some of the people who lived on the other side were putting up with. We heard about roads and rail lines blocked, farmlands submerged by fallen ash, one river diverted by a lava flow and many houses destroyed.

Motorized cleaners, operated by the seignioral authorities, moved along the streets of Waterside, sweeping up much of the spill.

I suppressed the feeling of frustration about losing contact with Cea, and concentrated on my work. I was deeply engaged with the challenge of first transcribing, then scoring and arranging, the music that had come to me shortly before the earth tremors. It was one of the most fruitful efforts of composition I had ever taken on but through it all I felt awkward questions nagging at me.

How did this experience come to me? Why had nothing like it ever happened before? I marvelled again and again at the completeness of the piece: had I been working on it in my unconscious for weeks? Was it based on other works I’d written earlier? (I thought and thought about this, without result.) Worse, could it possibly be based on some other piece of music I had heard, or overheard, then by some trick of the mind had claimed for myself?

I ransacked my mind and memory for any clues but always came to the same conclusion: by some miracle this music had passed into my consciousness, not only complete but completely original.

By the end of the third day of work I had achieved most of the reconstruction, and to be honest I was well pleased with the result. It was identifiably a composition that had all the hallmarks of my other work, but it was throughout an adventurous and unusual piece of writing. It had moments of pure excellence. The opening had shocks and surprises; the second passage of the suite was lyrical and sentimental; the third passage was an awakening; the climax was a restitution of order.

Cea called me on the morning of the fourth day. I was so pleased and relieved to hear from her that at first I hardly said anything. She told me she and her mother had been shopping in Waterside when the first tremor struck but that they had returned to their car and she had driven them back to their house. They had stayed there throughout the eruption. We talked about our separate experiences, which actually amounted to much the same: keeping up with events by watching television, eating, sleeping and waiting for phone connections to be restored. Cea said her mother been brave through the entire experience.

I did not mention, while we were still on the phone, that I had composed and scored an entire orchestral suite. I wanted to tell her in person, perhaps play her some of it on the piano.

‘My father has turned up,’ Cea said. ‘He came in on the ferry last night from Hakerline. He’s planning to stay here for a while.’

‘Am I going to see you soon?’ I said. ‘There’s something I want to show you. I’ve been writing. How about this evening?’

‘We could meet during the day, if you wish. My father says he’d like to meet you.’

‘I was thinking – just you and me. Alone.’

‘Yes, but we could do that later this evening. Why not come over now? My father’s here.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Cea – I want to see you. Why should I meet your father?’

‘Because he admires you. Because he knows what you mean to me.’

‘Maybe tomorrow?’

But she was determined I should meet him immediately. She gave me the address of her house, told me how to find it, offered to drive over and pick me up. I said I would walk, even though by this time the sun was high and the dry ground was baking. The shrill sounds of insects filled the hot air.

The house was not far from the centre of Waterside in an area of old and grand houses, many of which were being converted to apartments. Cea came to the door to greet me and we embraced quickly but affectionately. She led me through a short darkened passageway beyond which was a paved courtyard, the inner walls of the house rising up around it. There was a pool with a source of water trickling down from above and several bushes were planted in huge ceramic pots. Two electric fans circulated air but the walls were so high that the sun did not strike straight down.

It was there I met Cea’s parents, who were waiting for me to arrive. Her mother, whose name was Ellois, was much as I expected from Cea’s description. She was elderly, shrunken and unable to walk. She would not shake hands with me and Cea explained that she was afflicted with arthritis. The wheelchair in which she sat had a parasol shade above it and she was wearing dark glasses. Throughout my time in the house she was to speak barely more than a few words to me.

But Cea’s father was there too and he was not at all what I expected. His name was Ormand.

If before this meeting I had a mental image of Cea’s father it was a vague one. Cea said I had met him at the concert on Temmil, which I did not doubt, but at best I recalled speaking to many strangers in a blur of excitement and pleasure, so many friendly people of all ages, male and female, wanting to congratulate me or speak well to me of the orchestra’s performance. I assumed that her father, Ormand Weller, would have been one of the older ones. When I met Ellois – as Cea had described her, being in her eighties and suffering from problems of disability – I instantly assumed that Cea’s father would be in the same general age bracket.

When I turned around to meet the other person there I saw a tall young man, straight-backed, slim, face unlined, and with a head of long dark hair. In the instant before Cea said anything I made the snap assumption that he was someone else: a neighbour, a friend, perhaps a brother of Cea’s?

‘Sandro, I would like you to meet my father,’ Cea said. ‘This is Ormand Weller – Alesandro Sussken.’

I was shaking hands with him politely before I could react.

Confusion and questions were coursing through me! I tried not to show the reaction on my face, but—

How could this young man be Cea’s father?

How could this young man be the marriage partner of the sickly, elderly lady in the wheelchair?

Could this young man not be the partner of the woman, but a father to Cea by another relationship?

(Above all, negating the other questions): how could this young man be Cea’s father when he seemed approximately the same age as her, and by all appearances a few years younger?

He was staring directly, frankly, unwaveringly into my eyes as we shook hands. The greeting and the close regard went on longer than I wanted – I wished he would release my hand, step back from me, allow me a space of some kind in which I could understand who this was and what he represented in Cea’s life.

I said quietly and ineffectually, ‘Your name is Ormand?’

‘Yes. Ormand Weller.’

‘I’m so pleased to meet you,’ I added politely, as the handshake went on and on. Inside I was thinking: who the hell is this?

‘We must speak together, Sandro. I hope you will not mind.’

At last he let go of my hand and turned away to where a small table stood, laden with various drinks and glasses. He opened a bottle of beer for me, taken from a chill-box standing there. Condensation immediately formed on the cold glass. I looked around for Cea but she had moved across to her mother and was leaning down beside her. The two women were speaking quietly together.

‘I happened to be away from Temmil when the Gronner erupted,’ he said. ‘I was playing a gig in a nightclub in Hakerline Promise. I came back as soon as I could. They cancelled the ferries for a day or two, but I was finally able to catch the boat last night. You benefited from the eruption?’

I said in surprise, ‘Benefited?’

‘Did it speak to you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said.

‘I think you do.’ He took my arm, then led me away to a sort of alcove behind the flow of water into the pool. The water sounded louder there. I gained the impression he did not want to be overheard. ‘All islands speak,’ he said. ‘Some of them speak louder than others. Cea does not know this. Nor does her mother. But I believe you understand that.’

We were both now standing in direct sunlight, which because of a sloped roof at the top of one wall was admitted for the time being into that corner.

‘I have been sensing something,’ I said cautiously. I did not want to tell him about the whole suite that I had gained just before the first tremors. ‘You are Cea’s father?’ I said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Of course. Why should she and I pretend otherwise? And you are Cea’s lover, I believe.’

I did not know how to reply to that. Much was still uncertain.

‘You are younger than I would have thought,’ I said directly. ‘If I might say so.’

‘You might. And I would have thought the same of you.’ He drank from his beer bottle and gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’

I quietly indicated Ellois and Cea, who were still together. Cea was sitting beside her mother’s wheelchair on a small wooden chair. They were not looking towards us. Cea had her head turned away, nodding as her mother said something to her.

‘You are Ellois’s partner?’

‘She is my wife. We have been married for many years. And before you ask the next question – yes, Cea is our daughter.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I think you do. I am the same age as Ellois – in fact I am a year younger than her, but that’s not what you are asking me, is it, Sandro? I hope you don’t mind me calling you by your first name – for many years I have been a great admirer of your music, and I defer to you. For a long time I thought of you only as Sussken. The traditional compliment of one artist to another, using only the surname. But, Msr Sussken, now we have met—’

‘What is it you are saying?’

‘We have travelled in the islands, you and I. Not together, of course – we both know that. But we have followed the same routes. East or west. Across the straits, following the currents, responding to the allure of the islands. Time has a gradual effect. The direction makes no difference in the end. Look at the both of us!’ He was standing in front of me, staring directly at me. He opened his hands towards me. ‘You are in fine physical shape, for a man of your age.’

‘And so are you.’

‘We have both travelled through the islands. Look at me.’

We were standing only a short distance away from each other. Suddenly, I could see past the superficial evidence of youth. His skin was clear, his eyes were bright, his hair was full. He looked fit. He looked agile, strong. He looked like a healthy man in his early or middle thirties. So did I – every day I relished the return of the youthfulness gifted to me by the gradual.

But beyond the suppleness of Ormand’s body, the physical energy, I could now detect something in his expression, his demeanour. There was a sense of weariness, of experience of the world, of a history of achievement and disappointment and hopes and happiness and despair. He had the look of someone who had travelled a great distance, lived long beyond the normal span.

‘Drink your beer, Sandro,’ he said and tipped his own bottle against his lips, swallowing twice or three times. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. I had felt the neck of the bottle warming in my hand so I drank some of the beer while it was still cold. In the corner where we were standing the volcanic ash had accumulated – blown there, perhaps, or swept deliberately to clear the larger area. It was all over my sandals, clinging to my bare lower legs. I tried brushing some of it away, but it made no difference. ‘What happens to you and me when we cross the gradual tides does not happen to everyone,’ Weller continued. ‘My wife, my daughter, all my friends, my neighbours, the people who pass me by in the streets, the musicians with whom I play, the audiences who come to watch us – they also travel, they too move from east or west, they too sail across the straits that lie between islands, but they do not, cannot, respond when the islands speak.’