The Gradual

by Christopher Priest

  Alynna stood quietly beside me, waiting for me to subside. We knew each other well – I could feel her patient regard, but I also knew that first I had to relieve the pressure of disappointment.

  Finally, she said, ‘Sandro, they want more of you than you think. You are not a player any more – you have grown beyond that now.’

  ‘They want me to stand by, wait around in the auditorium while other people struggle to play my music?’

  ‘You haven’t read the prospectus yet, have you?’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ I said. The three or four extra sheets of paper had been tucked into the envelope, a firmer fit than the small, elegantly hand-written letter of invitation. ‘I’m being marginalized again.’

  ‘Sandro – read the prospectus.’

  She sat down on the small hard chair that was on the opposite side of my writing desk. It was unusual for her to be in my studio with me. She knew all along what the letter contained. Was she complicit in the plans? Had she realized the conflict of feelings they would arouse? I extracted the extra sheets and glanced at them dismissively, skimming.

  The whole thing felt irrationally to me as if it had been spoiled. Part of me accepted how temperamental I could be. Alynna had known for some years what I was like to live with, my preoccupations, my sudden changes of mood, my long silences. I was driven by my art, the giving, the expressing, but I was also ambitious, conceited, quick to jealousy. I was a cocktail of artistic urges and motives, all ultimately caused by the music that surged through my mind. I tried hard to temper my passions, make myself seem normal, modify the impulses that otherwise I would yield to. I loved Alynna, she was everything to me, but I had the devil of music in me, the unavoidable obedience to its demands. This, I knew, was one of those difficult times, but I was annoyed as well as disappointed.

  I did not recognize the name that was signed at the bottom of the letter. But as I read hastily through the prospectus I did glimpse several names I knew: principals from orchestras I had worked with, musicians I knew, solo singers, two conductors based in Glaund City, three more guest conductors whose names I did not immediately recognize.

  Then the list of works that would be performed on the tour: it was the familiar repertoire: symphonies and concerti, operatic arias, several popular light classics, a handful of short modernist works. (Two of mine were included.) All well chosen, varied, acceptable, enjoyable to perform and be listened to.

  On the final page my name appeared. Written large. Composer emeritus – Alesandro Sussken.

  I was to mentor young musicians, conduct masterclasses, tutor singly, run seminars, give private demonstration recitals.

  ‘It’s the kind of work you’re best at, Sandro,’ Alynna said, leaning towards me intently. ‘Please don’t be too proud to accept this. The tour could change everything for you: work, career, even your life.’

  Hindsight recalls that moment of inadvertency. Prospects are always ambivalent: Alynna meant changes for the better, and I understood them to mean what she said in the same way. Neither of us then knew any different – but hindsight is the opposite of foresight.

  If the future by some miracle became knowable to us, how would we really behave? Alynna spoke the words at the moment I was feeling my disappointment and annoyance fading away. The tour glittered before me, a prospect of sea and islands and the music I loved. I saw what was intended for me, I realized the great potential.

  ‘Tell me what you knew about this, Alynna,’ I said.

  ‘I had little to do with it.’

  ‘But you knew the letter was coming.’

  ‘The man who wrote the letter, the one who is promoting the tour, is called Ders Axxon. He’s an islander and this is his first major tour. It’s incredibly important to him. He comes from a small island, one called Memmchek, but he works from Muriseay. You remember Denn Mytrie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Msr Axxon made contact with you because of Denn. He is here in Glaund to set up the tour and book the artists. He didn’t know the correct way to approach you.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have called me?’

  ‘Sandro, he’s terrified of you.’

  ‘Terrified of me?’

  ‘You frighten some people. You have … a reputation for irascibility.’

  ‘Me? Irascible?’ I said.

  ‘You are often short with people,’ Alynna said. ‘Some of the people you most need are frightened of you.’

  ‘But I mean no harm,’ I insisted, feeling defensive.

  She moved around my desk, leaning over beside me as at last I read the prospectus carefully. She rested her hand gently on the back of my neck – these days there was not much physical intimacy between us but I still enjoyed having her close to me.

  We had grown over the years into a working partnership, confiding, supporting each other, working separately but in harmony, planning our lives, but the excitement of the early days had passed. It seemed to suit us both, but at that moment I liked the warm companionship conveyed by the feeling of her fingers against my skin.

  ‘What about you, Alynna,’ I said finally. ‘If I decide to go on this tour, will you come too?’

  ‘This is for you. They have already asked me if I would like to join the tour, but I said no.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to be there with me? To see the islands?’

  ‘Obviously I’ve thought about it. But for you the islands are unique. You must go, make the most of the opportunity. You’ve always wanted this. I’ve all the usual things to do here.’

  I turned back through the pages. ‘But I’ll be gone for – what is it? Eight weeks?’

  ‘Nearly nine.’ She reached back to her music case, which she had brought in with her and laid on the floor behind her. She pulled out her diary, showed me the entries she had already made, blocking out the period when I would be away. ‘Look – I’ve been preparing. I’m taking on two extra students. I’ll be busy all the time you are away.’

  Later, while I was browsing through the itinerary, a list of towns and islands and island clusters I had never heard of before, I noticed that one of the places we would visit was the island of Temmil. The home of the man who plagiarized me. The choker of air, amid the floating of flower scent.

  So it began.

  11

  So, immediately, it went on. Time was short, and in the whirl of necessary preparations I found it more or less impossible to work. The duties I would have to perform during the tour were obviously designed to be light. There would be an opportunity for workshop meetings in every city and on every island. Spare days were set aside for me to fill with whatever I wished. I could take on extra tutorials or masterclasses as suited me, but there would also be abundant time for me to explore some of the places we visited, or even to find some solitary time for a little composing. It was, in short, designed as a working holiday, a reward perhaps, something I would find attractive.

  But I still had to prepare and three trips to Glaund City were necessary. I had to meet the organizing staff, fill out innumerable official forms from various island states, make sure I had a passport and various visas, succumb to inoculation against a range of tropical diseases and possible insect stings, create a list of which musical instruments I intended to carry with me (I opted for my violin), and in general discuss any other requirements. The staff who helped me with my preparations were all native Glaundians like me, so they had only the vaguest idea of what we would discover during the trip.

  They told us there would be a full briefing by the tour promoter before we departed.

  My commitments during this period were lighter than those of the orchestra members and soloists, so in spite of travelling to and fro, fretting about what clothes I should take with me, and so on, I did have time to reflect.

  I had spent so much of my time dreaming and fantasizing about the islands that I had created a plausible but totally imaginary Dream Archipelago in my mind. I had drawn music productively from these fantasies, but would the
reality live up to the dream? What in fact was I going to find, and how was I going to react to it?

  Three days before the actual departure I travelled to Glaund City for the final briefing. Once I arrived I realized for the first time how many people were going to be involved: the full personnel of a symphony orchestra, other musicians who would take part in smaller recitals and chamber pieces, many soloists and singers, sound and stage crews, admin staff.

  I was in good spirits – so too was everyone else I spoke to. If nothing else we were leaving Glaund as the cold weather was about to set in – the damp darkness of a typical winter was imminent, where inversion layers intensified the fog and fumes of the industrial pollution, the ground was permanently frozen, the winds bore down from the northern mountains. We would miss the first weeks of that, always the worst because there was no hope of a change for the better for several long months ahead.

  Eventually, everyone was asked to take a seat and the unfamiliar figure of Ders Axxon, our promoter, addressed us. I loved the sound of his voice from his first words: he had the same musical lilt, the sound of the islands, that I had discovered in my friend Denn Mytrie.

  He spoke briefly and amusingly about the prospects for the orchestra and the players, how enjoyable the entire excursion was likely to be, and how important it was for us to take our modern musical culture out to the islands. He explained that many islanders considered themselves to be isolated, and gave a mock warning that our concerts would be greeted with an enthusiastic appreciation that would be more effusive than anything we had experienced from northern audiences.

  He concluded his presentation by introducing the many notables who would be participating in the tour: the conductors, soloists, singers. I was among those asked to stand up, and everyone there applauded encouragingly.

  After this, members of Axxon’s staff gave some extra information about practical arrangements: the travel plans, how to deal with small emergencies, who to contact for particular requirements, and more. A Q&A followed, where several small concerns were raised and dealt with.

  Finally, Msr Axxon returned to the podium.

  ‘I have to conclude on a serious note,’ he said, after we had quieted down. ‘Music is an international language. It crosses and eliminates borders. But I am afraid there are other borders you must never forget. While you are travelling in the Dream Archipelago, remember that the country you are representing, this one, is still engaged in war. By law, by custom, by habit, by agreement, every island you are going to visit is neutral territory. Islanders are accustomed to peace and it is a peace that has lasted hundreds of years. They will come to your concerts for the music, for the fact that you are artists, they will know that you yourselves are not belligerents. They also know that the war this country is engaged in happens to be, thankfully, in a sort of abeyance for the time being, but even so you will be expected to respect their neutrality in every conceivable way.’

  He reached behind him and produced a compact holdall, sturdily made. He held it up.

  ‘This is something you must have with you at all times,’ he went on. ‘There will be no official interference with you while you are on tour – you can be certain of that. There is no overall government authority in the Archipelago but there is a diplomatic body known as the Seignioral Council. The Council have authorized this tour, but they have to be certain that every one of you is fully prepared for your short visit to the islands. It is therefore a condition that each of you must carry one of these packs.’

  He opened the top flap, gave us a glimpse of what was inside.

  ‘Now – I know you’ll be pleased to learn that not everything in this pack is the product of bureaucracy. You’ll find an informal jacket which will identify you as a member of the orchestra. Also, a cap, just for fun, but the sun can be bright in the islands. All your travel and identity documents have been placed inside, entry and exit visas, and so on. Before you go home tonight you must be sure to collect your own pack and sign for it. You’ll also discover that your hosts have been generous to you. In each of these holdalls you will find a selection of vouchers, which can be used while travelling. They include restaurants, shops, museums, even some of the bars in the towns you will be visiting. There is money inside your holdalls. The currency in the islands is called the simoleon and the Council have given everyone on the tour one hundred simoleons for day-to-day spending. This money is not part of your agreed fee for the tour, which will be paid separately.’

  As he delivered his agreeable speech, Msr Axxon was unpacking the holdall he had in his hand, showing the various items to us, then placing them back inside. I was smiling as cheerfully as everyone else, truly looking forward to the adventure that lay ahead.

  Alone on the train returning home, I opened the holdall I had signed for and checked through the contents. I was relieved to be reunited with my passport, which I had obtained only two weeks before. I looked at all the various visas that had been carefully impressed on the inner pages. I found the Archipelagian currency and transferred it to my wallet, wondering how much it would be worth.

  At the bottom of the holdall was a hard object. I pulled it out to have a look. Msr Axxon had shown us one while he was at the podium, waving it aloft like a small sword and saying it was called a stave. The familiar musical word had raised a brief laugh of recognition from the crowd. Axxon had not said much about it, except that it should be kept safely inside the holdall and carried throughout the journey.

  The stave was a short wooden stick or staff: the wood was bare, unvarnished, but sanded to a fine finish and so smooth that it was almost soft to the touch. The end of the stave had been shaped and rounded. At the other end it had a handle made of metal and another kind of wood, bonded to the main shaft. Engraved into the metal part of the handle were some words which I could not understand but which I assumed were in island demotic: Istifade mehdudiyyet bir sexs – doxsan gün.

  I gripped the stave, held it up, looked closely at it under the lights of the railway carriage. I wanted to wave it about, in the way Msr Axxon had done, but there were other people on the train with me. I slipped it back into the holdall.

  12

  The next day I went with Alynna to visit my parents. They were still in our old family house, which always appeared to me far smaller and more cramped than it had been when I was living there as a child. Because I had been so busy in recent months, and because I maintained regular contact with my mother over the phone, we had not visited them in over a year. But as soon as we arrived I realized their lives had deteriorated noticeably since my last visit.

  The place was looking shabby and cluttered: cardboard boxes were stacked in the hallway and up the staircase. The main room at the front of the house was crammed with furniture and more boxes. My parents appeared to spend their days in the cosy music room at the back – the piano was still there, but also mounds of sheet music, as well as hundreds of old newspapers stacked in and around the fireplace. Unwashed food plates and odd pieces of cutlery lay on the floor. The curtains were closed but hanging irregularly from the runners, one of which was coming away from the wall. Sunlight glanced in at an angle. There was an unpleasant background smell.

  Alynna and I had brought our violins with us, thinking of our last visit when we had played together with both parents late into the evening, but this time, as soon as we realized what was happening, we placed our instrument cases out of sight in the hall.

  Throughout most of the time we were there my father remained seated wordlessly in an armchair behind the grand piano, almost hidden from the rest of us by the framed photographs on the lid. He raised a hand in greeting when we arrived. Alynna went around and tried to speak to him.

  Grief had taken my parents, denying them any pleasures of life or hopes for the future. I knew as soon as we walked in what was causing it. It was because of Jacj, still missing, still at war somewhere, years and years later. There were photographs of him on the piano – he looked like a boy, he was still a
boy in those pictures. The letter he had sent before he was shipped away to the south was in a frame, standing at the front of the photographs. The only hope we had of ever seeing Jacj again lay in that letter, those fading photographs. So many years had passed without him.

  Jacj’s absence was eternally in the background of everything I did. Whatever had happened to him gave me feelings of dread, misery, guilt, horror, helplessness, but you cannot work up these emotions every day, every hour. I feared for him, was terrified of the news that I felt would come inevitably: he was dead, he had gone missing in action, he was horrifically wounded, he had deserted and been shot by officers. All these I pondered.

  Yet the time went by, I had my own life, no bad news came, but neither did Jacj return. I never forgot him, was always aware of how he had been taken, but also, as the years went by, I found it increasingly difficult to remember him. Dread, misery and helplessness were bad enough, but guilt was the hardest to deal with.

  ‘They will bring Jacj home soon,’ my mother said that day. She mentioned units of other young men who had been drafted a few months before Jacj. ‘The 275th Battalion returned safely. They release them in order, don’t they? It can’t be much longer before Jacj is home.’

  She was waiting for the return of the 289th. She spoke optimistically but vaguely of the regular bulletins broadcast by the military junta. News came through every week – I had listened to some of those broadcasts until I realized what they really were.

  My mother took comfort from the junta’s imprecise announcements of a successful skirmish here, a routing of enemy troops there, a victory, a tactical retreat, a new stronghold established, a long march across icy terrain to reinforce other sections, a minimum of casualties. She pointed to the heaps of old newspapers. The facts were always encouraging. Few young Glaundian soldiers ever seemed to be injured, while the other side, those fighting for the Faiandland Alliance, were said to suffer horrific losses. The war was not likely to come to an end soon, but our cause was prevailing. Victory was inevitable. One day.