by Ekow Duker
‘I’m so sorry,’ he cried. He looked at Karabo for support but she didn’t know how to respond. It was kind of embarrassing and she felt for him.
‘It’s all in your head, Nigel,’ André said sternly. ‘Don’t be overwhelmed by the fact that you’re playing a Guadagnini. Try and relax. You know you can do it.’
He sounded like a boxing trainer whose ward was taking a hammering in the ring. Like there was prize money to be won that Nigel hadn’t told Karabo about.
André lowered his voice and turned to Mrs Summerscales. ‘You said he’s never played the Guadagnini before?’
Mrs Summerscales shook her head and snapped at her son. ‘Pull yourself together, Nigel! You were the one who insisted on playing tonight.’
Nigel nodded vigorously at each exhortation. It was a scene straight out of a Rocky movie and Karabo was tempted to give them a slow clap. But despite his stern tone, there was a tenderness in André’s manner that made her think he really cared about Nigel. She half-expected him to bring the pep talk to a close with a snarl and say, ‘Now get out there and show the bastards what you can do!’ But he didn’t. He simply settled back in his chair with a dimpled smile of contentment on his face.
The second time was much better. It was amazing how the voice of an instrument as small as a violin could fill a space so completely. It really looked like the Guadagnini had become an extension of Nigel’s body. Or perhaps he became an extension of the violin. Karabo saw it in the lift of his jaw and the way his head lurched in time to the music. She saw it in the fluidity of his fingers against the angled poise of his arms.
And then it happened again. It wasn’t a stumble this time, more like a running out of steam. A drawn-out capitulation made all the more horrible because there was nothing any of them could do. The notes lost their way, milled around aimlessly for a moment, then fell into shamefaced silence.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Nigel mumbled. He wouldn’t meet their eyes. He kept his face turned up towards the ceiling. It was as though he were looking for the high watermark of the music he’d just played.
‘Why don’t you let Mr Potgieter play now, Nigel?’ Mrs Summerscales said. If the Guadagnini were a plastic toy, then Nigel had had his turn. He gave the violin to André and came and sat next to Karabo. She took his hand and whispered words of consolation in his ear. Then his mother’s voice cut in harshly.
‘Be quiet, the two of you! Mr Potgieter is about to play.’
CHAPTER 28
Karabo, Nigel and Mrs Summerscales watched André’s every movement in hushed fascination. First, he took a block of rosin out of his pocket and proceeded to rub the strings with it. He blew lightly on his fingers as he did so, as if he were coaxing a small flame into life. Then he closed his eyes and bent his large head over the violin while he hummed a note and ran the bow across the A string. He kept the violin clamped under his chin and adjusted the fine tuner with small, dextrous twists of his fingers. He worked swiftly, playing the strings in pairs and with much more assurance than Nigel had done. Then he plucked each string gently with his fingers as if he were calling out their names and gave a small nod of satisfaction each time they responded.
When André held the violin up to the light, Karabo could have sworn it was alive. The polished wood glowed with such opulence that the surface seemed to move and swirl like a hologram.
‘Well, Mr Potgieter?’
‘One moment,’ he said.
A small smile of anticipation tugged at Mrs Summerscales’ lips.
But a minute passed and André had still not played a note. ‘What’s the matter now, Mr Potgieter?’ Mrs Summerscales asked. ‘Don’t tell me you’re as overcome with nerves as Nigel?’
A strangled cry pushed through André’s lips and Karabo stared at him in alarm. All the colour had drained from his face and he was trembling as though he had suddenly contracted a fever.
‘Good lord, Potgieter!’ Mrs Summerscales cried. ‘What’s come over you?’
‘I … I … I thought I saw something, that’s all. It was nothing. I must have been mistaken.’
Mrs Summerscales looked at him suspiciously. ‘Have you been drinking, Potgieter?’
‘Of course not.’ He tapped his feet on the tiled floor and smiled eagerly to reassure her.
‘Well, get on with it then.’
Mrs Summerscales settled in her chair once more and signalled for André to begin. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began to play.
The first note was exquisite. It hung in the air like a thing of rare beauty, drawn out, haunting and true. The bow dipped slightly and the next note André played was even more wondrous. It resonated with such brilliance that Karabo gasped out loud.
The delicacy of André’s playing absorbed them completely. He played with warm impudence and yet at times the music was as anguished as a plea for life. It was a glorious rendition of Beethoven’s violin concerto, right through until the very last cadenza. He ended with a flourish and Mrs Summerscales clapped her hands in delight.
‘That was divine, Mr Potgieter!’ she exclaimed. Her face was flushed and her eyes shone with pleasure.
‘It was nothing,’ André said. His chest was heaving and his forehead glistened with sweat. He looked like he’d run all the way from north London.
The angels had left now but André had seen them. Three angels floating effortlessly between the floor and panelled ceiling of the conservatory. They’d taken up their positions without a sound, one each behind Mrs Summerscales, Nigel and Karabo. They kept their wings folded behind them as they listened to him play, their bare toes pointing to the floor like ballet dancers. He didn’t dare ask the others if they’d seen them too. He knew they hadn’t. One of the angels had even lain his hands gently on Karabo’s head and she’d flicked at her ear as if a fly had settled there.
But the angels had been different this time for each of them had a sword strapped to his back. The blades were spattered with what looked like dried blood and their wings were dull and bruised in places. And when he finished and the angels turned to go, he thought their eyes were heavy with reproach. He had the distinct feeling that he’d let them down in some way and it tortured him that he had no idea what he had done. They floated through the ceiling one after the other, leaving an electric smell in their wake.
Mrs Summerscales came up to André and touched him lightly on the arm. ‘That was splendid, Mr Potgieter! Absolutely wonderful.’
Her unexpected familiarity took André by surprise. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It was an honour to play for you.’
‘You do play beautifully, Mr Potgieter,’ Nigel said enviously. ‘I wish I were as good as you.’
‘And you will be,’ André replied graciously. He placed a hand on his chest and gave them a little bow.
They were standing in a tight cluster around the Guadagnini. All of them except Karabo, who remained seated in her chair.
‘You can put this away now, Nigel,’ Mrs Summerscales began to say when André interjected.
‘Mrs Summerscales,’ he said. ‘Such a magnificent instrument deserves to be played more often. It wasn’t made to be kept on display or stuck away in a collector’s vault.’ He grew bolder and carried on without thinking. ‘It’s rather selfish of you, actually.’
Mrs Summerscales’ eyes narrowed. ‘Be careful, Potgieter,’ she said. ‘It’s not the done thing to call someone selfish to their face.’
She looked at André in expectation of an apology but he carried on in a reckless rush.
‘May I borrow it then? Before you sell it, I mean. Just to keep it in tune, make sure it’s in shape. That sort of thing.’
Nigel’s head snapped up in surprise. ‘What do you mean before you sell it?’ His eyes sought his mother’s but she looked away.
‘You can’t sell the Guadagnini,’ Nigel said slowly. ‘It’s mine.’
‘Only in a manner of speaking, Nigel,’ his mother replied. She drew herself upright and her chin contracted into a round, obstinate b
all.
‘But you promised it to me!’
‘And so I did. But it’s either the violin or the house and I’d rather have a roof over my head, thank you very much.’
‘You’re in debt again, aren’t you?’ Nigel said accusingly.
Mrs Summerscales wrapped her necklace around her fingers, tugging it as if she might strangle herself. And when she spoke there was a faint undertone of hysteria in her voice.
‘I’ve considered all the options, Nigel. Don’t imagine for a moment I don’t know how much the Guadagni means to you.’
‘Why are you selling it then? You can’t owe that much money.’ He paused. ‘Can you?’
Mrs Summerscales looked at Karabo as if realising for the first time she was in the room.
‘Let’s talk about this in private, shall we?’
Nigel slammed the violin case shut. The sound it made reverberated through the room like a pistol shot. He pointed a quivering finger at his mother.
‘No, Mother. We’ll talk about it right now.’
‘Very well,’ his mother said. ‘I see you’re intent on embarrassing us in front of perfect strangers.’
‘You’re the one embarrassing yourself, Mother,’ Nigel retorted. ‘How long have you planned on selling the Guadagnini?’
‘That’s not important. As I said, I’ve considered every other option and I’m terribly sorry, but the violin has to go.’
‘You could ask the bank for a loan.’
Mrs Summerscales’ nose twitched as if reliving an unpleasant odour. ‘I’ve already been to the bank. They can’t help. Or won’t help, more likely.’
‘Then sell something else, for god’s sake!’ Nigel flung his arm out to take in the conservatory with its plump chairs and stained-glass lamps. ‘You’ll get a tidy sum for this lot, not to mention the stuff in the rest of the house.’
A fleeting look of despair appeared on Mrs Summerscales’ face. Then she visibly composed herself and it was gone.
‘If you must know, I’ve already disposed of what I could. Without making the place look unsightly and unfinished of course.’
‘Unsightly?’ Nigel cried. ‘Unfinished? Is that all you care about?’
‘They were extraneous items,’ his mother replied stubbornly. ‘Your father’s easy chair for example.’
Nigel’s eyes settled on an empty spot next to a large wicker basket filled with ornamental bamboo canes.
‘It was frightfully vulgar,’ his mother said. ‘And it took up too much space.’
Nigel’s hands clenched into fists. He gave a loud snort and lowered his head like a buffalo about to charge. Karabo sprang from her chair and laid a hand on his shoulder. But he brushed it away and advanced on his mother.
‘The Guadagnini isn’t an extraneous item, Mother,’ he muttered through clenched teeth.
Mrs Summerscales stood her ground but she eyed her son warily.
‘Needs must, Nigel. You don’t get much for used furniture these days.’
Nigel spat at her with venom. ‘You’re disgusting! How long, Mother? How long have you been lying to me?’
‘I’ve never lied to you, Nigel. I just didn’t expect you to take to the violin the way you did.’ She looked exhausted all of a sudden and the veins of her neck stood out against the paleness of her skin.
‘How do you think I’ve paid your fees at Saint Anthony’s?’ she said quietly. ‘Mr Potgieter can tell you how expensive it is.’ Then her voice grew harsh. ‘It’s either I sell the bloody violin or you can start busking at the Fulham Broadway tube station!’
There was a stunned silence that seemed to last for several minutes.
‘Don’t make like this is my fault,’ Nigel said at last but there was a note of defeat in his voice.
‘I think you’re being very unkind to Nigel,’ Karabo interjected. ‘He’s had his heart set on the violin for years. I agree with André. You can’t just sell it off like it’s a piece of old furniture.’
Mrs Summerscales’ features twisted into a caricature of dislike. She whirled on Karabo with her arm raised as if to strike.
‘Oh shut up! What do you know about violins?’
Karabo was taken aback by the swiftness of Mrs Summerscales’ aggression. She stammered a hasty response.
‘I … I told you. I’ve got one back home.’
‘But you never played it, did you?’ jeered Mrs Summerscales. ‘You’re black. All your lot knows how to do is to bang animal skin drums and dance naked like bloody savages.’
CHAPTER 29
Karabo and Nigel left almost immediately after that. They said goodbye to André Potgieter in the street and departed in opposite directions. It was cold outside and the sharp chill matched Karabo’s mood. Neither she nor Nigel said a word to each other.
‘Would you like to sit for a while?’ Nigel asked eventually. He pointed at the Blackbird pub ahead. Karabo shook her head. She didn’t really like English pubs. Too many people brandishing mugs of beer and shouting in each other’s faces.
He slipped his hand into her jacket pocket and curled his fingers around hers. ‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t let my mother get to you.’
They walked like that for a few minutes more until he sat Karabo down on a bench. Across from them was a row of white stucco houses. They looked just like those in the street where his mother lived.
‘I’m sorry,’ Nigel said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you to come.’
They were both bewildered. He by the revelation that his beloved violin was to be sold and Karabo by the shock of Mrs Summerscales’ red-toothed hostility. She’d always suspected that Nigel’s mother merely tolerated her. But she’d never imagined the snide remarks Mrs Summerscales had made the first day they’d met were signposts to much deeper wells of loathing. Nigel’s mother obscured her dislike with such good manners that Karabo had been caught unawares. Like a misdirecting magician, she flattered Karabo in one sentence and then, when her guard was down, followed it with thinly veiled abuse.
She doesn’t know any better, Karabo said to herself. After all, Mrs Summerscales had been brought up in an earlier time. Then she remembered the vile words the woman had spat at her and she shuddered with disgust.
The street lights clicked on just then, glowing weakly in the fading evening light. Nigel stroked Karabo’s face with his fingers.
‘I’m sorry for the things my mother said to you. That was unacceptable.’
Karabo let out a short, brutish laugh. ‘Unacceptable? That sounds like a corporate press release.’ She held an imaginary microphone in front of her and read a scripted mea culpa out loud. ‘We are deeply distressed by Mrs Susan Summerscales’ remarks. We find her words unacceptable and would like to assure the public that her views are entirely incompatible with those of Summerscales Limited.’ She looked at Nigel. ‘How was that?’ she asked.
‘Not bad,’ Nigel said with a smile.
Karabo didn’t have it in her to stay angry for long and she felt a little better already. ‘I have an old hat you could use,’ she said.
Nigel cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘For people to throw coins in when you’re busking.’
She thought it would make him laugh but he clenched his teeth all of a sudden and his jaw stood out against his pale skin.
‘That violin is my life,’ Nigel said in a low voice. ‘I’d kill to have it with me right now.’
She stroked his arm and asked, ‘How did you start playing?’
‘The violin?’
She nodded. ‘Or rather, why?’
He looked up at the street lamp above them as if it were a teleprompter and the answer to her question was written there. He inhaled deeply and his nostrils flattened against his face for what seemed an unusually long time.
‘It was my father’s idea. He used to drive me and my mother to concerts at the school.’
‘You’re lucky,’ Karabo said. ‘I had to walk.’
He went on as if s
he hadn’t spoken. ‘I think he arranged his leave from the army to coincide with my concerts because he never missed a single one.’ He chuckled bitterly. ‘The first time I went up on stage I practically shat myself. I felt like I’d been dragged in front of a firing squad and was about to be shot.’
‘How did it go?’ Karabo asked but she knew the answer already.
‘Horrible. Absolutely horrible.’ He turned to her with a haunted look. ‘Like tonight.’
‘Rubbish. You played very well tonight.’
‘You don’t have to lie. I’ve dreamed about the Guadagnini for years. I just wasn’t expecting to play it so soon.’
‘Was that what the two of you were arguing about? When you sent me to the conservatory ahead of you?’
Nigel sighed. ‘Yes. It’s like you have a crush on a girl and out of the blue, she shows up on your doorstep. I wasn’t ready. I was either going to play magnificently tonight or screw it up completely. I screwed it up.’
She stroked the back of his hand and it seemed to soothe him. His voice grew low and dreamlike and his jaw softened again.
‘You know, the oddest thing happened that night at the school. The worse I played, the louder the parents clapped for me. I heard my mother calling out my name all the way through. It was like she was in the stands at Stamford Bridge and I was out there on the pitch.’
He shot Karabo a furtive look. ‘She doesn’t do that anymore.’
‘How old were you?’ she asked. ‘Twelve?’
‘Eleven. And after you’ve had a hall full of grown-ups cheering for you, you’ve really got no choice. You’ve just got to get on with it and do the thing they were cheering you on for.’
Karabo knew what he meant. The massed library of records. The vintage gramophone. The violin. All little nudges on the path that led unerringly to Saint Anthony’s. He’d never had a chance to study something normal and boring like engineering or dentistry.
He looked small and shrunken all of a sudden and she wanted to hug him as hard as she could. Instead she traced the arc of his lips with her finger, then pressed the tip of her nail into the pink flesh.
