Ghost Variations

by Jessica Duchen

  ‘Erik.’ Jelly rounded on the baron. ‘Why is there nothing from them now?’

  ‘I wish I knew.’ Erik’s gaze, like Alec’s, like Adila’s, was full of sympathy – and more, perhaps fear or guilt.

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling me. Adi, is it Ulli? Did he phone again?’ Despite the message he had left, there had been no sound – and no letter. She felt distraught. Something must have happened to him, and in Germany that could mean anything.

  ‘Sai… ’ Alec got up and came over to Jelly to press both her shoulders. ‘It’s Yehudi. He’s going to play the Schumann in London. Erik has just heard about it.’

  The shock struck like a missile. ‘Has Boult cancelled mine?’

  ‘No, no, you will play it. But he will play it too. A little after you, with a different orchestra.’

  ‘But – when? As soon as next season?’

  ‘As soon as – oh, Sai. Three weeks after you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the Queen’s Hall as well.’

  As if they were simply ignoring her existence. As if the hall, the promoter, perhaps the audience, had all decided she didn’t count. Let’s indulge the silly little woman and her spirit messages and let her play it first. And afterwards we’ll have the real premiere.

  Everybody’s darling Yehudi. First he played the Schumann with piano accompaniment at Carnegie Hall in New York; then a couple of weeks later with the St Louis Symphony Orchestra at their home venue. He was making the Schumann Concerto his comeback work, when it was supposed to be hers. With less than two months until her own performance – confirmed for 16 February 1938, nearly three months after the German airing – a chasm appeared in Jelly’s mind, like a lightning bolt in a tree. In her bedroom mirror, her reflection stared at her with furrows in her forehead that she’d not noticed before, a line across the top of her nose that was definitely new. Her elbow fired bolts of pain along her arm. What would Ulli think if he saw her now? What would Elgar say, or Ravel, or Holst? Muses are not supposed to go grey, or to develop wrinkles, or to suffer from arthritis. Muses are young, beautiful and perfect.

  Like Yehudi. An artistic photo in the press showed a youth almost too handsome for his own good: those long eyelashes shielded fine-shaped eyes and the high cheekbones supported the glow of youthful skin above his violin. That was a muse. And if one muse grew old and ill and crumbled, there’d always be another ready to slide into his, or her, place.

  *

  Erik rang their doorbell one Sunday lunchtime shortly before Christmas, when they were just back from Mass – arriving alone, unannounced and unexpected. Before Adila could quiz him, embracing her with one arm and Jelly with the other, he declared, ‘I have some news for you. I’ve resigned. Soon I shall no longer be the Swedish minister.’ Adrienne, home for the holidays, gasped aloud, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Come in. Eat. Tell us.’ Adila manoeuvred him through the hall, into the dining room. Jelly spotted an unfamiliar quizzical expression in Adrienne’s eyes. She was growing up and beginning to understand.

  Over Adila’s goulash, the Fachiris and Jelly bombarded him with questions, the two women less tactfully than Alec. What had happened? ‘Many things,’ he said, without meeting their gazes. What had prompted his decision? ‘Many things.’ What would he do now? ‘Many things. Another book. More research. I don’t know yet… Look, this is a difficult job at the best of times. I feel there’s nothing more I can do, and when one feels there is nothing more one can do in one’s job, it’s time to leave.’

  ‘Don’t be so gloomy,’ Adila pleaded. ‘It’s Christmas.’

  ‘Adi, we’ll do Christmas in a minute,’ Alec promised. ‘Erik, I can understand this very well and I don’t blame you a bit. It’s no time to be a diplomat if you’re also an idealist. We all need to wake up. Germany’s going to explode sooner or later, probably sooner. I just heard that they’re saying they’ll take children away from their parents if they’re not being reared to be National Socialist enough.’

  ‘And probably send them to my school,’ Adrienne mumbled.

  ‘The whole of Europe’s going mad,’ Erik said. ‘Look at Spain – thousands of young men being killed over an insane ideology. As for Russia, God alone knows… ’

  ‘Still, Erik, in some ways you’ve picked an original moment to abandon government circles – now that your own party is in power,’ Alec noted.

  Erik had spent some years as a Swedish MP, but being a Social Democrat, only in opposition. ‘My one concession to English irony,’ he remarked.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the book, is it?’ Jelly asked. If she felt so unsettled by the accusations surrounding its publication, its author must feel far worse. Besides, she wondered silently what his government might think about his enduring credibility.

  ‘I wouldn’t resign for the sake of a few idiotic reviews.’ The baron shrugged. If it had been anything more than a simple decision, he did not plan to say so. ‘There’s a great deal to do, Jelly,’ he went on. ‘I’m in touch with some multi-faith organisations and I’d love to help them. The clash of religions causes so much trouble, yet at heart they’re all the same. We can build bridges if people can be made to understand, and that’s what I’d like to do next.’

  Nobody had asked what Ebba might make of all this, or where she was today.

  ‘You’ll have to leave the Residence, won’t you?’ Adila said. ‘Will you go back to Sweden?’ Jelly noticed that her fingers were laced tightly together around the base of her wineglass.

  ‘We must hand on the house to the next man in the job. As for Sweden, I don’t know yet. There’ll be big changes, for sure.’

  Adila excused herself to fetch the dessert, then vanished to the bathroom, pleading stomach pains.

  *

  Immediately after Christmas Jelly and Adila both had to set off for new UK tours. Once upon a time Anna Robertson would have gone along to keep Jelly company, but now Jelly travelled alone – and perhaps that was best. The distances were substantial, the cold intense; no good for a recovering consumptive. Hull, Nottingham, Sheffield, Bognor Regis. She battled with icy draughts on stage and strained her eyes against dim lighting. At least the audiences warmed her spirit: people who loved music, wanted to listen to what she could give them, and even came to thank her for it; people who didn’t give a damn how she found the Schumann, as long as she would play it for them someday. On occasion, mercifully, they didn’t know about the furore at all; then she enjoyed the relief of pretending it hadn’t happened.

  Yet often she was sure they knew, but weren’t saying so, and she’d wonder half the night what gossip there might be behind her back. She’d never worried about such things before. She’d been too busy enjoying herself and charming people. Now she felt worn out by slow trains and bumpy roads; and the drizzle and the wind were eating at her joints. She would excuse herself politely from well-intentioned post-concert dinners and go straight to bed in whatever hotel or bed and breakfast she’d been booked into, and she didn’t mind if it was simple, because nobody had any money these days and she had to do her bit to help them get by. Sometimes she ate little after the concert except tinned cream of tomato soup and a ham sandwich, sitting on a sagging mattress, a solitary lightbulb dangling overhead.

  One night, just before the new year, she opened a newspaper and found there the obituary of Ravel, who had died after undergoing brain surgery. His birdlike gaze was still alive in her mind: the way they’d laughed together at Kettner’s back in the Twenties, the gusto with which he tucked his napkin into his collar to protect his elegant clothes, and the thrill of anticipation when she opened the parcel he’d sent and saw Tzigane for the first time. She cried herself to sleep.

  *

  At last, at the start of February, just two weeks before the concerto, she reached the end of the tour, on a Sunday afternoon in Eastbourne. She stayed with her old friends the Southerns, enjoying a rare good night’s sleep, besides a respite from tinned to
mato soup; in the morning she headed home, ready to gasp with relief at the sight of Victoria Station’s blackened archways and the smell of lingering London fog.

  On the front step, the wind worrying at her hat and rain bedraggling her old fur coat, she battled with case, dress carrier, violin, flowers and keys. The house was silent and empty. Adrienne had gone back to school; Alec was at work; and there was no dog now to bark a welcome. The latest maid had left them and Adila had not yet found someone new. A note on the hall table told her that Adila was spending the afternoon at Portland Place, where Erik, Ebba and their staff had begun to pack up their household effects.

  Alone, Jelly pottered about, putting away her last unworn tour clothes and piling her concert dresses on a chair ready to take to the dry cleaner’s. She arranged in a vase the bouquet that had been presented to her after the Eastbourne concert, then placed it on the music-room bookcase. She swallowed aspirin for her arm, made some tea and boiled an egg for lunch. She was fishing it out of the pot when the doorbell jangled upstairs.

  The postman? A delivery? Adila home from the baron’s, minus keys? Jelly hurried up the stairs and flung open the front door.

  A stranger stood before her in an overcoat and trilby: a figure only a few inches taller than she was, but with a breadth resembling a sportsman. She registered beneath the hat’s brim a triangle of a face and a gaze aflame behind rectangular spectacles.

  ‘Miss Jelly d’Arányi?’ A strange accent, one she did not recognise, overlaid with a ribbon-curl of American.

  ‘Yes?’ A reporter? No camera, no notebook. A fan? No flowers.

  ‘My name is Moshe Menuhin. I am the father of Yehudi Menuhin.’

  Jelly felt briefly winded. Why hadn’t he contacted her first? How had he found out where she lived? ‘My goodness! Mr Menuhin, how very nice to meet you.’ She extended a hand, which he shook briefly, but with a grasp so strong that it made her wince.

  ‘I’m not sure if you got my letter?’

  Upstairs, two weeks’ worth of post had piled up in her absence. ‘I’ve actually just been away on tour, and I only got back about half an hour ago, so… ’ Jelly gave him her brightest smile.

  ‘I apologise for turning up basically unannounced, then, but I’m only here a couple of days and the schedule is pretty tight, so I thought I’d take pot luck. Do you have a minute to talk, Miss d’Arányi?’

  ‘Yes, of course, sorry, please come in.’

  Moshe Menuhin stepped into the house. She led the way to the music room. Whatever could she give Yehudi Menuhin’s father to eat? Adila must have some cake in the pantry. ‘I’ve just made some tea. Will you have a cup?’

  Moshe Menuhin gave a laugh that Jelly thought more sardonic than warm. ‘How English you’ve become – all tea and excuses and apologies. And there I was, expecting you still to be Hungarian. I can hear the accent, though. It’s a good one.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Goodness, how little she travelled abroad these days: nobody had addressed her in such a way in a long time. A national issue, probably. American informality and suchlike. Normally she liked candour. Today she wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Amazing place you’ve got here. I love the rugs. Persian, no?’

  ‘Our father bought them for us when we were just girls, with some money an uncle left… ’

  Menuhin senior was casting about the music room, peering around – was he looking at the paintings to see if they were signed? Opening the piano to note its brand? Healthy curiosity, perhaps. ‘Ah, a Bechstein. Interesting. A very nice make, not used enough these days.’

  ‘Are you a musician too, Mr Menuhin?’

  ‘Dear me, no, I can’t read a note of music. I appreciate it, of course, but the talent belongs to my children. I have the dignity of a father and the duties of a valet!’ He picked up the portrait of Sep that stood atop the Bechstein and turned it around in his hands. ‘Nice sketch. What is this – John Singer Sargent? Whew – very nice sketch. Who’s the gentleman?’

  ‘A friend. A musician. He died at the Somme.’

  ‘I see.’ That gaze was prodding her with its spike again; this man was quick on the uptake. ‘What kind of musician?’

  ‘A composer and pianist, from Australia. He was also a rower – an Olympic champion… Let me get you some tea, Mr Menuhin? And a piece of my sister’s finest fruit cake? Do have a seat, please… ’

  ‘Thank you.’ Moshe planted himself in the armchair beside the piano.

  Jelly flew downstairs to boil the kettle and locate the cake. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast in Eastbourne – cornflakes with the Southerns – and now her egg stood untouched, tantalising her. She took the cut cake upstairs on the best silver tray, together with her mother’s tea set, at least the two cups that remained unchipped.

  ‘My compliments to the chef.’ Moshe appeared to be enjoying the cake. ‘I gather Mrs Fachiri isn’t in?’

  ‘She’s out seeing friends. I’m glad you arrived after I came home, or there’d have been nobody here.’

  ‘I waited.’

  What? He’d been outside all that time, anticipating her return?

  ‘Your very kind neighbour, Mrs Garrett, spotted me walking around your cul-de-sac about an hour ago and asked me in. I find the sense of community here encouraging. People take an interest in one another’s lives.’

  Mrs Garrett? Kind? Interested, no doubt… ‘I’m touched that you feel I’m worth waiting for.’ Jelly tried once more to don her charm cloak.

  ‘Oh, nobody could be more so.’ He was smiling, but not the smile she’d hoped for. He was playing along. Why? And he’d put Sep’s picture back on the piano in such a position that it appeared the poor lad was staring at Jelly over Moshe’s shoulder.

  ‘Let me come straight to the point, Miss d’Arányi. I want to talk to you about Schumann.’

  Jelly tried to deflect him. ‘I understand Yehudi’s New York performance was a great success. He is such a beautiful violinist, Mr Menuhin, you must be proud of him – but how silly of me, I’m sure everyone says that… ’

  ‘Oh, they do, they do. Pride doesn’t matter. My boy has worked hard and he’s made sacrifices, as have I and his mother and sisters. There’s no such thing as a miracle, even if we’d like to believe so. What did Edison say? One per cent inspiration and 99 per cent perspiration?’

  Jelly nodded. ‘He has enjoyed his sabbatical, I hope?’

  ‘I hope so too. He only gave up 2 million dollars’ worth of work for it.’

  Jelly tried to calculate. How many concerts would he normally do per annum? Surely no more than 60 or 70? That meant… how much for each? If only her mental arithmetic were better; she needed a pencil and paper to work this one out. Whatever the answer, it was unimaginable compared to the provincial music societies that put her up in cheap boarding houses or organisers’ homes and always, always apologised for being too impecunious to offer a better fee.

  ‘Miss d’Arányi, first of all I should explain he has no idea I’ve come to see to you. As you know, he’s playing the Schumann here with the London Philharmonic Orchestra a few weeks after your performance. I’m in town to sort out some logistics, en route to Paris, but passing through London made me think of you, and I began to wonder if you have the slightest idea what has been involved in planning the US premiere?’

  ‘Well, of course I can imagine. I’ve had similar experiences myself.’

  ‘His performance in London was to be the UK premiere, and would have been, if it weren’t for you,’ Moshe pointed out. ‘And if it weren’t for the Nazis, he would have given the world premiere. Instead, what do we have? A fine mess, Miss d’Arányi. A fine mess indeed. I understand, from my correspondence, that they were obliged to move the date of Georg Kulenkampff’s performance because of interference from London.’

  ‘From London?’

  ‘From you. You were, I understand, so adamant that these delightful ‘spirit messages’ gave you the absolute authority to premiere the work that you attempted to trump the Nazis
at their own game. One imagines they weren’t too pleased to hear about your Ouija board.’

  ‘But Mr Menuhin, if it hadn’t been for the messages, nobody would have heard that the concerto existed.’ Jelly pointed out. How on earth had he arrived at such an idea? Had someone written to somebody without her knowing?

  ‘What a tide of cock-a-hoop baloney!’ Moshe was on his feet and Jelly shrank back, for he seemed about to knock over the occasional table complete with his plate of cake and full cup of tea, and it was right beside the piano and her violin case.

  ‘I’ve heard much in my lifetime that’s outrageous and unfair, you know.’ He began to pace the room. She sat transfixed, incredulous. ‘I’ve lived in the Middle East and seen injustices that could turn your hair white in one day. I’ve lived in Jerusalem and seen British arrogance drive wedge after wedge between different peoples, never mind who suffers. I’ve lived in New York and San Francisco, scraping together the cash to feed, clothe and house my family. I’ve worked every minute that God sends, I’ve paid my dues and supported my son through efforts I could never have made in 2,000 years. And now, here it is: this beautiful concerto, come to light after years of suppression, and my boy will give it its best chance. But, oh no. Everything is scuppered, the dates are changed and changed again, I won’t tell you how much the rescheduling has cost – and what’s more, Yehudi has had to let people down, which he would never do, including the best concert hall in the US of A – and all because Miss Jelly d’Arányi says the Schumann concerto is hers becausea Ouija board told her so! When the concerto is listed in the encyclopaedias and the history books and always has been, and anybody could have found it if they’d looked!’

  There was a silence while Jelly worked out how to reply to this diatribe.

  ‘What are you asking me to do?’ she ventured, finally.

  ‘Obviously,’ said Moshe, ‘you should consider whether you wish to go ahead with that concert.’