*
When she came round, she was in her bedroom and a first-aider from the St John’s Ambulance Brigade was rubbing her right hand, which ached, but for once in a good way. Boult was pacing up and down near the window and the manager of the Savoy himself was beside the bed, asking her how she was feeling.
‘She hasn’t eaten,’ Boult cut in. ‘I am sure we can fix her with nothing more elaborate than a jolly good meal. Now, my wife is waiting downstairs in the restaurant… ’
‘Sir Adrian, leave it to me. I will arrange everything.’ The manager took his leave and strode away.
Jelly tried to laugh, but she felt too dizzy to sit up.
‘Your sister is coming, my dear,’ Boult said. ‘I’ve telephoned her.’
‘Oh, but – Adrian, you don’t understand.’
‘I understand perfectly. They’ll come, we’ll all eat and they’ll take you home.’
‘Nooo! I’m here because I wish to be, I need to be independent… ’
‘Yes, yes, you may be. You may be, and do, and go, anywhere you wish. But not until after we’ve played the Schumann. All right? I refuse to see you go off the rails. You may want to, but I won’t let it happen.’
‘I’m not off the rails. I’ve never been so happy in my life!’
‘That,’ said Boult, ‘is exactly what I mean.’ He sat beside her and kept his voice low. ‘Do you know how this begins to happen to musicians? They drink. They drink alone. Then they take too many of the wrong pills, the morphine, the barbiturates, and they lose the thread out of the labyrinth. Some never find it again. Now, as long as I have anything to do with it, this is not going to happen to you. If need be, I shall kidnap you myself. But the person best able to look after you is your sister, and you know that as well as I do.’
John, the red-eared little porter, came in carrying a china cup and saucer. ‘Miss d’Arányi, madam, my auntie in ’ousekeeping says this’ll sort you out good and proper. A nice cup of tea with some sugar in it, right?’
‘Thank you, John. That’s so kind.’ Jelly propped herself up to sip it, and sure enough, no drink had ever tasted more delicious, not even the White Lady. After a minute, the sugar reached her bloodstream and the room’s revolutions settled into quieter orbit.
‘Jelly!’
Adila was there, in a rush of blue silk and black coat. She swooped on Jelly and gathered her into her arms. Boult made a tactful retreat.
‘You silly girl, where’ve you been?’ she boomed. ‘What are you doing here? We’ve been worrying ourselves into the ground!’
‘I’ve been playing the violin in the lounge. They all loved it.’
‘I bet they did. Now, listen. Why are you doing this?’
Jelly didn’t know where to begin. She had underestimated her own sister – and Adila, as she should know by now, was not a woman one should ever underestimate. ‘Schumann. It’s the Schumann, and the messages… I needed so much to get away… ’
Adila sat back, thinking, then bent close. ‘Listen. We won’t ever know what explains them. We’ll never be sure. But we have two things: we have them, but more importantly, we have the concerto. If Kulenkampff has played it and Hindemith has arranged it and the Nazis have conscripted it and Menuhin has taken it and someone else has done it in Jerusalem and some idiots have thrown abuse at you over it, so what? Why should that matter? Before the messages, we didn’t have the concerto. Now the world has it. And next week you’re going to introduce it to Britain. So there.’
‘Adi, you’re incredible,’ Jelly snuffled. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Sai, so are you. You are the blessed one, the goddess, the muse.’
‘Oh, what rubbish, darling. Can you ever forgive me?’
‘There’s nothing to forgive. Come along, Sai, we’re going to celebrate. Tidy yourself up and come down to the restaurant. Alec is there with the Boults, waiting for us. You’re here, you’re with us and we will never let you go. Later you’re coming straight home and tomorrow you’re going to practise that concerto knowing that it’s going to go down in history, observed by all of this world and the next. Yes? Promise me?’
‘Yes, Adi, I promise.’
‘For me, Sai. Play it for me.’
‘I already am,’ said Jelly.
*
Ulli Schultheiss wondered if it was worth ironing his shirt. Normally he would not be seen in public without everything perfectly placed: collar, cufflinks, jacket. But now he had to be selective, and fast. Nobody knew his plan. Everything must fit in one briefcase, a largish one, but a briefcase nonetheless. One shirt. A change of underwear and socks. His belt was buckled on its tightest setting, since he’d lost so much weight that his trousers would fall down without it. His most comfortable shoes were on his feet, for he would take no others.
He had to move quickly, not only in case danger might be imminent, if someone had followed him, read his mind and intended to stop him leaving, but because if he delayed he might never go through with it. After work he’d bade the Streckers goodnight, the bust of Wagner too, as if this day were no different from any other. Friday was normally his evening with Willy and family; he’d made an excuse about needing to see his mother. It was true enough: he did need to see her, for he had no idea when he ever might again. But he wasn’t going there tonight.
He spent an hour and a half cleaning and tidying his flat. He made sure that the books were in alphabetical order; that the sheet music was flat and organised among its dividers; that his Bechstein was closed and covered with a protective blanket. The piano nearly broke his heart. He thought of its voice silenced, its strings untuned; were he never to return, it might be discarded and broken into pieces. Perhaps someone would look after it, though, and save it, and one day he could have it rescued and shipped to… well, somewhere. With evening the electric light inside seemed harsh, the windows and beyond blacker than ever.
He sat down at the table to write to his mother.
Dearest Mutti,
If you are reading this, it means that I am far away and sending it from my destination.
I know how much my decision will hurt you. Please know that I am thinking of you with all my heart.
Aside from living with other people, we have to be able to live with ourselves. I have to feel I can do that. I have tried always to be a person of honour, as you taught me and as my father was. I don’t want to disgrace his memory, or you, or my own conscience.
I feel I have recently let down someone who depended on me to help her, and in doing so, let down my own profession, which I can roughly describe, even if it sounds pretentious, as bringing music to people. I want to make amends of some kind to this lady, who has inadvertently changed my life. This is not what you may think, but it’s no less crucial to me for that.
I need to recapture anything that remains of my own integrity. That’s all we have in the end, the only thing that can steer us through, no matter what the world throws at us. When the tide turns, if we are still on this earth, I will come back to you.
Please grant me your blessing and your forgiveness.
He just had time for a quick sandwich before the train. He was smearing on the last of the butter when the telephone rang. He paused, heartbeat choking him. Would it look more suspicious to answer it, or not to? He picked up.
‘Nah, Ulli!’ His mother, after all.
Somehow he managed to feign normal conversation. She told him about her lunch with her sister, wondered what to cook for Sunday lunch, wanted to know if he would be there. ‘I can’t,’ said Ulli. ‘I have to go to Frankfurt.’
‘When are you going?’
‘Actually, now. My train is in one hour.’
‘When are you back?’
‘I don’t know exactly.’ That, too, was true.
‘Phone me when you can, then,’ said his mother.
‘I will,’ Ulli promised, trying not to think or feel or fear.
‘All right, dear, ’til soon, then.’ A click.
Silence.
It was time to leave. No more words, no more consideration: only to act. Ulli stowed the letter in an inside pocket in his jacket, close to his heart. He pulled on his coat and hat, put away the last coffee cup, switched off all the lights. He locked up as he did every time he went away for a work trip. The Streckers would be shocked when he did not appear at the office, but he had to trust that inwardly they would respect his decision. Outside, he turned his back on the block and walked swiftly, head lowered against the cold wind, thinking vaguely about how much he would miss his bicycle.
En route to the station, he passed the conservatoire; he remembered watching Hans Gál and his family treading the same route five years earlier. All the Jewish staff members had gone now, heaven knew to where; watching them go, or recognising that they simply weren’t there any more, he had never imagined that he, too, would someday bid his home farewell, possibly for a long time. It wasn’t as if he had to leave, unlike them. But since facing down Goebbels’ committee on behalf of Jelly, Ulli was a different man. He could not sleep, had been growing thin and gaunt, and felt petrified at the sight of every unopened letter and the ring of every telephone; and he had searched deep inside the forest paths of his own mind. To retreat, to keep invisible, that was not enough. To live under fascism would destroy him, perhaps send him as insane as Schumann had been. He had to stand by his conscience. That alone could lead him and let his theme transform, breaking free, out into the light, like Schumann’s Polonaise.
In London, assuming he could get there – he was by no means certain he could – he must explore every contact he had. He’d phone Tovey first, and Jelly, with trepidation. She had no idea of his plan, since he had told no one. Perhaps she would not speak to him; he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. But even if nothing came of that, even if all his friends there rejected him outright, even if internment as an enemy alien might follow, he would still be able to hold up his head and declare his lessons learned, his fears conquered and his mind at peace with his higher self. He would have done the right thing.
Ulli stood on the station platform and listened for the screech and rattle of the arriving train.
Chapter 20
Backstage at the Queen’s Hall, Jelly unzipped the dress carrier that held her Schumann gown by Edward Molyneux. From her working-woman self in white silk blouse and tweed skirt, she had to become once more Jelly d’Arányi, violin star, muse to Ravel, Bartók and sometimes Elgar, great-niece to Joseph Joachim and chosen one of the blessed spirits. Or something. Preparing for the culmination of the strangest five years of her life, her mind remained resolutely earthbound. The dress was divine: white and silver lamé, with capacious shoulder puffs.
Jelly shimmied into the gown, pushing her arms through layers of silk. Material slid like buttermilk over her hips and down towards her ankles. Her throat rose from the neckline, dark against the dress’s shimmer, and her fingers, sore in the February chill – oh, these accursed British dressing rooms – found the zip and slid it upwards. She took the Bergonzi and tried a few passages. The puffs played her their signature tune, rustling along like the turning of a hundred pages.
She always took her violin to dress fittings. Except this one. Surely she knew by now what she needed from a concert dress? Evidently not. After all that fuss, she was at last to play the Schumann, in one hour’s time, and her silly dress was going to make a noise?
A tap on the door and Adila was there, lauding her in baritone Hungarian. ‘Sai! You look good enough to eat.’
‘Adi, it’s a disaster. Listen to this… Rustlerustlerustlerustle!’
‘Nonsense, darling.’ Adila grabbed her hands and rubbed them hard. ‘Nobody will hear it.’
‘I will. Adrian will. And the orchestra will, and they’ll die laughing.’
‘They won’t. They’re on your side, you know they are.’ The rehearsal that morning had flown by without a hitch; musician after musician came up to Jelly to exclaim on the excitement of playing an unknown piece by Schumann, the beauty of the Andante, the stateliness of the Polonaise. It had gone too well for a dress rehearsal, the music shining out into the empty hall while Adrian, Jelly and the orchestra pulled together as strongly as if steering a new ship into its maiden voyage. If it had gone badly, she’d be happier now.
‘Don’t be superstitious,’ Adila ordered. ‘You’ll be fine. Now, let’s get your make-up fixed and your hands warm.’
‘Who’s here?’ Jelly let Adila help her with her stage look, as Adila loved to do on important occasions.
‘Everyone. Erik is proud as punch. He and Alec have been at the champagne already. Adri’s here, the school let her come back specially and she’s so thrilled. Ralph has brought Titi, and they’re actually coming to our place later.’
‘Myra?’
‘She has a concert of her own, but she rang to send you her love.’
Jelly closed her eyes and let Adila brush a light-gold shadow over their lids. ‘George?’
‘There’s a telegram. She’s travelling in France, but she’s sending you all her love too. Anna called to say she’ll come if there is no snow today. But I think in Sussex, there is snow… ’
‘The Joachims, perhaps?’
‘If Elisabeth is here, she hasn’t told me. Perhaps she forgot… ’
‘Jelly, I’m here.’ Tovey was in the doorway, leaning against the frame and wiping a tear from the corner of his eye at the sight of her.
‘Donald!’ Jelly jumped out of her chair and cascaded across the room to him. He flushed nearly as purple as the Savoy porter. ‘You found your tickets?’ She had booked complimentary seats for him.
‘Yes, thank you, my dear, and I have a friend with me. I think you may find many unexpected friends here tonight, visible and otherwise. See how far you’ve come? You’ve turned an old academic codger like me into a mystic believer and yourself into a heroine.’
‘But I’ve made an almighty mess for everyone and they’ve all told me so.’
‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. You see tonight as an end, but it’s a beginning. This concerto has come back to life because of you, whatever anyone says, and violinists are going to play it, love it and understand it better for generations to come. That’s thanks to you. You’ve achieved something everyone wants. Call it, if you like, immortality.’
Jelly pondered his words for a moment. She had never looked for that, merely for a slightly longer lifespan on the concert platform; it was a strange idea, one that might mean little if Herr Hitler could not be restrained from his military ambitions for ever. Besides, she felt that just now she would trade any amount of immortality for one word from Ulli Schultheiss. It was several months since his last phone call. Today no card had arrived, no letter, no telegram. Willy Strecker had wired a message, but Ulli had not signed it. She let herself imagine, for an instant, another type of world, one in which a German man and a partly Jewish woman, older than he was, could meet unencumbered, laugh together, dance the tango, play Schumann, and goodness knows what else, without the English Channel, mad governments and prejudiced societies to stop them.
Instead, should she take all that unborn feeling and sink it in the sea? She chose: she would not. She couldn’t mourn a formless love; she’d already mourned too many others. There could be another way to look at it: perhaps it didn’t matter if people she loved weren’t physically there. Presence, as Tovey suggested, exists in other forms.
And the messages? What was the truth? The subconscious, or Schumann’s spirit? Jelly chose again: Schumann’s spirit. On the same principle as Ulli’s.
She opened her eyes and assessed her reflection, awareness glinting out of her dark irises. She had to be no more tonight than the active component of her violin. No extraneous emotion – and no rustling dress – must upset the flow from Schumann’s mind to the audience’s. A musician is the truest medium there is. She, her technique and the Bergonzi were his channel now from world to world.
She let her sister massage
her hands, one at a time. In the hall the orchestra was warming up; some overture was opening the programme, she couldn’t remember which. She tried to blot out all that was extraneous, all that was physical. The concerto existed in sound alone, nothing that could be seen, claimed and owned. Everyone wanted to pierce it with a pin and fix it to a velvet board, but it belonged to everybody and nobody. It was the sum total of all that had passed: imagined by Schumann, nurtured by Clara, fired up by Brahms, twisted by Onkel Jo, guarded by all those gatekeepers, meddled with by Goebbels and Hindemith and even perhaps Ulli. Yehudi, she knew, would play it perfectly – so perhaps she and he were allies after all, desiring the best for the work – and whenever it was played, it would be born anew.
‘Miss d’Arányi, ten minutes, please.’
Adila stopped the gentle motion of hand to hand. ‘All right now, Sai?’
‘Wonderful, Adi. Yes, go and find your seat.’ Perhaps Adila was rubbing some spell into her bones; the pain was receding, the blood warm and coursing.
‘See you later.’ Adila kissed her on both cheeks and went.
Alone, Jelly played quietly through the passagework in the Polonaise one last time. Her mind calmed with the motion of her fingers across the strings.
Her call to the stage came; she glided through the familiar corridors. The dress hissed, whispered and crackled; she’d have to live with it. From the wings she could see the orchestra on stage, the curved shore of the ocean of auditorium, a reef of shadowed heads and shoulders. She stood alone for a minute, lost in her thoughts. Many times she had waited on this spot without a breath of fear. How had she ever had such confidence? Her elbow still ached. Would anybody notice? She had to convince everyone that Schumann’s state of mind had not affected his music, but now, too, that she was not battling the interlocked spirals of body and mind on her own account. She forced herself to set aside this cacophony of alarm and to begin, instead, to pray. Dear God, and dear Virgin Mary, and dear Schumann: if you ever give me your blessing, let it be now.
Ghost Variations Page 28
