by Anne Morice
‘Are you sure the Carlsens won’t be here?’ he demanded in shaky tones.
‘No, of course I’m not. I only know what the letter said, and you read it, too. Why? Have you seen them?’
‘Not exactly. It’s just that there’s a whole covey of C.D. cars parked outside and for a moment I wondered . . .’
‘Well, there’s been no sign of them so far, and anyway practically everyone here is foreign, so I expect they mostly come from embassies and so on.’
‘Yes, you’re quite right. One must try not to get obsessive about it. Come on, then. Let’s get it over, shall we? Where’s the box office?’
‘There isn’t one. Nothing commercial like that. I think you’re supposed to get the tickets from that female dragon over there. Do you think it’s Mrs Baker, in person?’
The middle-aged, severe-looking woman I referred to was seated behind a table in the middle of the room, with rolls of tickets and typewritten sheets spread out before her, and she had had us under observation for some minutes. Commercial or not, she had certainly mastered the universal box office trick of keeping the customer in his place: ‘Have you reserved the places?’ she snapped, as Robin approached.
She spoke in a clear, precise English, but with a marked French accent and I rejected all idea that she might be Mrs Baker. Whoever had penned our letter of invitation had been of Anglo-Saxon origin, and also rather soppy; two things which this ticket dispenser most definitely was not.
‘I don’t think so. At least, it’s possible, I suppose. That is, if seats have been reserved for us, it would have been done by Mrs Baker. I expect you know her?’
‘But of course. What is your name, please?’
‘Oh yes, how silly . . . Price. The name is Price,’ he repeated in the firmer tone of one who is proud to be positive about something.
She consulted one of her typed lists, while Robin continued to explain himself:
‘There might be only two seats in that name,’ he said, allowing a note of hope to creep in, ‘We are three, as it happens, but it wouldn’t matter a bit because . . .’
It was a doomed hope, however, for she cut him short: ‘No, there is nothing here, but we have some places available. If you are three, this will be forty-five francs.’
He handed it over and turned back to Ellen and me: ‘Well, what now? I don’t suppose there’s a bar, is there?’
‘Not a chance. Let’s go inside and take the weight off our feet.’
I did not add: ‘And get it over,’ partly to spare Ellen’s feelings and partly because I did not possess his insane optimism. Since there was no evidence at all that the proceedings were even about to begin, it would have been premature to concern oneself with when they would finish.
Our seats were about six rows back, on the centre aisle, but the allocation must have been fairly elastic, because a white-robed, heavily veiled woman, who had been the sole occupant of that row, got up and removed herself to the one behind, when we sat down. As a matter of fact, every member of the audience could have had a row of seats to himself, had he felt so inclined, for it was a vast, circular hall capable of holding up to a thousand people, and there were only about the same number inside as had been standing in the foyer.
No one offered us a programme and our only clue to the treats in store was provided by the props on the uncurtained stage. This was really just a low platform, lighted from above by a single chandelier, and with an oriental rug spread out over the centre of it. Some cushions had been placed on this rug, together with various instruments, one of which, Ellen kindly informed Robin, was a sitar; a fact which he kindly pretended not to have known.
Downstage, on the O.P. side, there was a lectern with a shelf above it, holding a carafe and tumbler and a pair of spectacles.
There were also numerous people of both sexes and in a variety of costumes wandering about on stage, including one brilliantly-dressed, bare-footed girl, with an expression of deep abstraction on her face, who was practising dance steps. Most of the others were fussing about with the props, constantly arranging and rearranging them, only to have the arrangement upset a minute later by someone else; but all oblivious, it seemed, of each other and of the shadowy figures dotted around in the audience.
Nevertheless, our arrival did not pass entirely unobserved. We had only been sitting there for a few minutes when a dumpy woman detached herself, left the platform by one of the pair of steps which flanked it on either side and came speeding up the aisle towards us. I had taken her for an Indian, for she wore a plain cotton sari and her hair was pulled back into two long, thick plaits hanging down her hack, but at close view her features and colouring were unmistakably European. Moreover, when she spoke it was with a curious mid-Pacific intonation and an accent which hovered between Australian and American.
‘I’m Leila,’ she announced, seizing both my hands and holding on tightly. ‘And you must be Theresa! How good you could come!’
‘Awfully kind of you to invite us,’ I mumbled, rather fazed by her joyous intensity. ‘This is my husband, Robin, by the way, and my cousin Ellen.’
‘Hi, there, Robin and Ellen!’ she cried, favouring each of them with an ecstatic smile, but not releasing my hands, even when Robin nobly proffered one of his own as bait.
‘I know you’ll find this will be a great, great experience for you,’ she went on, leaning right over him so that her face practically touched mine, as she gazed earnestly into my eyes. ‘Something tells me you are a truly receptive person and Vishnaji has this transcendental quality of getting straight to people’s hearts and souls. It cuts right through all the little lies and pretences which we ordinary folk try to build up around ourselves.’
I was completely stumped for a suitable reply to this, but Robin, who had not neglected to build up a few lies and pretences along the way, murmured that we were all looking forward to it; could hardly wait, in fact.
A handful more people came sauntering in from the foyer at this point, which was a break for me because as they passed by Mrs Baker let go of my hands, in order to place her own together, palms facing, as she tipped her head forward in the Indian salute.
‘Vishnaji has been meditating for some time,’ she went on, returning to the attack, ‘but something tells me he will soon be ready for us. I shall go and see. Goodbye, dear people. Let us meet again soon.’
Whereupon, she repeated the hand movement, tilted her head to each of us in turn and trotted off, back to the platform. Her solid form had obscured our view of it during the past few minutes, but with her departure we found that things had taken a giant step forward. All the stage hands had vanished and the players had come on. There were two of them, an elderly, aesthetic-looking man, and a round-faced, jolly-looking plump one, both wearing white dhotis.
Having disposed themselves cross-legged on the cushions, the older man drew the sitar across his knees, while the other rested his incongruously slim and sinewy wrist on the tabla, closed his eyes and fell into an attitude of rapt stillness. Mrs Baker took her place behind the lectern.
‘Good evening, dear friends,’ she began, after bowing first to the musicians and then to the audience, and proceeded to introduce the first number, which was to be a raga. This as her somewhat laboured explanation revealed, was in the nature of variations on a traditional melody, which evolved spontaneously and could therefore only be executed by people who had spent many years making music together and were so closely attuned as to achieve perfect harmony of mood. Since it then transpired that there were approximately sixty-seven different moods to choose from, one could not doubt that she was right.
I also gained the impression, and so, judging by the waves of gloom which emanated from him, did Robin, that since this kind of spontaneous composition had no formal beginning it might well go informally on for ever and ever. However, we were not destined to find out, for Mrs Baker conducted her discourse with more enthusiasm than expertise and it became increasingly difficult to concentrate on her words. Sh
e regularly repeated herself, dropping her voice at the end of sentences and straying from the point.
Finally, she lost the thread and her voice at one stroke and, after much choking and hand flapping, possibly to indicate that she was not through with us yet, she managed to tilt the carafe over the tumbler. Unfortunately, despite all the preliminary caperings, this was one little item which every single member of the company had overlooked and the carafe was empty.
Responding to her frenzied beckonings, a young man eventually wandered on from the wings and removed the carafe and, after another distressing pause, brought it back again. Mrs Baker took a hearty swig, mopped her face and her spectacles and was at last able to resume.
During all this time the two musicians had remained immobile as statues, although the elder one swayed gently back and forth, as though a stiff breeze had loosened his hold on the plinth. No doubt, they had both long ago mastered the art of transporting themselves to the astral plane during ordeals of this nature, but others of us were not so fortunate. The best I could find in the way of diversion was to observe the reactions of such members of the scattered audience who were near enough to come under scrutiny.
One who no longer belonged in this category was the solitary veiled woman, for we had not been the only ones to scare her off. A second or two after Mrs Baker left us I had heard someone move into the seat behind Robin’s and from the corner of my eye had noticed the mysterious hooded figure get up and shuffle away. I had concluded when we first saw her that she had been temporarily abandoned by some husband or brother finding himself obliged to depart on an errand where she could not follow him, but now, with only a fraction of my attention held by Mrs Baker’s interminable monologue, it struck me as an odd thing that one whose normal habitat was so patently the harem should be out on the loose in a public place and darting around as the whim dictated.
On the other hand, this kind of logical thought-process was rapidly becoming out of place, for the whole proceedings had begun to take on an inconsequential, dreamlike quality, where the laws of cause and effect had ceased to operate and whose impressions would fade away on the instant of waking. The next minute it became shot through with a nightmare quality, as well.
I had shifted slightly in my seat, so as to catch an unobtrusive glance at the newcomer behind us, and found myself staring straight into the pale blue eyes of the young-faced, white-haired man, last seen beside the hydrangea bed at Longchamps.
There was really nothing to be so alarmed at in this, but the shock came from the fact that, instead of returning my look with indifference or mild curiosity, which would have been normal in the circumstances, he looked straight back at me, as insolently and knowingly as if it were I who had been featured on the television screen and he inside, watching me.
I instantly turned my head away, and only then became aware that Ellen and Robin had leant forward and were gawping at the stage, and also that Mrs Baker was no longer addressing us.
She had her back to the audience, one hand gripping the lectern, the other shielding her eyes from the light of the chandelier. Moreover, the tabla player had broken out of his trance-like state and was bending over his elderly partner; and it was the behaviour of this one which had evidently produced a crisis on stage and caused rippling murmurs of alarm to spread through the house.
The old man’s arms were now wrapped around his stomach and his shoulders hunched, as he jerked back and forth on his haunches. There was nothing rhythmic or serene in these movements; they were all too obviously the agonised, involuntary writhings of someone in severe physical pain.
Mrs Baker moved a step or two upstage and simultaneously the fat man laid a hand gently on the other’s shoulder, causing him to keel over sideways and crumple on to the carpet.
Letting out a wild scream, Mrs Baker staggered forward and might have collapsed on top of him, had not the fat man caught her in time and held her off. Twisting in his grasp, she turned to face the audience and, choking on the words, yelled out:
‘A doctor . . . doctor! Oh, please, someone! Can’t you see Vishnaji is ill? Is there a doctor?’
Surprisingly enough, in view of the size of the audience, there appeared to be at least twenty, including two women, and even before her words were out they were leaping up from all parts of the hall and hurtling on to the stage. Among the first to reach it was my white-haired friend from the row behind, and it was he who dragged Mrs Baker away, before returning to join the fray.
Robin had also leapt up, though for a different reason: ‘Come on, both of you,’ he said. ‘We’d better go.’
I started to obey, but Ellen seemed reluctant to move.
‘Is he dead?’ she asked in an interested voice.
‘Shouldn’t think so for a moment, but there are more than enough people coping with it and nothing we can do. Come on, there’s a good girl.’
She rose and followed us into the aisle, but not quite fast enough. After a brief consultation with all the others crowding round the patient, a young man came down to the edge of the platform. He held up his hand for the silence he already had, and we were obliged to sit down again. He was obviously getting a small thrill from the drama of the situation and of his own moment in the limelight, so it would have been unfair to walk out on him, but fortunately he knew enough to keep it short.
He informed us that Vishnaradhakrishna was suffering from a mild heart attack, but there was no cause for alarm and the ambulance had been summoned. He then apologised to us all for our disappointment and begged us to retreat in good order.
I cannot claim that Robin’s or my disappointment was of the kind to leave permanent scars, but I am sure neither of us would have chosen to be released in such a way and the moan of sirens as we came out into the street struck a further chill to the heart.
‘Never mind,’ he said, with unnatural heartiness, ‘he’ll soon be on his way now, and, like the man said, it’s probably nothing serious.’
‘You surely didn’t believe all that stuff, did you?’ Ellen asked scornfully. ‘I saw everything that happened and I bet you what you like that poor old Vishna is dead already.’
She was probably right, too, although the brief description of the dolorous event which appeared in the morning papers stated that he had suffered a coronary attack and had died before reaching the hospital.
As it happened, he must have been an eminent personage in more eyes than Mrs Baker’s, because one reporter added that his body was to be flown to India that very day, where many thousands of mourners waited with heavy hearts to receive it.
Four
(i)
‘Really most unpleasant,’ Sven agreed, as we surveyed the bedraggled glories of the Italian garden through sheets of rain which cascaded down the plate-glass windows of IDEAS, ‘and I’m most fearfully sorry that you were involved in it. I’m afraid I was largely to blame for that. Poor Leila does rather pester one to rally round for all these good Works of hers and when I chanced to mention that I’d met you there was no holding her. She simply wouldn’t give up until she’d wormed your address out of me. I do hope I’m forgiven for letting her have it? I knew it wouldn’t commit you to anything and Leila’s importunities don’t usually land one in disasters on that scale.’
‘She was the one we felt most sorry for, as it happens. It can’t be much fun to have your leading man drop dead at your feet, so to speak. I think she was pretty knocked out.’
‘Yes, I am sure. She takes life very hard, poor Leila, and she is not a very happy person at the best of times. Even quite small mishaps get her down and I am afraid she will be in a frantic state today. She has certainly not come to work, which is perhaps a good thing.’
‘Oh, does she work here? We understood it was her husband.’
‘They both do. Leila’s in our personnel department, which gives her plenty of scope for getting in most people’s hair for much of the time. No, no, I am fond of her really, and I mustn’t be spiteful. Whatever will you think of me?�
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I could hardly tell him that, so asked instead what kind of work Mr Baker did at IDEAS.
‘Reg? Oh, he’s in my division now. He comes from Adelaide, I believe, but he’s been all over the place. London was their last posting and I gather that’s where Leila picked up some of her rather bogus oriental notions.’
‘But now they’re here permanently?’
‘Ah, that I couldn’t say. He’s only on a six-month contract, so far, and I’m not sure that rolling stone is ready yet to gather some moss. I’m not even sure how much he enjoys being a small fish in this rather big pond. I say, you are a wizard at drawing out indiscretions, aren’t you? I shall have to watch my step. Let’s turn to safer subjects. What a charming cap your cousin’s wearing. It makes her look so deliciously gamine. I am sure my stepson will be entranced.’
‘Your stepson?’
‘Yes, he’s been persuaded to join our little party, for once. I don’t need to tell you who is responsible for that. When he heard Theresa Crichton would be there . . .’
‘I had no idea it was to be a party,’ I said ungraciously, irritated by his assumption that I both needed constant flattery and was taken in by it. ‘Who else is coming?’
‘Well, Adela, of course, who is dying to meet you.’
‘How old is her son, by the way?’
‘Jonathan? Nearly eighteen. He’s been spending part of his vacation with us.’
‘He doesn’t go to school in France?’
‘No, he only comes to us for a few weeks in the summer. His father is in America.’
‘You and your wife haven’t any children of your own?’
‘Alas, no. Do you feel strong enough to come and take a look at our Matisse?’
‘By all means. Does it need strength? Is anyone else coming to lunch?’
