by Jilly Cooper
As the slow movement was merely a short, sweet intermezzo, with the strings, woodwind and piano mournfully echoing one another, there was nothing Rannaldini could do in retaliation except smoulder. But the allegro vivace, graveyard of pianists, lay ahead. That would be the time to show the little faggot who was maestro.
Without a glance in Marcus’s direction, Rannaldini swept the orchestra into the last movement. Marcus had eighty bars of scampering glamorously round the keyboard before the orchestra, like a will-o’-the-wisp leading the unwary traveller into the quicksand, launched into the deceptively simple, jaunty little tune. ‘To the Life Boats, To the Life Boats’, sung Marcus to himself grimly. It was one hell of a pace. He mustn’t panic.
At first the jury and many of the audience thought Julian must be drunk, because he had for once taken off his dark glasses and swayed crazily round his leader’s chair, bloodshot eyes rolling, pale lank hair flying.
Then Deirdre twigged.
‘He’s not dronk,’ she whispered to Boris in admiration. ‘He’s josst making sure that every member of the orchestra can see him.’
Aware that Marcus could never keep up with the terrifying syncopated cross-rhythms if the musicians went at Rannaldini’s pace, Julian was utterly ignoring Rannaldini, playing at a slower tempo, and the RSO stayed with him.
After two days of responding with the docility of dressage horses, they were suddenly raising two hooves to Rannaldini. Abby – very dear because she was now departed – had been sacked unfairly. This was their rebellion.
Overjoyed, astounded, Marcus realized they were doing to the mighty Rannaldini what they had done to Abby in the old days. They were following the soloist. He felt a great surge of confidence. Like shoals of goldfish, released from a tiny tank into a great river, like a door opening and sunlight pouring in on the darkness, the notes were flowing gloriously away from his fingers.
Rannaldini was insane with rage. The leader, whom he’d fired in New York and would certainly fire again the moment the concerto was over, was refusing like an overworked barman to let his eye be caught. But, being on camera, Rannaldini couldn’t betray his fury. Short of thrashing Julian with his baton he could do nothing.
‘I ’ave never seen anything like it,’ murmured Pablo to the other judges. ‘I ’ave waited many, many years for that sheet to meet his Vaterloo. C’est magnifique, mais c’est aussi la guerre.’
To avoid public humiliation, Rannaldini had now readjusted his beat to Marcus’s joyfully dancing fingers.
‘Nearly there,’ murmured Flora to Rupert. ‘Only one more fence to jump.’
And perfectly controlled, but racing faster and faster like a winner on the home straight at Cheltenham, the orchestra launched into the final tutti, followed by Marcus’s last euphoric helter-skelter up the keyboard leading into the last crashing chords, accompanied by Davie Buckle’s tumultuous drumroll, and it was all over.
Marcus bowed his head as if he were in total trance. There was a long, stunned silence, broken by Flora once again leaping to her feet.
‘Bravo, bravo,’ she screamed bringing her hands together in clap almost as noisy as the final chord: a flash of lightning which was followed by the most deafening thunder of applause, as stamping, cheering, yelling, the entire audience rose to their feet.
For a moment, Marcus gazed at them in bewilderment, the colour stealing into his face. Then he smiled more radiantly than any sunrise, and getting unsteadily to his feet, holding the edge of the piano for support, bowed low as the applause grew more and more delirious. Then, giddy, he straightened up, and fell into Julian’s waiting arms.
Unable to speak they hammered each other’s backs, listening to an even sweeter sound: a manic rattling of bows on the backs of chairs.
Unfortunately for Rannaldini, Marcus was blocking his exit, and Rannaldini was forced, because he was on camera, to hold out his hand.
Marcus looked at it for a second. Then, deliberately rejecting it, he said quite distinctly: ‘That was for screwing up Flora and Abby and cuckolding my mother.’ Then he added as an afterthought, ‘And for trying to destroy my father,’ and stalked off the platform.
How could Marcus have rejected Rannaldini’s olive branch? thought Helen in horror. I’m seeing Rupert all over again.
‘That was worth a bloody gold,’ crowed Rupert as he and Taggie fought their way out to Marcus’s dressing-room. ‘Absolutely no doubt who the audience want to win.’
Marcus was waiting for them, smiling apologetically. ‘I’ve probably screwed up my career for ever, but God, I enjoyed that.’
He was so soaked in sweat, yet burning white-hot, that Taggie needed ovengloves to hug him.
‘You were wonderful,’ she said tearfully.
But what really made Marcus’s evening, almost his whole life, was Rupert’s face. He’d only seen that blaze of elation when his father had won big races, or major show-jumping classes in the old days.
‘You were fucking fantastic,’ Rupert told him, then stopped to listen in wonder to the accelerating stamp of feet from the hall. ‘I only got applause like that at the Olympics.’
‘You’ve got to go back again, Marcus,’ an NTV minion popped his head round the door. ‘You took it so fast, we’ve got a couple of minutes to fill before the break.’
Going out of his dressing-room, Marcus collided with an outraged Howie Denston.
‘You’ve blown it, you stupid fucker. How could you screw Rannaldini like that? He controls everything. The jury won’t touch you now – you’re blown out of the water, finished.’
Howie was followed by a tearful Helen.
‘Oh Marcus, how could you do that to Rannaldini? What must he be feeling at this moment?’
‘Natalia’s boobs, probably,’ said Marcus curtly. ‘He’s a bastard, Mum, the sooner you chuck him the better.’
And leaving a frantically mouthing Helen, he went back to face the ecstatic crowds and because Rannaldini had refused to return, bringing the orchestra and then Hilary, Peter and Simon to their feet and even kissing little Noriko’s hand.
‘Hey, lay off,’ yelled Cherub from the gallery and everyone laughed.
‘For God’s sake, get them off the stage,’ an NTV official was yelling to Nicholas, ‘or we’ll be into another hour’s overtime.’
‘That’s your problem,’ said Knickers cheerfully. ‘That was absolutely marvellous, Marcus.’
‘He was always so sweet and polite,’ sobbed Helen.
Taggie put an arm round her shoulders.
‘He’s been under a terrible strain, so have you. Let’s all have a huge drink,’ she added to Rupert, who was already opening bottles from a crate of champagne, which he had magically produced.
When Julian at last brought the orchestra off the platform, he was accosted by a maddened Rannaldini, ‘D’you realize,’ he spat, ‘that you have just lost the chance of leading what will become the greatest orchestra in the world.’
‘I’d far rather work for the happiest,’ said Julian coldly and walked straight past him.
SIXTY-NINE
Up in the jurors’ room it was pandemonium.
‘He had a memory lapse in the first movement,’ intoned the Chinese judge who still had hopes of Han Chai.
‘The boy’s a genius. I never heard it so well played, he has a delicateness and a strongness the others have not,’ said the big Ukrainian.
‘The last two movements were impeccable, and so lyrical,’ said the French feminist, ‘Rannaldini sabotage Marcus the whole time.’
‘His manners to Rannaldini were most disrespectful,’ snapped Lili, seeing her Steinway, and her promised concert with the new super orchestra sliding away. ‘He wouldn’t even shake the Maestro’s hand.’
‘I prefer Natalia,’ agreed Ernesto, who had changed sides after Rannaldini offered him a Cartier watch and trials for all his pupils. ‘She and Rannaldini interacted so charmingly together.’
‘That’s because she has beeg teets,’ said Pablo, who w
as still sulkily searching for his Guinness Book of Records.
‘Can’t we have a serious drink, Blodwyn?’ grumbled Bruce Kennedy.
‘Not till you’ve finished judging,’ said Lady Appleton, pouring him a glass of Evian. ‘What d’you feel, Hermione?’
‘I would prefer Natalia,’ urged Hermione in her deep voice. ‘And it would be more politically correct to give it to a woman.’
This support had been drummed up by Rannaldini. While Natalia had been resting that afternoon, he had found half an hour to administer so much unpolitical correction to Hermione that she could hardly sit down.
Marcus’s supporters gazed at her stonily.
‘I thought it was jolly funny,’ snorted Dame Edith, blowing cigar smoke in Hermione’s pained face. ‘Rannaldini tried to scupper Marcus, and the boy rose magnificently to the occasion, just like his father always did. Boy’s a genius, and brave as a lion, nothing more to be said.’
Lady Appleton, however, had a lot more: the reputation of the competition was at stake.
‘Can one rely on Marcus to perform all those concerts?’ she asked cautiously.
‘Oh well, if you’re going for the safe candidate,’ boomed Edith, ‘we might as well settle on the American and go and get blotto.’
Jennifer, sitting in the next armchair, her mouth full of crisps, wagged in agreement.
The jury, however, bridled. They’d all read a piece in the Daily Telegraph by Norman Lebrecht last Monday which accused today’s juries of rejecting genius, passion and true individuality in favour of reliability and predictability.
‘Marcus ’as a voice all his own, a radiance beyond the notes,’ sighed Pablo. ‘What emotion, what power, what eenocence, what wiseness, what love.’
‘He had a memory lapse,’ repeated the Chinese judge, who was busy rewriting the chapter on the Schumann concerto on his laptop.
‘I still think Natalia has the – ouch!’ screamed Dame Hermione, as Ernesto surreptitiously pinched her on her pained bottom. ‘Just a twinge of neuralgia,’ she added hastily.
‘I shall resign if Marcus doesn’t ween,’ said Boris, taking his hand out of Deirdre’s, and speaking for the first time.
‘I, too,’ said Pablo.
‘And I shall resign if he does,’ said Rannaldini, sweeping in in such icy rage that everyone wilted. The ladies, who’d dog-paddled with him in the deep end, felt their resolve weakening.
‘We cannot let soloist deectate,’ hissed Rannaldini. ‘We must eradicate thees kind of hooliganism. I geeve heem every courtesy, every encouragement, see what he does in the middle movement, see ’Ow he reject my proffered hand? Never ’ave I been treated like that. It is all part of grudge match,’ he went on. ‘Marcus’s father ’ate me for marrying his ex-wife. The boy worsheep his mother – like many homosexuals he is wildly jealous of anyone she love. He is seek, he is unbalanced.’
‘Marcus is unbalanced?’ said Boris in amazement.
No-one dared laugh. Rannaldini’s rage was so controlled, yet so venomous.
How could I have let that man take over my orchestra? thought Dame Edith in horror.
‘Marcus is seek in body, too,’ went on Rannaldini. ‘Constantly ’e pull out of concert at the last moment because of asthma.’
‘We certainly must have a healthy candidate,’ said a worried Lady Appleton, ‘with all those wonderful engagements lined up.’
‘Under that kind of pressure, he will crack,’ said Rannaldini dismissively. ‘You see him go to pieces in the first movement. How boring he play Waldstein in early round. You make terrible mistake.’
Pablo Gonzalez could see the jury sliding away from him.
‘Marcus was zee most chivalrous accompanist,’ he pleaded. ‘Whenever the orchestra ’ave big solo, he just drop gently out of the limelight, that seem balanced to me. He get up from his deathbed, and all that scandal with Nemerovsky.’
‘I agree with Pablo. I never see finer example of grace under pressure,’ said the burly Ukrainian stubbornly.
‘Yes, I thought you found him attractive,’ said Rannaldini bitchily. ‘I saw you having a clandestine dreenk with him the other night.’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Lady Appleton glanced at the clock. ‘The news will be over in a minute or two, we must vote.’
There was a knock on the door of Marcus’s dressing-room. Outside stood a grey-faced piano tuner.
‘We’re busy,’ snapped Rupert.
‘I must have a private word with Mr Black,’ then, as Marcus went outside with him, the tuner stammered: ‘I know it’s too late to change anything, but I’ve got to tell you what I did to the piano on Wednesday.’
He then explained how he had slid a ball-bearing on top of the two concealed blocks of wood at the bass end of the keyboard, which divide when the soft pedal is pressed.
‘The ball-bearing just slipped down between the blocks, holding them apart,’ mumbled the tuner, ‘jamming the soft pedal for the rest of the Waldstein. When they called me back because you’d kicked up a fuss, all I had to do was roll out the ball-bearing with a long screwdriver when no-one was looking.’
‘How very ingenious,’ said Marcus, fascinated. ‘I couldn’t think what had happened. Could you do it to Benny next time?’
The piano tuner was shattered.
‘I can’t believe you’re taking it like this,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you who bribed me, but I’m going to pay back every penny of the money.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ advised Marcus. ‘Rannaldini can afford it. Thanks for telling me.’
Marcus couldn’t be bothered to say anything when he went back to his dressing-room. The whole confession had been a welcome interruption. He had been interviewed by the frightful James Vereker and now found the strain of waiting in a crowded dressing-room intolerable. People, including half of the orchestra, seemed to have poured in to congratulate him and drink Rupert’s drink.
A still furious Howie, and a still tearful Helen, who’d been bawled out by a foaming Rannaldini and banished from the conductor’s room, were the only dissenting voices.
Seeing Marcus whitening near to death, the shadows deepening under his eyes, Rupert kicked everyone out.
‘You OK?’
Marcus nodded. ‘It’s crazy. On the drive here, all that mattered was that I got through it,’ he blushed. ‘Now I seriously want to win.’
‘That’s my boy, you’re learning.’
‘Course you’ll win, you’re a star now,’ said Taggie.
Suddenly Marcus remembered Alexei warning him that stars could never belong to each other, that the true artist could only belong to the world, and the pain came roaring back. What did winning matter without Alexei? There was a knock on the door.
Chrissie had put on some crimson lipstick to match her turkey legs.
‘Ready, Martin? They are going to tell you the results beforehand in the green room.’
Rupert got to his feet, and straightened Marcus’s tie again. Taggie brushed down his tail-coat.
‘Good luck,’ said Helen in a tight, trembling voice. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘By the way,’ murmured Rupert, then waiting till Helen had left, he drew a cellophane box containing a white flower out from behind the curtain. The envelope attached to it had been opened.
‘Someone chucked this in the bin.’ He handed the box to Marcus.
Ripping it open, Marcus nearly fainted, as he breathed in the sweet apple smell of philadelphus, instantly bringing back that baking hot June afternoon. There were only two lines on the card.
‘I was wrong. With love all is possible. I am very jealous of the world. Alexei.’
Seeing the incredulous joy on the boy’s face, Rupert removed the carnation from Marcus’s buttonhole and replaced it with the philadelphus.
‘Come on, Martin,’ grumbled Chrissie. ‘We can’t keep the Princess waiting. Although Lady Appleton will have told you the order beforehand do try not to show your disappointment when you file onto
the platform as it spoils it for the audience. Anyway,’ she added, seeing Marcus’s face fall, ‘you’re way ahead in the NTV viewers’ poll.’
As he walked into the Green Room, Anatole greeted him in ecstasy.
‘I ween pub competition, I ween thees,’ he brandished a huge beer mug. ‘Knees up Muzzer Brown.’ He did a little dance.
‘Hush,’ chorused the NTV minions.
A strip of black velvet had been pinned to one of the Green Room walls. In front was a huge arrangement of lilies and chrysanthemums. On the table was a note saying:
‘James Vereker to interview winner in front of black velvet immediately after results.’
‘I dropped those flowers three times,’ observed a passing technician.
‘Hush,’ said Chrissie.
Lady Appleton cleared her throat.
‘I’ll give you the order back to front,’ she told the contestants, ‘starting with the lowest.’
‘Don’t forget to curtsy, Marcus, when you shake hands with the Princess,’ said Benny nastily.
Natalia was perfectly calm. She knew she had won. Rannaldini had told her so.
‘Knees up Muzzer Brown,’ sang Anatole.
As the six contestants filed onto the platform, sitting high up on the chairs that had earlier been occupied by the brass players, Marcus looked so white and stunned, Rupert knew with a terrible lurch of pity and disappointment he hadn’t won.
‘I’m so sorry,’ whispered Taggie.
‘It’s OK.’
Rupert took her hand. ‘What matters somehow is that for the first time he’s miraculously mine. I’m sorry I’ve been so vile today. I can always be relied upon to be a tower of gelignite in a crisis.’
‘I love you.’
‘Doesn’t Her Royal Highness look dignified? ‘sighed Peggy Parker, as the Princess, resplendent in Listermint-green taffeta and lots of diamonds, led a trail of local dignitaries in robes and furry burghers’ hats slowly up the centre aisle to take their seats on the platform.
