The Concert Pianist

by Conrad Williams

  Vadim gazed at an upward angle, slowly raising his hands.

  There were blustery coughs and sniffs, chair-creakingadjustments.

  The early bars of Rachmaninov’s Etude Tableau in C minor were like sounds from a faraway world. Vadim sat at the keyboard as if hearing a call to arms, or the rumour of something heroic. A tethered power lurked in the first gruff phrases. The player was alert, his torso and broad shoulders crowding close to the lower keyboard as if to protect a secret, or the making of a spell, hands moving stealthily, depressing keys with soft creepiness or Stakha-novite force. Vadim’s narrowed eyes were trained on the innate sense of sounds, the meaning in certain clashes, the potency of harmonic shifts. He would look down and then upwards, seeking the destination of a phrase, and then to the side, the frequency of dark sound catching his attention for the first time; and slowly the audience settled and became still, subdued by an equivalent concern with the progress of this ominous elegy, which spoke to them of things they knew nothing about. The initial statements were rounded off and now movement began, footsteps, an eerie procession, lit here and there by torches, and still his face was full of pilgrim enquiry, as though he too were following the crowd that seemed to file under the vaults of some massive structure, with baleful octaves deep in the bass of the instrument and great framing pillars of sound rising above tiny humans, until the processional was under the highest point and giant church bells exploded, and Vadim’s teeth were set with the effort of massive directed force and the exultant sense of Russian grandeur peeling from the piano.

  Philip was fixed dead still with the deepest concentration. After the ringing climax there was a dying away, and tension went out of his body, a gasp of relief almost. Vadim had wrested iron control from utter disarray. Two further etudes followed, the first a tornado of double notes, blisteringly executed; the second martial, chunky, hectoringly percussive, the crashing last bars of which shook a spastic clatter of geriatric commendation from the floor.

  He listened to the second group of pieces with something approaching astonishment. Vadim unfolded a selection of Rachmaninov preludes with extra-terrestrial lucidity. He engaged the swirling semiquavers of the C minor Prelude with the command of an elemental force, propelling notes as the wind drives leaves, a crystalline dispatch evoking huge currents of energy, liquid or electrical, backed up and ready to smite drenching storms of sound, as if music were a kind of exciting weather, something released from on high. Just as his technical aplomb seemed to derive from an almost inhuman configuration of hearing and reflexes, so his playing transcended the little life of man. Epic landscapes were conjured, the chromatic winds of the Steppe, vast skies. Sound had energies and tensions like particles in physics that composers harnessed and pianists released. Listening to him play was hearing nature itself, the force and fabric of Creation.

  Philip remained in his seat during the interval, forehead cupped in his hand. As always when Vadim was ‘on’ he felt the same sequence of emotions: alarm (the talent was so overpowering); defeat (one could never catch up); gratitude (for the existence of such talent); and love (for the regenerative turmoil it caused). Such playing was a gift from the purest, the noblest part of a person; it rescued Philip from the loneliness of a personal quest. In a peculiar way the acute listener was closer than a lover to the being of a musician; and what could one feel for the person who played like that but love?

  This he had often thought, and during the interval he was grateful to his friend for reminding him of the point. One owed an almost blind loyalty to such gifted colleagues. Alas, in the second half Vadim’s playing deteriorated so abruptly (it was almost pugnaciously brash and insensitive) that Philip’s softer thoughts vanished. The Chopin was cavalier, the Liszt exhausting. There was muscular brilliance and power, but no sense of discovery, no care for suggestion. He listened with disbelief, and then boredom. The last blasting cavalcade of Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz yanked the audience to their feet, while Philip sat in dismay, wondering what he was going to say afterwards. He had a sick sense that confrontation was inevitable. What, otherwise, did he stand for as a friend, as a mentor?

  After the encore he stood up wearily, and made his way past outgoing members of the audience towards the stage door. An idea came to him like the filter on a camera lens, darkening the sky. The unborn child, he realised, was the ghost of the life not lived, something which, by its very nature, would remain unknowable. For days he had been haunted by the sense of that parallel life, the life sacrificed to art, the life irretrievably lost.

  He hesitated by the stage door and glanced once more at the emptying hall.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Everyone cancels concerts,’ said Vadim. ‘If you can’t play best, you have moral duty to cancel.’

  ‘There’s nothing moral about you, Vadim.’

  They were seated in a latticed alcove of the Taste of India restaurant. A photograph of the Taj Mahal hung behind Vadim. Two pints of Kingfisher sat on the table, a tray of poppadoms. Both men were suffused in orange light from a nearby lantern, which made them look ill. Bulky local diners sat near by, chatting softly over steamy platefuls of rice and glossy dollops of brinjal. Vadim had ordered to excess, and now leaned back on his chair. He looked a bit gassy after the first slug of lager.

  ‘Michelangeli’ - he lifted his head morosely - ‘would cancel if one note was not right. One note! What incredible perfectionism!’

  ‘And Dinu Lipatti played when he was dying of leukaemia! I’ll take selfless dedication over neurotic perfectionism every time.’

  ‘We are all different.’

  ‘You can do better.’

  ‘I did not cancel!’

  ‘As a favour to me! I can hardly follow you around the country begging you to play.’

  For a second the Russian looked almost submissive. He sensed that Philip was annoyed with him, which was tiring, particularly after a concert. Normally he could avoid Philip’s seriousness, his holy solutions to the problems of life, based on different weaknesses that were irrelevant to him. Nobody had these same musical thunderbolts living in his sleeve. Olympians could not be advised by anybody, however well meaning.

  ‘Do you play for yourself, or for your audience?’

  ‘I play for every beautiful girl in Hampshire.’

  Philip sagged. He had so little energy for a showdown. ‘Shame none of them turned up tonight.’

  ‘Which is mistake because classical music is sexy. It should attract very sexy women who you want to fuck for the rest of your life.’

  ‘It did! Marguerite. Your sexy wife. Whom you still haven’t called.’

  Vadim wiped his eye. ‘So I’m married, which is unfortunate. And you’re depressed, which is tragedy. Because you are bachelor and should be over the moon.’

  ‘Listening to you I feel quite depressed, actually.’

  Vadim looked at him directly. Philip’s carpings were aimed at the thickest part of his hide. He could understand, but not really feel these criticisms.

  ‘In Spearmint Rhino,’ he began, pausing for effect, ‘it’s hard to be depressed.’

  Philip regarded him coolly. ‘Unless you work there.’

  ‘The arses are fantastic. For depression I prescribe two visits a week.’

  ‘Can I have a glass of red?’ he said to a passing waiter. ‘I’m not depressed. Just desperate.’

  ‘Even better, “Ivan the Absolutely Terrible”. Girls from Slovenia, lap dancing, American cigarettes, everybody in kind of fantasy. Let me take you there. You have some therapy for your desperation.’

  ‘Only you would call lap dancing therapy.’

  ‘Cheaper than psychoanalyst.’

  ‘But more expensive for your marriage!’

  Vadim was not so sure about that. ‘Marriage is maybe another kind of Russian roulette.’

  ‘Getting married to you would be. With all the chambers loaded.’

  He liked this and smiled appreciatively. ‘Philip, you must try to have more pumpy rum
py.’

  Philip grimaced and shook his head. ‘You’re a bad boy.’

  The trolley rolled up to the table. Hot plates were distributed, space organised. Vadim followed the arriving trays with interest: chicken tikka masala, sag aloo, a team of onion bhajis in case there was a hole in his total satisfaction after the set-pieces had been obliterated. He took a long draught from his lager. Both pints were his.

  Philip lit up a cigarette, exhaled away from the table. He regarded the food neutrally as it mounted higher on Vadim’s plate.

  They had met years ago when Philip was touring the Ukraine, and Vadim was a remarkable eighteen-year-old with two international piano competitions behind him. Like most young pianists he idolised Philip, was honoured to meet him. Philip reciprocated with the older pianist’s judicious reserve. In fact, both saw elements in the other’s playing beyond his own capabilities without realising the envy was symmetrical. If Vadim regarded Philip as a role model, Philip might consider Vadim a successor of sorts. A latent rivalry was thus relaxed. Later, in England, after Vadim had won the Leeds, Philip helped him find a flat, contacts, and representation. Vadim joined a growing band of world-class pianists who had made London their home. For a while, they lived around the corner from each other, went to concerts together, and sometimes shared a platform.

  For Vadim, London was a relief. He was liberated from his uncle and the madness of Moscow, and took in the galleries and parks with elation. If nowadays there was no aristocracy to greet and pamper musical genius, Vadim would flaunt the peacock fan of his talent by insisting on freedom. He did what he liked, when he liked, odd things, good things, reckless things, and made it clear to everybody involved in his life that this was the way it had to be because he could not suffer boredom, and only worked hard when the cross-hairs of a growing obsessive-compulsiveness were aimed at the keyboard, frequently, but not often enough for a pianist who wants to conquer the world. Having been tied to the piano through his teens, he would no longer be tied to anything. He needed to displace the energy focused to an unbearable degree by his training and talent. This Philip expected. What bothered him was Vadim’s new tendency to use dissipation almost as a means to electrical pianism. His unruly lifestyle generated mood-swings that infected his playing, sometimes dazzlingly. Every concert became a kind of crisis, with higher stakes, and mixed results. Brutality had crept into his touch, for sure, mirroring the conduct of his marriage. Already, alas, there had been infidelities, casual cruelties. Marguerite was possessive, but Vadim was impossible to own, and already the pact was in train whereby heady acclaim set the seal on an independence no valuable relationship could survive. These days he was a good companion only to those who made no demands and were tolerantly dazzled by his company. More responsible relations he found suffocating or tedious. Philip feared both a moral decline and an emotional depletion. He feared that Vadim would evade the maturing bonds he needed most. How to say this was another matter.

  After an interlude, Vadim wiped his mouth. He was not unthoughtful.

  ‘It’s easy for you to be good boy,’ he said. ‘You are alone. Nobody cares if you do Internet porn or get drunk.’

  ‘D’you really want to know what I thought of your concert?’

  Vadim swigged at his beer.

  ‘Nobody else will say this to you.’

  The Russian suddenly lunged forward and grabbed Philip tightly by the hand. ‘You’re so marvellous, so happy, such wonderful pianist. Tell me the secret of how to live my life.’ He squeezed harder.

  Philip stared at him, his hand trapped.

  ‘You were a god in the first half, and a charlatan in the second.’

  Vadim released the hand and flung himself back in his chair. He glowered for a moment.

  ‘Good, I have range at least.’

  ‘You’re ruining a great career.’

  ‘I’m bored.’

  ‘If that’s boring, you’re in deeper shit than I thought.’

  Vadim cracked a poppadom and flicked on some lime pickle. ‘Deep shit is quite interesting. You should try it. Because, Philip, you have to live. Even if it’s a mess. Monks do not make virtuosi.’

  ‘You’re brilliant, but not great, Vadim. Greatness has to be earned the hard way.’

  ‘Greatness is given by God. Not earned by sad workaholics.’

  ‘Practice, reflection, dedication.’

  ‘I’m not a priest!’ He was suddenly outraged. ‘I’ve been to hundred boring concerts by good-boy pianists who respect their teachers and think composers are gods. They get on and off planes. Check into hotel, play Chopin Ballade for millionth time, same boring interpretation, same reverence for music.’ He raised his voice. ‘Music does not come from this treadmill. Music comes from excitement, madness, energy. Not how much hours you practise. Not how humble and well behaved you are. Don’t believe this German bullshit propaganda!’

  ‘You complain about boring concerts. You’ve just given one!’

  He waved it off. ‘If I want to, I play better. I don’t want to, but for your relationship with John Sampson I do a big favour.’

  Philip was offended. ‘What about poor old Chopin? You didn’t do him a big favour.’

  ‘ I sacrificed my childhood for dead men like Chopin. I don’t owe him anything.’

  ‘Emotional negativity is affecting your playing. You’ve stopped feeling tenderness, love, happiness. It shows.’

  ‘I’m bored. You are boring now. You are giving boring conversation.’

  ‘Your lack of empathy for people is reflected by a lack of empathy for music outside the Russian tradition.’

  ‘I take the train back.’ Vadim made to rise.

  ‘What!’

  ‘I am not your student.’

  Philip was startled. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! We’re having a conversation.’ He reached over to grab his forearm but Vadim pulled back. ‘You’re going to end up like me if you’re not careful. Solitary and middle-aged and . . . Sit down!’

  ‘You’re jealous.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Always I have jealous friends. They want me to do this, that, how best I should live, play the piano, what to do with my talent. Nobody plays these pieces like me. Maybe two other pianists in the world.’

  Philip stared at him in disbelief.

  ‘Nobody can tell me where to go. How to live my life. I don’t have to obey the rules for depressed English pianist.’

  Philip’s heart pounded. He felt the hostile force of Vadim’s self-confidence.

  ‘To hell with your morals and your advice.’

  ‘Listen to me . . .’

  ‘ I’m not listening to you.’

  Vadim pulled away, tossing the napkin down. ‘Philip, stop telling other people how to live. Get a life yourself.’

  He pulled some banknotes from his pocket and left them on the table.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Taxi.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

  He patted his jacket, returned the pack of cigarettes. He picked up his bag and made his way out from behind the table.

  Philip looked on in astonishment as the Russian strode towards the door.

  For a moment he was almost paralysed; then he got up and followed him out of the restaurant. By the time he was outside, Vadim was walking towards the traffic lights.

  He stood there, hoping that Vadim would about-turn, but off he went, forcefully subtracting himself from Philip’s life, taking his brilliance to where it was better appreciated, and as Philip watched him bobbing into the distance he felt a stab of despair.

  He went back into the restaurant, passing slowly to his chair, where he sat for a moment. He looked at the bill and picked at Vadim’s banknotes, unable to concentrate.

  He glanced around, as if looking for help. He could not believe what had happened.

  Chapter Four

  They sat on the pavement tables outside Chez Gerard, steel decking underfoot, bay shrubs in boxes framing the scene, check
tablecloths under their forearms. The Charlotte Street Union Jack rippled across the street. Office workers and law students straggled on the kerb. Young women walked the pavement like flowers responding to sudden sunshine. There were taut navels and lacy cleavages on offer today, and eyes everywhere raking it in, the comings and goings, the rushing waitresses, the striped awnings and glancing sunlight.

  Derek was poised. He managed the wine list like a veteran producer. Once again the BBC had leveraged him into the company of a very distinguished man. They had met at Laura’s, of course, but this was a different order of exchange. He had to be alert and agreeable, respectful and precise. He paid close attention to what was being said, nailing the logic to secure his understanding, and then made intuitive jumps. Despite his modesty of manner, and mildly tense ignorance of everything to do with classical music, he had the short man’s tenacity. Now he steered conversation gently whilst sectioning his steak and hailing the waiter for cruets and mustard.

  Philip had ordered on no appetite at all. This was the fifth day in a row he had been unable to practise. Various catastrophes lay on the horizon, but for Derek’s benefit he tried to be bright. That morning he had fiddled around with the cistern ballcock in his upstairs loo to stop the overflow pipe from spattering into the side return. Coming in for lunch he had done a little shopping: books and fresh coffee, anything to make himself feel normal. Derek’s plan to get him on television no longer seemed real. Although in a corner of his mind Philip knew that he was a distinguished pianist, his current aversion to the instrument made the idea of a documentary seem absurd. If he could not play, he could hardly talk about playing. And yet Derek’s interest was addictive. The very simplicity of his questions let Philip see his life from outside, almost from the point of view of someone who had lived a different life. For the programme pitch Derek positioned him as an ‘ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances’. It was good to be ordinary for a change, to see one’s obsessions and sacrifices for what they were.

  ‘What d’you have to go through to make the big time?’