Autumn

by Vina Jackson

All I could now do was wait.

  And hope.

  Rather than mope around, I fixed my gaze on my shelf of precious violins and determinedly grabbed the one I normally used to practise, and played for hours, mindlessly going through all the necessary exercises I knew, up and down the scales through increasing levels of technical difficulty and then impulsively tackled Bach’s ‘Chaconne’, one of the more complex violin solo pieces I had never satisfactorily mastered, until my wrist and chin hurt. Dusk fell.

  The call came around midnight.

  It was neither Aurelia nor Andrei, but the voice of an older woman, detached, unemotional, with a pleasant accent I thought I recognised but couldn’t precisely place in my febrile state.

  ‘They are travelling overseas,’ she informed me.

  ‘Oh …’

  ‘But I have advised them you had phoned and they are happy to meet.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon. We will fly you there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Our car can pick you up at 7 a.m.,’ she continued.

  ‘You know where I live?’

  ‘Of course … You’ll be back in London by the end of day; there will be no need to pack anything,’ she said.

  I was speechless. It all sounded unreal. But then everything about Aurelia and her crowd, the island, always did.

  ‘OK,’ I mumbled and the line went dead.

  What the hell should I wear? Surely they could have given me a clue as to the destination?

  The car arrived on the dot. It was a sleek metal grey limo with a uniformed chauffeur in matching colours.

  ‘Miss?’ was all he said as he acknowledged me and opened the door, and drove off south.

  A small private jet was waiting for us on the tarmac at Croydon Airport, a tiny facility I never knew even existed until today. There was a hostess of sorts standing by the steps waiting to greet me. She was blonde, picture perfect, with a fixed smile and also wore grey. Her skirt barely reached down to her mid-thighs as she ascended the narrow walkway stairs to the aircraft’s door, and I had no choice but to contemplate the sway of her firm arse straining against the material of her outfit ahead of me.

  She showed me to a seat, handed me a thin-stemmed glass in which a green cocktail fizzed, drew the seat belt across my lap, snapped it closed and retreated to her own seat for take-off, where she sat facing me, her watery blue eyes fixed on me, her thick lips painted into a pout, lost in reverie.

  Soon, we were in the clouds, leaving England’s green landscapes below and behind us. Then we were briefly flying over water and land again unfurled below, geometrical patterns of light brown fields and rivers. Within an hour, we rose to cross mountains capped with snow and the pilot announced that we were about to begin our descent towards the Mediterranean coast.

  An identical limousine awaited us by an isolated runway on a private airfield by the emerald ocean. I could have sworn the driver in attendance was the same as had driven me from home in London. Maybe they came off an assembly line.

  The villa was in the hills, white-walled and modest, discreetly obscured between nests of old oak trees and abundant shrubbery. The gates closed silently behind the car as we moved slowly up the drive. Aurelia was standing by the door, waiting for me. She was dressed all in white, backlit by the strong midday sun, her long limbs outlined beneath the flimsy material, tantalising hints of a warren of tattoos shimmering across her skin. There was no sign of Andrei.

  We were drinking freshly squeezed lemonade on the terrace. Aurelia sat on the bench, her hand idly grazing my knee.

  There was a stillness about her that both attracted and fascinated me. On one hand, she was remote, regal and assured while on the other I could feel waves of interest and empathy flowing out towards me. Hers was a simple sort of beauty, one that required no obvious make-up or trickery. And the surprising tendrils of leaves, patterns, flowers, words and mythical creatures partly revealed across the unveiled areas of the porcelain white of her skin hypnotised me, as much as the broad strokes of the images that remained concealed from my view and which I could only guess at. The images painted across her skin almost seemed to have a life of their own. One moment present and the next no longer there or moved along a few inches as if by fluid miracle.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t that somewhat presumptuous?’

  ‘No. Some things are meant to happen.’

  I outlined my request.

  Emphasising that the read-through we hoped to set up for her and her organisation in order to gain their confidence and funds would by necessity have to be a smaller one than we had been in a position to organise for Samuel Morris. I explained the logistics of the affair and the show we wanted to produce, and the fact that many of the actors we had lined up had now abandoned ship and moved on to other projects, unable as they were to commit to a play whose chances of success were now so arbitrary.

  Aurelia quickly interrupted my rushed flow of words, maybe sensing my desperation and unease at having to beg in such a way.

  ‘Mr Morris has reported back to us,’ she indicated. ‘The show sounds most interesting, although I gather also something of a challenge from an artistic point of view …’

  ‘Morris?’

  ‘It’s a small world,’ Aurelia said. ‘Our organisation has many strands and we pride ourselves for always being on the lookout for performers or spectacles that fit into our vision. We have on occasions actually helped Morris finance shows. It was inevitable that echoes of your reading would filter back to us. I gather he undoubtedly found you the star attraction.’

  ‘That wasn’t intended,’ I intervened. ‘I was only supposed to provide the musical background,’ I said.

  ‘Anyway, I think we would be favourably inclined to become involved.’

  I felt a weight rise from my chest.

  Aurelia’s smile remained unreadable.

  She rose from her seat.

  ‘Walk with me,’ she asked, giving me her hand. Undecipherable words in Latin circled her delicate wrist. We walked to the back of the mansion where a large room opened onto a terrace which overlooked a busy garden full of lush vegetation and flowers. At first sight, it appeared quite unkempt and abandoned. But on closer examination, the garden was actually designed that way to provide the illusion of the wild.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Aurelia said, as the subtle smells of lavender, roses, bougainvillaea, magnolias, mutant-like seemingly carnivorous orchids and a whole rainbow palette of flowers whose names all escaped me, rose towards us, bathing us in a haze of intoxicating scents.

  There was a set of steps that led down to the villa’s grounds.

  As I set foot on the grass, I was briefly reminded of my experience with the vines back on the enchanted island. Aurelia’s fleeting gossamer touch guided me through the labyrinth of bushes and flower beds.

  Bacchanalian images of sensual excess, feelings on the very verge of madness and celestial music that even my Bailly couldn’t summon rushed through my mind as just for a moment I imagined the play being performed in this setting.

  ‘Exactly,’ Aurelia said, as if she had read my mind. ‘The play could be performed anywhere. There is really no need for an actual theatre, is there?’

  ‘Surely, you have to see it, read it first?’

  ‘We have.’

  I dared not ask her how. Had Morris surreptitiously recorded the reading on Aurelia and her cohort’s instructions? Might his decision to turn Antony’s project down been all along a scheme to throw me into the clutches of Aurelia and Andrei and the powers behind the island? It all felt like a net rapidly closing around me, my own life yet again falling out of my control.

  We were navigating a labyrinth of tree stumps and treading through a bed of brown, spongey leaves. At Aurelia’s instigation, I had a few minutes a
go taken off my shoes, for both convenience and to feel the welcome dampness of the earth and grass under my feet.

  ‘Don’t fret, Summer,’ Aurelia whispered. ‘It’ll turn out fine.’

  At the back of the garden we came upon a small kidney­-shaped pool. A couple of ornately carved metal chairs and a matching table awaited us, installed by the pool’s edge. The water shimmered in the midday heat. The grey-suited driver appeared, laid out a checked tablecloth on the table, a jug of iced water and two glasses. He then discreetly moved back towards the house.

  ‘Shall we?’ Aurelia pointed towards the drinks and the pool.

  We sat.

  She explained her proposal. There would be no need for a complete read-through again. Just Antony and Alissa could read all the parts while I performed the music I had created for the show. That would suffice. And if Aurelia and her friends were satisfied and their expectations confirmed, their organisation would willingly finance a limited series of shows in London. Instead of a theatrical setting, they would propose, subject to our agreement, a different venue, as there was a shortage of West End and fringe theatres available at such short notice. They did not wish to work within a fixed set and suggested we use a blank stage, which would be enhanced by use of dancers and extras already contracted to their organisation, which she believed would prove infinitely more colourful and joyous. While I had been travelling here, it seemed, she had taken the opportunity to explain these points to Antony on the phone and he hadn’t objected to any of the modifications suggested. Indeed, she revealed, he had proven particularly enthusiastic. By now, he would probably jump at any chance to have the show performed, I figured, and though Aurelia and Andrei’s plans were somewhat unorthodox, at least they would not commercialise the whole venture and drain the soul out of it.

  So all that was left was for us to meet up again, say the following week in London, for a perfunctory presentation of the text and music, she concluded.

  ‘And …’

  ‘And?’ I queried.

  ‘And you agree to join our Ball for a period of three months following the final London performance. That’s one of our conditions.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You must understand that the cost of setting up a limited set of shows will in no way recoup our initial investment. Not that we are especially bothered about this. We are thinking long term …’

  ‘I’m not sure my agent will approve. I have other projects planned, you know. Shows, tours …’

  ‘We realise that, of course. But I am sure we can make an offer to your agent for use of your services that she will gladly accept.’

  Aurelia sounded confident.

  She poured water from the jug into our glasses.

  ‘We were thinking we could put the play on for a whole week,’ she said. ‘We would take responsibility for the logistics: venue, bookings, tickets, etc. … It would be discreetly advertised. We’ve informed Antony that the final night’s performance, though, would have to be by invitation only.’

  ‘He’s OK with that?’

  ‘It’s part of the deal …’

  I could just see the expression on Antony’s face as the conditions had been read out to him. But I knew that beggars couldn’t be choosers, and we had both invested so much into the project that its failure would have been a terrible blow after all we’d gone through in its pursuit.

  The scents of the garden were becoming stronger as was the Mediterranean heat. I took a deep breath.

  ‘Tired?’ Aurelia asked, observing me.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Why don’t we take a swim?’ she suggested and, not waiting for my approval or reaction, she rose to her feet and in one swift, practised movement, undid the two knots holding her thin white dress together and let it slide to the ground.

  I gasped.

  The spread of the tattoos across the surface of her exquisite body was even more extensive than I had guessed. Somehow I hadn’t noticed all of them before. A trick of the light, perhaps? Or another of Aurelia’s mysteries? They covered her from below her neck all the way to her feet. Complex architectures of ink and white skin, like entwined branches of trees and mythological creatures. And words; calligraphies rising from languages unknown to me. Images: daemons and angels in intimate proximity. Fauna and flora: immemorial beasts and flowers in close entanglement. Only her face, hands and feet were sheltered from the colourful expanses of ink adorning her.

  My gaze swam across her body.

  She was fully epilated and a dragon’s tongue trailed all the way down from her navel to the thin valley of her slit, delving into the painted folds of her labia, teasing, provocative, wonderfully lewd.

  I couldn’t take my eyes away from her sex.

  Aurelia kept on smiling, radiating kindness, accepting the rude persistence of my stare.

  I was captivated.

  Finally she moved to the edge of the pool and jumped in.

  Her face emerged.

  ‘Come on, join me …’

  Clumsily I slipped out of my own summer dress and tiptoed to the edge.

  She was watching me, her eyes deep wells of fascination.

  For an instant, I stood there naked. Poised. Alone. Watching the water rippling around Aurelia’s painted body.

  ‘You’re beautiful too, you know,’ Aurelia said.

  I leapt head first into the pool, but it was closer to a belly flop than a dive. Aurelia greeted me with a resounding peal of laughter.

  We swam.

  Two hours later, I was driven back to the airport.

  From then on, Aurelia and her team took over all of the organisational and many of the creative aspects of the play. She possessed such tact and diplomacy that the transition felt minor and seamless, though it was anything but. In fact, she introduced some plans that were radically different from what we had initially intended, particularly in relation to the Spartan nature of the set, lighting, and so on, but rather than cause a furore amongst the play’s existing staff, it was as if the path underpinning us all had miraculously shifted and we carried on following it without noticing any particular change.

  I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders as my sole involvement was now to simply play what I wished to play when I wished to play it, with no thought whatsoever to how it might fit in with the script or be received by the audience. Of course, it was expected that what I played on the night would fit, but Aurelia emphasised repeatedly that she trusted me to come up with the right material impromptu and she believed the play would be better performed in this way. Aside from the inevitable self-doubt that crept into my mind – could I really do this? Or was I some kind of fraud who had managed to trick Aurelia all this time into believing that I could somehow compose music, rather than just interpret it as I had done throughout my life until this moment? – it was a perfect job.

  Even Antony was happy enough to hand over the reins for the project. He had seemed hypnotised by Aurelia, I noticed, when I saw them together one morning having a coffee, poring over some of the final details. He had added milk to his cup although he normally took it black, and had appeared uncharacteristically gauche, dropping his notes on the floor, stumbling over the pitch and fumbling his explanation of what he saw as the play’s soul, a peroration that I had heard him deliver a hundred times. It was understandable. She had the same effect on me.

  Antony was used to stepping back from his work, by necessity, when investors took control and wanted changes to please the market, he explained to me. It was just part of the business of theatre, or in fact the business of any kind of creative pursuit made public. That was the price you paid for wanting an audience.

  I barely saw him for the next few weeks as arrangements were finalised. The script remained the same, but Aurelia had requested that the specifics of the set and details of the dancers and performances that I h
ad not yet viewed would be kept secret from me. It was a mad idea, even madder than my original plan, but on another level it made perfect sense. She wanted the music that I played to be entirely improvised and felt that the newer everything was to me the more my performance would be of the moment, primal, flooding from my core in response to events unfolding around me and not even remotely thought through in advance. I would be playing the music that arose in my heart and soul on each night, circumventing any input that my brain might otherwise have and tapping straight into my soul.

  I was not even informed of the location where the performances would take place, until we arrived on the opening night. Antony and Alissa had been involved in dress rehearsals, along with Lauralynn and Viggo who had been brought on board as well, the former to add to the musical score and the latter to assist with stagecraft, but none of them had let on a word to me about how the stage would be set up or even where we would be travelling each night. The lack of creative control felt soothing and familiar to me. In a way, I was submitting to Aurelia, and doing so in such an environment came to me as easily as it did in the bedroom.

  A car collected me in late afternoon and whisked me from Clapham to Clapton. When I had previously lived in Hoxton, I had visited other parts of Hackney regularly, but had never been further east than London Fields to visit Broadway Market and swim at the Lido. It certainly was not one of the possible locations that I had expected. But knowing Aurelia as I did, I had no doubt that she and her organisation could transform even the scraggly grass plain of Hackney Downs Park that I walked across with my violin case under my arm to the big tent that the driver had pointed to when he dropped me off by the roadside.

  It was still light when I arrived, dressed casually in tight, high-waisted jean style leggings, flat shoes and a loose, long blouse that tied into a bow around my neck. All I carried with me was my instrument, as Aurelia had pointed out that costumes and make-up would all be provided so I would not, on this occasion need to dress myself up as I usually did for even the most prestigious recitals.

  From the outside, the tent looked just like a circus big top. The frame was shaped like a hexagon and the walls were made of wood in a warm tan colour, with a draping, vivid red velvet roof overtop. Fairy lights decorated every corner and I imagined that when the sun went down, it would look quite spectacular. A long red carpet led to the pulled back curtains that functioned as a front door and was guarded by security staff – a small woman dressed in a red and gold tasselled outfit, complete with a train-driver style cap that covered her forehead completely. She shifted her stance as I approached and I noticed the taut, beefiness of her muscles rippling beneath her clothes. She apparently possessed a strength that was at odds with her diminutive stature. I showed her my pass and she waved me straight through.