by Wendy James
***
Keep a file of newspaper/magazine articles that pique your interest. Copy the articles or excerpts by hand underlining those words and phrases that you think are significant in the creation of mood and/or atmosphere.
Most newspaper and magazine articles seem to be entirely lacking in mood and/or atmosphere, but occasionally (and usually in the tabloids rather than the broadsheet press) Sally will come across an item that grabs her. She can’t see any common characteristics in the clippings, there’s no obvious theme or metaphor guiding her choices. Sometimes it’s the stories themselves that appeal – the briefcase and single shoe found on the beach, the twins reunited, the UFO identified as an errant catherine-wheel – and at other times she just likes the way the particular writer has put the story together, the words used – a quirky turn of phrase, an unexpected combination of images. She copies these stories into the back of her notebook, underlining as recommended. Stores both the original clippings and the book itself in an old shoebox which she keeps hidden, for no reason that she can fathom, at the back of the linen closet.
***
One day she decides to surprise Stanley with a lunchtime visit. She leaves the baby with her mother, catches the ferry over, then makes her way along the winding harbourside path to The House, where she joins the queue of tourists, buys a ticket.
***
The next time he mentions her he’s still offhand. Offhand but positive.
‘Actually she’s not so bad. Considering.’ The two of them are eating dinner. Alone. A civilised meal for once – the baby miraculously asleep. Table set: napkins, candles, matching cutlery, a bottle of shiraz. Sally’s made beef bourguignon, and made it properly this time, has even managed to find the small pickling onions that the recipe specifies. ‘I have to admit that she’s really got something,’ Stanley says between mouthfuls, knife and fork poised thoughtfully, ‘a real feeling for the era, for The House. A sort of warmth. Anyway, the groups really seem to enjoy her tours. We’re getting some incredibly good feedback.’ He pauses and Sally smiles across the table at him, reaches out her hand. ‘Like old times, isn’t it?’ she says, ‘Just the two of us. No interruptions. Isn’t it lovely?’ Stanley frowns slightly, looks down at his plate. ‘And she’s good company,’ he says. ‘You know, someone to talk to.’
There’s a smear of gravy under his chin. Sally watches it glisten in the candlelight as he chews.
***
Her name is Sasha. Sasha. What sort of a name is that? You think of the German cake, sticky and rich, but that’s Sacher. You look it up in your book of babies’ names: Sasha is a Russian diminutive of Alexandra. The Defender.
You’d like to know just what it is that she’s defending.
***
There is one article Sally particularly admires. She has copied it down, but now and then she likes to reread the original newsprint. She takes it out of the box, smoothes out the rough edges on her knee. Dancer warms up traffic, the headline reads.
Seattle: A fire-breathing woman danced topless on an electrical tower beside a freeway bridge for more than an hour yesterday, snarling traffic and cutting power to 500 homes and businesses. The 37-year-old woman, wearing only shorts, was gyrating, drinking vodka, spitting it out and lighting it, police spokeswoman Carmen Best said. She descended at the urging of police shortly before 9am and was arrested. Seattle City Light cut power to protect the woman, leaving 5000 customers without electricity.
In her copy she has underlined the words fire-breathing, snarling, gyrating, urging, and the whole of that carefully understated last sentence. Even the name of the police spokeswoman, Carmen Best, could have been deliberately chosen – it seems so significant in the creation of mood and/or atmosphere.
She considers words she might use to describe such a woman were she to add her to the list. Daring. Outrageous. Angry. Desperate.
***
According to the woman at the ticket office, Stanley’s next tour is scheduled for midday, so Sally spends the half hour wandering about the grounds. She’s been here before – a school history excursion as a teenager – but that was a long time ago. Stanley’s never been enthusiastic about her visiting. It may be that he’s afraid she’ll make him self-conscious, or perhaps he’s unsure about his performance, would be embarrassed by her observation, her judgement.
***
He tells you that they’ve had lunch together. Not just coffee and a sandwich at The House cafe, but a proper lunch at some nearby pub. You wonder what they ate, what they drank. You wonder who paid. You don’t ask. It’s been a long time since the two of you have been out for a meal together. A long time since you’ve done anything together. You don’t even sleep with one another anymore. Not properly. He lies as far away from you as is possible in your double bed, his back rigid even in sleep.
You welcome the night feeds, the warm, needy body close against you. These days you don’t bother to move the baby back to her cot.
Unresponsive, you write under Stanley’s name, then Frigid.
***
‘Sasha’s got a really interesting past,’ Stanley tells her. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ he says, ‘just incredible, the stuff she’s been through.’
He tells her that Sasha’s parents were dancers who defected from the Eastern Bloc when she was three. They lived in Paris, on the left bank, until her mother ran away with a Nigerian poet. Sasha moved with her father to Australia in her teens. She studied cello at the Con until an affair with one of the professors made it too hot for her there.
He tells her that Sasha can speak five languages. English, French, Italian, German, and Russian of course. And all of them fluently.
***
You find a blank page. Print her name at the top. Lower case. In pencil. sasha. This can only be a presumed, a guessed, an imaginary list of characteristics – after all, you’ve never met the girl – but there are things you can work out from what he’s let slip about her. You like that phrase – let slip – imagine some slimy thing, a fish or maybe a frog, escaping (flip flop!) from thin, pale fingers.
Under her name you write the word cool. Think of the situation with the professor: write hot. Perhaps it’s possible to be both hot and cool at the same time. You’re neither. Cool. Hot. Smart. Interesting. Then guessing: Beautiful.
***
Sally’s traipsing back up the flagstone coachway towards the main entrance, in good time for Stanley’s tour, when she sees him. He’s standing some distance from the path, almost hidden by the low-spreading branches of a flowering coral tree. She waves, goes to call out. Stops when she realises that he’s not alone.
***
Sunday. Stan goes into the city early in the afternoon, he and Sasha are seeing a film. ‘Not one you’d like Sal. It’s French. You know, arty. Anyway we can’t both go, can we? Not with the baby.’ He smiles nervously. ‘Sasha’s having a really hard time. Remember that professor I told you about? Well, she’s really suffering. Lonely. She begged me, more or less. A shoulder to cry on.’ Sally smiles back broadly, understandingly, suggests that he brings her back for coffee afterwards. ‘I’d really like to meet her,’ she says, ‘I’ve heard such a lot...’ Stan frowns. ‘It’s a bit out of Sasha’s way, Sal,’ he says. ‘She lives in Paddington. And I don’t think she’d really be into all...’ he pauses, shrugs, ‘...all this.’
***
You add some words to Sasha’s list. Arty, you write, and Lonely.
Beside Lonely, in red pen, a question mark.
***
Sally tries to imagine what it would be like up on that tower. Gyrating. She shrugs off her cardigan and pours herself more whisky, gulps it down. Takes off her top. Pours another. She unhooks her bra, and slings it into a corner of the room, then takes hold of the bottle and climbs up onto the arm of the lounge chair. It’s not very high, and quite wide – it only takes her a moment to balance. She stands, then, whisky bottle clutched in one outstretched arm, and moves her hips, gingerly at first – round and r
ound, back and forth. And then more boldly.
Takes a swig from the bottle. Round and round, back and forth. Gyrating.
***
He’s not alone. Stanley has his hands on a woman’s shoulders, is smiling down at her. The woman’s face is in shadow. Sally turns away quickly, but not quite quickly enough: she can’t avoid seeing her husband’s hands (pale, thin fingers) move easily (let slip!) down the woman’s body; and can’t miss noticing, as the two move even closer together, the warm red glow – a reflection of the violent crimson blossom – that seems to radiate from the couple. To enclose them.
***
‘and I don’t think she’d really be into all...’ he pauses, shrugs,
His shrug seems to encompass everything. You – still in your cotton nightdress; the suckling baby; worn carpet; grimy furniture; the ramshackle weatherboard house.
‘...all this.’
***
You think of another word you could use to describe the way that woman was feeling: Cold.
***
‘Anyway,’ he adds, ‘we’ll probably have a beer after, so don’t wait dinner for me.’
***
You stand steady on your perch, take another swig from the bottle, consider getting down for matches.
Divertimento
Action
I linger, though my father frowns and motions for me to leave them, to go. I have offered the man refreshment, as is polite, but this has been rather vaguely declined. It is the instrument that interests him, not the nourishment of his body, and he sets to it at once, without chitchat or prevarication. He sits at the keyboard headbent and still for a moment, then strikes with some vigour a single note in the bass, a second, more lightly in the treble, then moves between the two chromatically. He plays then, some piece of his own composing, perhaps; for it is not at all familiar.
I have heard much about the genius of this Italian (a connexion from my father’s days in the court) – the brilliant articulation and expression of his playing, the intensity and ingenuity of his compositions. There have been reports of seizures, rumours of swooning crowds. But this was all some time ago. Now – though it may be that he plays extempore – neither invention nor execution are remarkable. It is a pretty work, to be sure – swift and easy, with something of the spirit of Scarlatti – but simple. There is none of the virtuoso about him either: he remains perfectly composed as he plays, his narrow back and slim shoulders still, his face expressionless. I had hoped for more, and am a little disappointed.
When he has done playing, the Italian lowers his hands and sits for a moment, considering. He turns to my nervously waiting father. The instrument is pleasing, he says, but not exactly as he would wish. He shakes his head, sighs, stands, ‘I am sorry, Johann. It is a fine instrument, you understand, but I have certain requirements.’
‘Signor,’ says my father, ‘the mechanism is as yet only in its preparatory state of regulation. If you will let me continue my modifications under your direction, I am positive...’
‘I regret your trouble, old friend, but I am only two weeks more in Salzburg – it’s impossible.’
‘Two weeks are more than I will need, Signor. Only tell me what you require.’ My father’s voice is harsh with anxiety: such a commission could save us from poverty, restore his reputation. The Italian frowns, runs his fingers across the mahogany surface of the instrument. ‘I like its look–’ he says, ‘the carriage is well-proportioned, elegant. I suppose there would be nothing lost...’
‘Please, Signor.’
The Italian shrugs, then sounds a chord, three keys in the treble. ‘Look here, Johann. See the depth of these key beds. I need a lighter, a shallower action. I’ll return in the morning, and if it’s to my liking, then,’ he grips my father’s hand, ‘then, sir, we will see.’
My father beams, bows, wipes over his face with his kerchief, and bows again. The Italian turns, and for the first time, surveys the workshop. The room is dim and crowded, my corner deep in shadow, but even so he finds me out. ‘I had thought we were alone. Is this your daughter, Johann?’
‘Yes,’ says my father. ‘This is my youngest, Marie-Christine.’
‘So this is not...?’ He seems, as they all do, disappointed.
‘Clara has gone.’ My father’s voice is heavy, severe. The man looks to me again. ‘Marie-Christine,’ he says, ‘are you as prodigious a musician as your sister?’ I say nothing, keep my face downcast. My father answers for me. ‘Since my wife – she is an invalid – this one I have had trained only in domestic matters. She cooks, cleans, keeps my papers in order. She cares for her Mama. She knows nothing of music. I have learnt my lesson with the other. Marie-Christine knows her duty.’
The Italian raises his eyebrows, laughs. ‘A good housekeeper, eh? A dutiful daughter.’ He turns back to my father. ‘You’re a lucky man, Johann. A lucky man. Perhaps, sir, you will let me partake a little of your bounty, share in your good fortune?’
My father bows slightly. ‘You’re welcome, Signor, an honour, though I’m not sure...’
‘You have coffee? Bread? Cheese? Ahh, good man. I’m famished, starving. I have not eaten yet today. I have no wife to look after me, you see. Nor such a daughter.’
***
When my father resumes (with much good humour) his work on the instrument, I take my mother her meal. She lies as always supine, hands on shoulders, arms crossed against her breast, eyes closed. Only thus, she says, in the attitude of the dead, can she find any comfort, any alleviation from her copious and diverse sufferings. My mother has sought death from the moment, I believe, of my conception, but it is only in recent months, since Clara’s marriage, that she has retreated entirely from the motions of life and sequestered herself in her bedchamber. It is too much, she says, too much that she, she who has endured such a surfeit of misfortune, should have to experience the ultimate ignominy of penury. She prays (as do I) that Our Lord will take her soon, before her suffering becomes intolerable.
Her room is dark and cold: she insists that the fire remains unlit, that I extinguish my taper before I enter – was not Our Lord so entombed? The air is stale – soured by her breath and (though I am in frequent attendance) the odour of her emissions. She no longer consumes the hearty meals of the living, instead I prepare for her the thin gruels and compotes, the cordials of the invalid. She becomes daily more insubstantial, her figure wraithlike.
Her eyelids flicker, but do not open, when I enter. ‘Clara,’ her voice is light, breathless, ‘Clara, is that you?’
I say nothing, place the tray on the table by her bed.
‘Clara?’ She opens her eyes, props herself up on meagre forearms and peers about the room. She sees me then, by the doorway, emptying her pot into a bucket. ‘Oh,’ she sighs. ‘Oh, it’s you, Marie-Christine. I was dreaming of your sister...’
‘You’re always dreaming of Clara, Mama. It is to no good purpose: she won’t return.’
‘Oh Marie-Christine, what it is to bear children, and I pray to God you will be spared that, but to bear ungrateful, deceitful children...’
I sit down by her bed, wipe her eyes. ‘Mama,’ I say, ‘Mama, remember I told you of the Italian? He called today, and will perhaps give Papa a commission. All will be well, you’ll see, all will end well.’
She closes her eyes, leans back against the pillows. ‘You are young, Marie-Christine, and have all the optimism and innocence of your youth. Nothing is well, child, believe me. The world of man is built on the actions of the wicked and the corrupt – this you will discover soon enough. But for the righteous, the virtuous, the innocent – nothing will ever be well.’
***
The manservant asks me my business, then frowns and bids me wait. He has not suggested I take a chair, though the gallery is well appointed, so I am standing awkwardly, uncomfortably, when he returns with his master. The Italian is courteous, however, bows over my hand, offers me refreshment, a seat. He hides his surprise well. ‘Fraulein Brandt,’ he says
, taking a chair beside mine, ‘I am honoured by your presence, but as you may suppose, somewhat curious as to its nature. There is no problem, I hope, with your father? He has not been taken ill? I think he does not look well.’
‘He is old, Signor, old and worried. Since Clara married–’
‘Yes?’
‘Since Clara married we have had little income. For years my father has had no cause to – Clara’s performances–’
‘I have heard as much.’
‘We – he was hoping – a commission from you would, perhaps, be a new start, would mean reputation, recognition.’
‘Ah. So he has sent you here to persuade me.’
‘No. He knows nothing. I came here to offer an exchange.’
‘My dear, if the action proves satisfactory in the morning, and if the rest of the work can be done in the prescribed time, I will purchase the instrument. I leave for Florence on the 25th and do not return until the spring, and I must oversee the work. My standards are exacting I know, but my requirements are such that I can make no allowances. My reputation is also at stake.’
‘Signor, I know that my father can build you such an instrument that you have, perhaps, only ever dreamed of. But it is not enough for you to say that you may purchase the instrument. You must give him the commission. At once.’
He says nothing for a moment, eases back into his seat. ‘You say you have come here to strike a bargain, Fraulein Brandt,’ he says finally. ‘But what is it, my dear, what is it that you are proposing to bargain with?’ he leans forward, intent now, urgent. ‘What could you possibly have that I might want?’
‘My services,’ I say. ‘Me.’
***
I write to my sister. I name the date.
Temper
He comes early the next morning, soon after we have breakfasted, and my father in his anxious state barely manages a polite greeting, hastening him directly into the workshop. I follow and offer refreshment, which is once more declined, though this time the Italian’s manner is not offhand, but solicitous and somewhat grave. My father makes no signal for me to leave, indeed it is doubtful that he has even registered my presence, but nevertheless I move back into my shadowy corner to observe.
