Against the Tide

by John Hanley

  I struggled with her to unhinge it and place it against the wall. It took some time before she was happy with its placement.

  ‘What difference does it make where you put it?’ I asked gently.

  ‘Of course it damn well matters. I’ve got to get the acoustic bounce right. I hate this bloody room. I need more reverberation. It’s dead, soaks up all the energy. Even with those blasted curtains down it’s hopeless. At least that polished lid will give some reflection.’

  She flounced back to the stool. ‘Now, stand over there.’ She indicated the corner. ‘Out of the way.’ She glowered at me. ‘Whatever you have to say can wait until I’ve gone a couple more rounds with Ludwig.’

  I shuffled over to the corner and stood like a naughty school boy. At least I could see her face from there.

  She started to play again. The sounds were thrilling, her dexterity amazing. I was absorbed, but sensed that she wasn’t happy. She stopped her flying fingers again in the middle of a complex passage. ‘“La relativa scopata inutile,” ’ she shouted and thumped the keys.

  I didn’t understand the words but her tone was clear and I was sure she wasn’t reciting a musical direction. Saul swore in Afrikaans. Her preference was Italian.

  She saw my puzzled look. ‘I hate this shitty piano. I asked him to get me a concert grand and what does he bring back? A bloody Bechstein D, older than him. Do I bloody well care that it’s been played by Cortot in some crappy concert in Paris? Schnabel would spit on it. I wanted a Steinway – a decent-sized one as well, not this piece of rubbish.’

  She stopped her tirade and called me over. ‘Come here. Tell me something.’

  I walked towards her, skirting the discarded chairs and rugs.

  She reached out and grabbed my wrist. ‘How can I get the passion into this? Do I have to be a man?’

  Her intensity was frightening. What could I say? I didn’t know much about music. I glanced at the sheets on the piano’s deck. Beethoven. So I had been right about that. Piano Sonata No. 23 in F Minor, op 57 and, in brackets, “Appassionata”. Bit of a clue that, but what was she asking? Was it about strength or feeling?

  ‘I asked Schnabel the same question, you know,’ she continued before I could respond. ‘We were in his piano room at Tremezzo, overlooking Lake Como. Do you know what he said?’

  I shook my head. I remember her writing about Schnabel and his extraordinary abilities. She confessed that he’d frightened the pants off her. I hoped she hadn’t meant that literally, as he was old enough to be her grandfather.

  ‘He laughed and told me to stop trying so hard. What use was that? How can I get the passion, Beethoven’s manic intensity, those roaring fortissimos without bloody trying hard?’

  ‘Perhaps –’

  But she cut me off, pulled me towards her and pointed into the piano. ‘Look, that soundboard, it’s beginning to split; the plate’s fine and, yes, there’s Cortot’s signature. My bastard father must have paid a fortune for this pile of junk. Oh, Christ. I know it’s not the piano. It’s me.

  ‘Look, Jack, I’ve watched you play water polo, the way you and the others throw the ball. It seems so effortless, yet so powerful. I’ve tried and it’s just pathetic. I can’t get the momentum. I’m not weak, so why can even the youngest boy throw a ball better than me?’

  I was incredulous. It was as though none of the unpleasantness between us had happened – as though we were still a close couple. I would never understand women. She had a temporary use for me as Mr Practical. But that wasn’t why I was there. Fred had overridden my objections, begged me to be pleasant. The information was important.

  I swallowed my immediate response and decided to be helpful. ‘I think it’s about levers and timing.’

  ‘That’s what Schnabel said, “Levers; don’t try to force it through the arms. Use your fingers as levers, control the volume through the speed of descent. Don’t use arm force as it is too slow. Playing is fundamentally movement.” Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘It makes sense for water polo – I don’t know about piano playing though.’

  She was excited. She pushed me away and sat down again. ‘Listen.’

  She picked the opening passage from the third movement. “Allegro ma no troppo; presto” it said on the sheet, though I had no idea what that meant. She accelerated into it, keeping her arms just above the keyboard and focusing on her finger movement. A blur of perpetual motion mesmerised me as the notes reverberated around the hard surfaces of the room. I felt my eyes pricking with tears of delight.

  The notes hung in the air long after the crashing finale. She turned to me, her face empty again. ‘Jack, I still can’t feel the passion.’

  Her expensive lessons with Schnabel had given her the answers. She just needed to be told them again.

  ‘What’s so special about Schnabel?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Artur Schnabel? Only the greatest concert pianist of our time, stupid. He’s also a brilliant teacher. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about Beethoven.’

  ‘Is he German?’ I was looking for some way of starting the conversation about Kohler and her father.

  ‘Of course, but he doesn’t live there anymore.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Jack, don’t you know anything? He’s a Jew, stupid. He left when Hitler came to power, silly really, but he was frightened, moved to Italy and now he’s gone to America, so no more lessons for me – until Daddy…’ She stopped and I thought I saw a new colour rise in her cheeks.

  ‘So what did Schnabel tell you about passion, Caroline?’

  ‘He told me I’d need one of these.’ She reached for my crotch and I let her squeeze, absorbing the pain. She released her grip and moved her body into me. ‘He told me not to try to inject the emotion into the music.’ She put her arms around my neck and nibbled my ear. ‘He told me to listen to the sounds, let them create the emotion in their own right.’ She kissed my cheek. ‘I truly hate you, Jack, but the feel of you is creating a different emotion in me.’

  She spun away, sat down again and looked at me. ‘It’s simple, according to Schnabel – the emotion should flow from the music into me and not the other way round. So why doesn’t the music sound right, Jack? Why doesn’t it flow into me like you do?’

  I swallowed, trying to keep myself under control. She had broken through again. I’d tried to explain to my uncle that he would be sending me into a minefield but he didn’t seem to understand. He’d taken the film from the camera and replaced it with a fresh one. After I told him about Hayden-Brown, he had been insistent that I talk to Caroline about Kohler. My heart had been in my mouth most of the way and now I was once again trapped in her web, with little hope of gaining the control I needed to get the answers; but I had to try, for Malita, if not for myself.

  I tried to think of a reply but she had turned back to the keyboard. She started to play a slow passage with heavy bass chords. She looked at me, a ghost of a smile on her lips while her hands caressed the keys. Now she was listening to the music and not the sounds she was producing. She played on, her fingers dancing over the keyboard. Her smile spread as though she had found Beethoven at last. I waited, once more captivated by her. Could I ever escape? Did I want to?

  She ran straight into the last movement as the sun slanted off the upturned Chippendale chairs and the curled up Ghiordes rugs, its beams radiating like stage lights as Beethoven, through Caroline, struggled to his manic conclusion.

  She clapped her hands in excitement, leapt off the stool and wrapped herself round me kissing me passionately on the mouth. I pressed back, Beethoven still ringing in my ears, wanting to become one with her again but she pulled back, released herself, pushed me away and picked up one of the upturned chairs. She motioned me to pick up another and we sat side by side looking out on the sloping lawn.

  ‘Now, why did you come to see me, Jack?’

  I sensed that to tell her the real truth – that I hadn’t stopped thinking about her for days,
that I blamed myself for the stupidity of our last meeting – would be fruitless. It would lead to recrimination. Despite the kiss, the fondness, she had said she hated me and I believed her. She wasn’t ready to forgive me yet. I decided to be business like, to tell the other truth, though not all of it. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Rudi.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m curious. I saw him again today with some friends at the hotel. He seemed friendly enough, didn’t want to get his revenge.’

  ‘He’s bigger than that, Jack.’

  ‘Have you been seeing much of him?’ I managed to keep my voice neutral but didn’t fool her.

  ‘Really, Jack, what a question? After what you said, does it matter if I see him or not?’

  ‘I deserve that but I’d just like to know, that’s all.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Is he German?’

  She exhaled slowly. ‘Is that all? I thought… no, never mind what I thought. Yes, I think he is. I think he and his uncle are pretending to be Dutch because of their business dealings with my father. They don’t want to cause any embarrassment. You know, with all the talk about war in the papers.’

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘Of course not, that would be very rude.’

  ‘But you were very angry with him last week… you told –’

  She interrupted, irritated now. ‘Yes, I was but it wasn’t because he was German. It doesn’t matter anyway.’

  ‘Have you seen him though?’

  ‘Yes, in fact he was here yesterday evening. Don’t get agitated… it’s not what you’re thinking. He wasn’t alone. Father invited him and his friends to dinner and I had to play the hostess. Bloody boring it was as well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was all business talk… I tried to introduce some culture. They were polite, discussed music for a while but soon got back to their bloody economics and diamond nonsense. Normally, the bastard shows off and tells guests about my playing, even gets me to demonstrate his investment, but he didn’t seem aware of me, he was so wrapped up in their discussions. I excused myself with a headache but only Rudi showed any concern. I think he wanted to talk to me but his uncle wouldn’t let him leave the table. Anyway, why are you interested?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Jack, you’re fibbing. What’s going on? Are you spying?’

  I felt a hot rush of blood to my face and was sure she could see the change of colour.

  ‘Come on, you can tell me.’

  ‘I think I’ve outstayed my welcome. Let me help you put the room back together before I go.’ I walked towards the upturned piano lid and waited for her.

  Instead, she moved towards the window and went outside. She returned moments later. ‘Ah ha. That’s your uncle’s bike, isn’t it? Red Fred. So that’s what it’s all about. He’s the one who’s curious, not you.’ She laughed. ‘How intriguing. Do you suppose he is a Communist spy? That would be fantastic. Are the “Reds” checking up on my father’s dodgy businesses?’ She clapped her hands. ‘Wouldn’t that be so delicious. Give the bastard a fright.’

  She waltzed over to me. ‘Come on then, tell me what you know and I’ll tell you what I know. Deal?’

  ‘Only if you promise not to tell your father.’

  ‘He wouldn’t listen to me if I told him there were burglars breaking into his safe. He never takes me seriously, I’m just a decorative inconvenience… enough about him. What’s this really about?’

  We both seemed cursed with distant, dismissive fathers, perhaps that had drawn us together but now wasn’t the time for analysis. ‘I don’t honestly know but I’ve been asked to find out about his guests. Do you know their names?’

  ‘I might but you need to do better than that. Who wants to know and why?’

  ‘Okay, my uncle thinks he might be part of a fascist plot –’

  She hooted. ‘Really. What nonsense. He’s only interested in one thing.’ She rubbed her fingers together. ‘Sometimes, I think he’s more Jewish than Saul. They certainly share an interest.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Diamonds, silly. Don’t you remember last month when Saul showed us that roll of – what did he call them?’

  ‘Industrials I think. He got them from his father’s safe. But he was just showing off.’

  ‘Maybe, but they were real enough.’

  ‘Could have been fakes for all we know.’

  She shrugged. ‘I think that was what they were worried about last night.’

  ‘Who was worried?’

  ‘Rudi’s uncle and that English creep, Sir something or the other.’

  ‘What about Rudi, was he worried?’

  ‘Not so you’d notice. He looked more bored than me. The other two, some sweaty chap and another German, seemed fascinated.’

  ‘You can’t remember their names?’

  ‘No, silly, I was thinking about other things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  She snorted. ‘Good try. But it wasn’t you – not unless you write piano sonatas in your spare time.’

  ‘So they thought these diamonds might be fake?’

  ‘Not for long. Father brought in some samples and flashed them around. The sweaty one seemed to know all about them, where they came from, all that nonsense. It was the other German, Shitz, or some name like that, who was all over them. Stuffed one of those funny magnifying glasses into his eye socket and squinted over them. He looked ridiculous.’

  ‘But what does it mean? Are the Germans buying them? What do they want with jewellery?’

  ‘Beats me. Perhaps the Fuhrer likes dressing up – I don’t know. There’s a lot of them though.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘The bastard won’t be back for a while so I’ll show you. Come on.’

  She grabbed my hand and dragged me through the conservatory, along the corridor and into the kitchen. She lifted a set of keys off a wall rack and unlocked the door to the cellar. I’d been down there with her before when she’d tried to ply me with some of her father’s best wine. I’d refused then but this information about diamonds was something Uncle Fred would relish.

  We clattered down the stairs, past the tiered racks of bottles to a cage at the end of the cool room. Inside, on the walls, were his precious vintage wines and ancient brandies but on the floor were four crates.

  She unlocked the cage and ushered me in. ‘There, have a look for yourself.’ She pointed to the first one. ‘That’s been opened. Just lift the lid. Don’t pinch any.’

  The crate was solidly made from some sort of tropical hardwood, about two feet long, eighteen inches high and about the same in depth. Something was stencilled on the top: “Forminiére” and the initials “SGB”. There were metal handles on each long end and a locking clasp on the front though the padlock was open.

  I lifted the lid. No velvet rolls, just layers of small diamonds separated by black cloth. Thousands of the little buggers. They looked different from the ones Saul had shown us. His were clear though he told us they were roughs, or industrials. These were of a similar size but ranged in colour from yellow through gold to a warm brown.

  ‘See, I wasn’t making it up. I must say they look a bit grubby, dirty even – not much sparkle. Go on – grab some.’

  I must have looked startled.

  ‘Don’t worry. We’re not stealing them. I’ve got an idea. Go on, bring them here.’

  I dug out a fistful and handed them to her.

  She shoved them into one of her dress pockets. ‘Put everything back the way it was. Don’t worry about fingerprints.’

  I closed the case then, on an impulse, lifted it up. I was used to hefting hundredweight barrels of spuds and reckoned this weighed more than half that. I lowered it carefully, replaced the padlock but didn’t close it.

  ‘How long have they been here?’

  ‘Don’t know for certain. A few days. I think he brought them in from St Malo when he took Lorelei there last week.’


  ‘So he’s still got that floating gin palace?’

  She sniggered. ‘He still can’t drive it though. Needs to hire someone to get it out of the harbour. He uses it for…’ she stopped. ‘Well, less said about that the better.’

  I suspected she’d been about to say he used it for the same purpose as we had. Only his wife hadn’t been on the island for well over a year.

  She poked me in the chest. ‘I know what you’re thinking so stop that now. We’ve got work to do. Come on.’

  ‘What work, where are we going?’

  ‘You’re giving me a lift on that big throbbing machine of yours and we’re going to see Saul to ask him some questions.’

  25

  ‘Wat die hel doen jy?’

  ‘Diamonds, Saul, tell us about those diamonds.’ Caroline barged past the startled boy, dragging me in to the apartment with her.

  ‘Kak! Look at the state of you. What have you two been up to? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.’ He trailed behind us until we were all in the lounge.

  Caroline hadn’t bothered to change out of her sweat-stained dress and her hair was a mess after the ride on Boadicea.

  ‘What about a drink? Have you still got that Rarete Calvados?’ She was already poking about in the cocktail cabinet.

  Saul looked at me, a mixture of bemusement and irritation on his face.

  ‘Ah, here it is. Come on, you two, this will wake us up.’

  ‘Steady, girl. That’s sixty years old, my father would rather shag a goat than see you wasting that.’

  ‘Too bad he’s not here then. We’d love to see that, wouldn’t we, Jack? A Jew shagging a goat. Shouldn’t it be the other way round?’ She tossed each of us a cut-glass tumbler and pulled the cork.

  ‘Not for me, thanks – I had enough the other night.’

  ‘Don’t be pathetic, Jack. It didn’t hurt your performance.’ She giggled as she splashed a large measure into Saul’s glass, filled her own then advanced on me. I rolled my eyes but let her pour the amber liquid into the tumbler. ‘Right, let’s sit while Saul tells us all about diamonds.’

  ‘What is going on? You two aren’t getting engaged, are you?’