The Voices

by F. R. Tallis

  The music coming through the headphones dispelled Christopher’s reminiscences and brought him firmly back into the present. His ‘score’ was marked with circular coffee stains and looked more architectural than musical. The system of notation he employed was a haphazard combination of borrowed symbols and his own idiosyncratic shorthand – angled lines, filled-in oblongs and a range of invented hieroglyphs. When a melodic fragment did appear it was accompanied by a general indication of the desired effect: reed, carillon, theremin.

  Pitches fell at different rates, their descent finding chance harmonies that quickly dissolved again into discord. A throbbing bass note, deeper than the lowest church organ pedal, provided a fundamental that helped the listener to appreciate these moments of transparency. The music suggested slow disintegration and reminded Christopher of a painting by Salvador Dalí showing a landscape draped in wilting clock faces. It was a beguiling sound and Christopher was pleased with what he had accomplished, but at the same time he regretted that this artful composition would be largely wasted on an audience whose attention, at this particular juncture in the film, would be wholly directed at the screen and an action sequence involving a perilous escape from an exploding space station. He imagined teenage boys sitting in half-empty cinemas, their eyes flickering in the darkness, their hands transferring popcorn from big cardboard buckets into their wide-open mouths.

  Christopher had been finding that he was increasingly envious of those Oxford peers of his who had continued to compose serious music. When their pieces were praised by critics in the broadsheets he felt strangely desolate. He had begun to think much more about posterity. In the past he had accepted his loss of ‘reputation’ with stoic indifference. It would have been churlish to complain as he had been amply compensated. His association with the film industry had allowed him to enjoy London throughout its decade of swinging pre-eminence. But now that his fiftieth birthday was only a few years away, things had changed. The world was a gloomier place and getting lucrative commissions wasn’t quite so easy. These days, he found it harder to be ‘philosophical’ and his expulsion from the ranks of the avant-garde rankled.

  Christopher had become so preoccupied that when the music faded he forgot to turn the tape machine off. The reels turned and the headphones hissed. He had followed his train of thought as he might a clue in a labyrinth, and he had discovered hitherto unsuspected dead ends of bitterness and envy. A noise roused him. He had been too self-obsessed to do much more than register that an event had occurred; however, a disquieting after-impression lingered. What had he heard, exactly? It had been buried in the tape hiss, a rhythmic inflection, something that, by rights, shouldn’t really have been there.

  He rewound the tape and watched the digits on the counter revolving backwards. After a few moments he pressed ‘stop’ and ‘play’ and turned up the volume. The hiss in the headphones sounded like a cataract. Christopher listened, and then he started when he heard a voice speaking over the roar. Even though it was loud, he couldn’t make out what was being said. He tried again. This time, he was able to determine the gender of the speaker, a woman with an unusually deep voice, and she was speaking in German.

  Christopher replayed the phrase several times and found that with each repetition he was able to hear what was being said a little better.

  ‘Wie heilig für uns Toten.’

  Christopher’s German was good enough to translate what she was saying: How sacred for us dead.

  It sounded like a fragment of something larger, an excerpt from a sermon or poem. Was there any more? He let the tape run on. After five or six seconds of tape hiss, the deep, female voice returned. ‘Lange sollen diese Mauern Zeuge unserer Arbeit sein.’ Once again, Christopher had to replay the phrase several times before he was able to translate it: Long shall these walls be witness to our work. After another short interval, Christopher heard a man’s voice – much clearer than the woman’s – saying, ‘Die Sonne sinkt.’ The sun is sinking. Nothing else followed.

  Christopher spoke out loud the phrases he had listened to: ‘How sacred for us dead . . . Long shall these walls be witness to our work . . . The sun is sinking.’

  He did not puzzle over the significance of these cryptic utterances, but rather he wondered how it was that two voices (and two German voices at that) had come to appear on what should have been a completely blank part of the tape.

  Christopher and Laura were sitting at their dining-room table with their guests, Simon and Amanda Ogilvy. The starter course had already been served – an Alsatian fondue made from Munster cheese – along with a flowery Riesling. It was a tricky operation, spearing the pieces of wholemeal bread, rotating the skewers in the molten cheese, and preventing any excess from dribbling onto the tablecloth, but frequent practice had made them all expert. Candles flickered, joss sticks burned and an unobtrusive Mozart string quartet played in the background.

  After the fondue, Christopher went to the kitchen and returned with a wide earthenware pot brimming with spaghetti bolognese. The Mozart quartet had come to an end but the ‘automatic arm’ on the turntable hadn’t lifted. A regular, muffled pulse was coming through the speakers. Christopher told his guests to help themselves and went to change the record. He replaced Mozart with Bach: Glenn Gould playing the two- and three-part inventions. Simon was talking about a programme he had heard on the radio in which several politicians had been attempting to predict the outcome of the current economic crisis. As Christopher sat down, his friend said, ‘We’ve been living well beyond our means and we can’t go on like this.’

  ‘What if the money does run out?’ asked Laura innocently. ‘What will happen? I mean, I know this sounds selfish, but how will it affect people like us?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Simon replied. ‘You hear different things. The Americans already think we’re a Third World country. Shanty towns on the heath – it isn’t inconceivable – no food in the shops. God knows. The real issue, of course, is whether democracy can survive if things get any worse. There are a lot of people out there,’ he said, pointing at the window, inviting his companions to imagine an unthinking multitude beyond the glass, ‘who want somebody strong to take over and sort it all out.’

  ‘We’re not going down that road,’ said Christopher. ‘I don’t think our military have the stomach for it. If they had, they would have acted by now. No.’ He twisted his fork into the mountain of spaghetti and minced beef piled on his plate. ‘It isn’t going to happen, whatever the scaremongers say.’

  ‘Who would want a dictatorship?’ asked Laura. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘David Bowie,’ Amanda replied.

  Christopher stopped eating. ‘What?’

  ‘He said some very odd things last year,’ Amanda continued, ‘about wanting the army to take over.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Christopher growled. ‘What was he thinking?’

  ‘It just goes to show how frustrated people are,’ said Simon. ‘A sign of the times.’

  ‘My students found his position very confusing,’ Amanda continued. ‘You know, for a man who used to wear make-up and a quilted body stocking.’

  ‘Who cares what David Bowie thinks?’ said Christopher, more vehemently than he had intended.

  ‘He’s very influential,’ Amanda replied.

  ‘He’s a pop singer,’ said Christopher, enunciating the word ‘pop’ with scornful emphasis.

  ‘Yes. But people like him matter now,’ said Amanda. Then, turning to Laura, she said, ‘Are we speaking too loudly?’

  Laura indicated the baby monitor. ‘We’d know if there was a problem. I think she’ll sleep through.’

  ‘What time will she wake up?’

  ‘Six if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Christ.’

  Simon was still thinking about the economy. ‘The unions demand more money, profits go down, and the cost of goods goes up. I hope to God Callaghan doesn’t repeat Wilson’s mistakes.’

  In due course, the table was cleared, and Laura r
etreated to the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned pushing a trolley, on top of which was a Black Forest gateau. ‘I took it out of the freezer an hour ago. I hope it’s properly defrosted.’ She cut the cake into thick slices and circulated the plates. Addressing Simon, she said, ‘I understand you’re having something performed at the proms this year.’

  ‘Not in the Albert Hall, though. They’re putting all us living composers in the Roundhouse. I know it’s petty, but I’m a bit irritated by their decision. When you get a prom, you expect the Albert Hall, not a train shed.’

  Laura took her place at the table. ‘Is it a new piece?’

  ‘Nyx,’ said Simon, ‘for chamber orchestra and tape.’

  ‘Nyx?’ Laura repeated.

  ‘Night,’ said Amanda. ‘In Greek myth, she was one of the earliest deities, the daughter of Chaos.’

  Simon smiled at his wife. ‘Amanda suggested the title.’

  Christopher asked his friend some questions about the new work and their talk soon became more technical and exclusive. Laura and Amanda lost interest and began a conversation of their own. By the time coffee was being served, the women were speaking in low, confidential tones about a common acquaintance, and Christopher inferred that it was acceptable to invite Simon upstairs to the studio. ‘I’d like you to hear something,’ he said.

  It was not uncommon for the men and women to separate at this point in the evening. Consequently, Laura and Amanda barely acknowledged their husbands’ departure. The two friends climbed the stairs, but on the way up Christopher entered the nursery to check on Faye. He could smell her – a curious blend of animal fragrances and talcum powder. Christopher looked through the bars of the cot. Faye had her eyes closed and was sucking her thumb in her sleep. She had kicked off her blanket but Christopher didn’t bother covering her again. The room was warm and slightly stuffy, even though the upper sash window had been left open a fraction to let in fresh air.

  ‘She’s very beautiful,’ whispered Simon.

  Christopher nodded. ‘Like her mother.’ They tiptoed out of the room and continued their ascent.

  In the studio, Christopher played his friend the music he had composed to accompany the escape sequence in Android Insurrection. Simon stood listening, clasping his chin, his brow furrowed with concentration. The pitches began to descend and his expression showed surprise when the notes suddenly constellated to produce recognizable harmonies.

  ‘That’s rather good,’ said Simon. ‘Quite unexpected.’

  Christopher felt a sense of relief. He wanted Simon’s approval.

  A decade earlier, Simon had been struggling to get commissions. He had been living in a cramped, rather shabby hovel overlooking the bleak scrubland of Wanstead Flats. At that time, Christopher was doing exceptionally well – parties, fast cars, women. Back then, he didn’t care what Simon thought. Now that Simon’s music was being performed by the world’s leading orchestras, Christopher cared very much. The two men seemed to have gone through a reversal of fortunes. Or, at least, that was how Christopher perceived the situation. He played Simon a few more pieces, although none had the same effect as the first, and Christopher’s sense of accomplishment gradually ebbed away. Moreover, he found himself feeling slightly resentful towards his friend. Simon could have been a little more fulsome, he thought, less reserved in his praise. Christopher maintained a show of conviviality, and later, when Simon and Amanda were leaving, he shook Simon’s hand and wished him well.

  ‘Let’s leave the washing-up,’ said Christopher.

  ‘I don’t mind doing it,’ said Laura.

  Christopher dismissed her offer. ‘I’ll help tomorrow morning.’

  Laura went to collect the baby monitor and when she returned, she switched off the ground-floor lights and they went straight to bed.

  Christopher had been admiring his wife over the course of the evening. She had forsaken her loose tops and pyjama-style trousers for a stylish blouse and tight jeans. At some point, possibly when she had made her entrance with the Black Forest gateau, he had decided that later they would make love, and he had been quietly looking forward to it. The prospect had added a register of pleasant expectation to his otherwise despondent mental state. Christopher signalled his intent with touches and kisses, and Laura, reliably willing, allowed him to continue. She was not properly aroused, but Christopher knew that his persistence would eventually be rewarded. Just as a mutually satisfying rhythm had been established, the steady hiss of the baby monitor was disturbed by a snuffling sound. He could feel Laura tensing beneath him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Christopher whispered. ‘She’s fine.’

  But the snuffling didn’t stop, and then there was movement – rustles, creaks, knocks – and then whimpering.

  ‘Stop,’ said Laura. Christopher pressed his hands flat against the mattress, raised the upper half of his body and listened. The whimpering was becoming more and more like crying. ‘I’d better go,’ said Laura, rocking her hips from side to side.

  ‘Maybe she’ll settle down,’ Christopher ventured hopefully.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘OK.’

  Christopher flopped onto his back. Laura swung her legs off the side of the bed, stood up, and left the room. He heard her entering the nursery, picking up Faye, and cooing. ‘There, there. What’s the matter?’ Laura’s attempts to settle the child were not entirely successful, and Faye continued to grizzle. Christopher was impatient for his wife’s return. He felt wound up and irritable. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to transcend his emotions. But Faye was inconsolable. It took more than thirty minutes before she fell silent, and Christopher’s discomfort was extended further when Laura chose to spend an additional fifteen minutes waiting to see if Faye would wake up again.

  When Laura finally returned, Christopher was anxious to resume their lovemaking; however, Laura disappointed him by removing his hand from her breast.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really very tired.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. She turned her back on him but he continued to stroke her spine. ‘OK,’ he repeated.

  The next day, Christopher was in the studio creating effects with an archaic piece of equipment known (to a small number of former Radiophonic Workshop initiates) as a ‘wobbulator’. It was a large metal box with a few switches and a centrally placed rotating knob. The device produced a raw, atavistic sound, to which varying amounts of pitch wobble could be added. The sequence Christopher was working on involved throbbing bursts of output from the wobbulator, followed by long pauses, and it was during one of these pauses that Christopher detected, once again, the sound of a human voice. He rewound and replayed the tape. There were, in fact, unwanted intrusions in almost every interval of silence. Six altogether. Christopher set about saving the effects he had already recorded by cutting and splicing the tape, and in no time he had removed the spoiled sections and completely restored the soundtrack. He then telephoned Roger Kaminsky, who agreed to pay Christopher a visit later that afternoon.

  On returning to his studio, Christopher did a little tidying, examined one or two scores, and then found that he was bored. The excised pieces of tape, which were still hanging from hooks above the splicing table, caught his attention. He had plenty of time to kill, and for want of anything better to do, he decided to join the pieces together so that he could play them to Kaminsky. When Christopher had accomplished his task, he listened to the voices through headphones. None of the utterances were very clear, so he used filters to attenuate some frequencies and strengthen others.

  The first voice was female and spoke in French: ‘Désolée. Elle est morte la nuit dernière.’ I’m sorry, she died last night. The second voice was male, and spoke two phrases in German: ‘Ich bin hier fremd’ and ‘Wo treffen wir uns?’ I am a stranger here and Where shall we meet? There was then a faint whisper in a Slavic language that Christopher was unable to translate, then a phrase spoken by a woman in what Christopher guessed to
be Hungarian. The final voice spoke in declamatory English: ‘Come, Tommy. Fate! Come, Tommy. Fate!’ The speaker was male and he pronounced his words like a drunken aristocrat.

  It was all very curious.

  By manipulating frequency levels, Christopher was able to produce an engineered version of the tape that, although still lacking definition, was much ‘cleaner’ than the original.

  When Kaminsky arrived, Christopher explained how voices had started to appear on his recordings.

  ‘No more knocks?’ asked Kaminsky.

  ‘No,’ Christopher replied. ‘But this is just as bad.’ He pressed ‘play’. ‘Listen. The first voice says, “Désolée. Elle est morte la nuit dernière.”‘

  Kaminsky tilted his head and asked: ‘What does it mean?’

  Christopher stopped the tape. ‘I’m sorry, she died last night.’

  ‘Weird. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Providing it’s legal. The next voice is German. “Ich bin hier fremd.” It means I am a stranger here.’ Christopher started the tape again.

  When the Slavic whispering came through the speakers Kaminsky guessed that it might be Polish.

  ‘Do you speak Polish?’ Christopher asked.

  ‘My dad never bothered to teach me,’ Kaminsky replied, his admission tinged with regret.

  They listened to the Hungarian and English voices, before Christopher rewound the tape and played it a second time from the beginning. ‘Well, Roger, what do you think?’

  ‘Have you been using old tape?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If the record and erasing heads aren’t exactly aligned, some of the things you thought you’d wiped can still be there, albeit faintly. Sure it’s not old tape?’

  ‘Positive. Besides, I wouldn’t have forgotten making recordings like these, would I?’