‘That’s an idea,’ said Manders. ‘Wait for us downstairs. I want to take you all out to lunch,’ he said expansively. ‘Not a business lunch, Madame Sousatzka. We will talk of other things.’
Marcus put his hands in his pockets as they would not be needed, and he left the room.
Madame Sousatzka, who had been standing all the time, looked around for a chair. Manders drew up a couch to his desk and motioned her to sit down. He moved to the chair that his wife had just vacated and placed it behind Jenny. He returned to his swivel chair at the desk and fumbled with irrelevant papers, scrutinizing them and sorting them with a professional air. ‘We’ll launch him with a splash, I’ve decided,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘The Festival Hall. Nothing less.’ Jenny gasped. Manders waited for Madame Sousatzka’s reaction and her gratitude. But Sousatzka, whatever she felt, was determined not to show it. ‘A recital?’ she asked casually.
‘Oh no,’ said Manders, realizing the reason for her lack of immediate enthusiasm. ‘An orchestral concert. I will launch him in a big way. A big conductor, a big orchestra, in the Festival Hall.’ Madame Sousatzka noted that suddenly he was undertaking the launching alone. She said nothing, and Jenny was surprised at her lack of reaction.
‘He will play the Beethoven Fourth,’ Madame Sousatzka announced.
‘Never mind what he’ll play,’ said Manders. ‘What will he wear? That’s more to the point. I suggest,’ he went on, determined to ignore Sousatzka’s dumbfounded expression, ‘a black velvet suit and an Eton collar. His hair should not be too neat, and preferably longer than is usual. I have tentatively scheduled a date in February. It’s one of my boy’s concerts, but he’s had to cancel it. I’ll put Marcus in his place. That gives us two months; he can grow his hair by then. Black patent shoes,’ he went on, ‘with perhaps a silver buckle. But my wife will see to that. She’s rather good at that sort of thing.’
Madame Sousatzka stood up. She had had enough. ‘My Marcus is not a male model,’ she shouted, desperately reclaiming him. ‘What he should wear is not important. That is not my business. My business is the piano, Mr Manders. I will see he gives such a concert, you never heard anything like it. That is all that matters to me.’
‘Well, of course, we all know he’ll play well,’ Manders soothed her, ‘but in this business, we take that for granted. There are so many pianists, Madame Sousatzka,’ he confided to her sadly. ‘They all play well. They all have talent. But these days, with such competition,’ he raised his voice as if he were addressing a board meeting, ‘they have to have something more. Our Marcus is a child’ – Madame Sousatzka noted their joint account – ‘I intend to sell him as a child, as a child prodigy, but first and foremost as a child. As for the Beethoven Fourth, and I know it well,’ he added quickly, forestalling Madame Sousatzka’s disbelief, ‘almost all pianists on my books play that one – I don’t think somehow that Marcus is, well, mature enough. I think a little Mozart would sell better. The double image of child prodigies,’ he said. ‘And after all, Mozart is a lot easier for a youngster.’
Madame Sousatzka exploded at his abysmal ignorance. ‘Mature you want him to be? I also want him mature. And when he is mature, he will play Mozart. Not before that. You think that to play the piano is only the technique. So he can play Mozart, you think. Simple. There is more to the business, Mr Manders, than black and white notes. For Mozart, you must be the great musician, you must have lived and suffered, tried and failed. You must know the joy, the hatred, the betrayal.’ Madame Sousatzka obviously felt herself a more suitable candidate for the Festival Hall. ‘My Marcus is a little boy. He is not ready for Mozart. And I don’t care how many of your boys play the Beethoven. Marcus will play it better.’
‘Oh, what’s the difference for Heaven’s sake,’ said Jenny. ‘Let’s not argue. Felix,’ she said gently, ‘let Madame Sousatzka have her way with what Marcus plays. What does it matter as long as he plays well?’
Because it was Jenny’s request, Manders was willing to make the concession. ‘All right, Madame Sousatzka,’ he said, ‘have your own way. But as an impresario, I give you my opinion, gained from long experience, that a child playing Mozart is an infallible best-seller.’
Madame Sousatzka sat down again. She was not interested in Manders’s opinions and she let it pass.
‘Now there is the question of contract,’ Manders said, picking up a blue folder from the desk. ‘We needn’t go into details. They’re rather boring.’ Madame Sousatzka opened her mouth in the shape of a contradiction, but pressing on Manders said, ‘You can take a copy home with you and study it at your leisure.’
‘How much you pay Marcus for the concert?’ Sousatzka asked innocently.
‘How much do I pay?’ Manders gasped. He hadn’t realized Madame Sousatzka was so naïve. ‘D’you understand, Madame Sousatzka,’ he said gently, ‘that the general procedure in our business, especially with a new, unknown artist, is that the artist pays me to launch him under my aegis, and that he will receive a percentage of the profits, that is, if there are any. Now in Marcus’s case,’ he hurried on, dreading her interruptions, ‘I am making an exception.’
‘He is the exception,’ Sousatzka said. ‘How much you pay him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Manders said, slightly irritated. ‘He is an exception because I ask nothing of him in the beginning. I undertake all expenses; the Hall, the orchestra, the conductor, the advertisements, the publicity; I risk it all. And Marcus will be paid out of the profits after I have got my money back.’
‘So you lose nothing,’ Madame Sousatzka said.
‘Madame Sousatzka,’ Manders was angry now, and a soothing look from Jenny calmed him a little. ‘I stand to lose everything,’ he said. ‘Without an audience, there is no profit. And you must have a big audience even to cover expenses. You never know. He is unknown. He plays the Beethoven Fourth. Not so popular as a Mozart.’ He was beginning to regret letting Sousatzka have her say regarding the programme. ‘But suppose they want to come. Suppose even, they like the Beethoven Fourth. Then that night, it’s raining, or foggy, maybe.’
‘In February, no fog,’ Madame Sousatzka sneered with the confidence of a weather forecaster.
‘But we can have rain. Anything can happen.’ Then realizing that his argument was weakening, he shouted, ‘Madame Sousatzka, if you think that you can get a better deal elsewhere, you are obviously at liberty to take it. But I doubt it. I doubt it very much. It’s a cut-throat profession, Madame Sousatzka. You won’t find many as generous as I.’
‘He’s right, Sousatzka,’ Jenny said, who had had personal experience of Manders’s generosity. ‘In any case, Marcus isn’t only playing for money.’
‘That I know, Jenny. That I know very well,’ Sousatzka said. ‘I know what Mr Manders wants to do. I appreciate it. I take home the contract and I will look at it.’
‘Can I then go ahead with my arrangements?’ Manders asked.
‘Yes, you can go ahead,’ Sousatzka permitted him. ‘For a concert in February, in the Festival Hall, to play the Beethoven Fourth.’
The reminder depressed him. Jenny put her arm round his neck and he smiled weakly.
‘What about that lunch you promised us?’ she said.
They picked up Marcus in the hall. There was a lunch-hour let-up on the switchboard, and as they passed by the desk the woman hid her face in her knitting. She watched them disappear out of the front doors, and when they’d gone, she furtively took out a cheese sandwich and nibbled at one corner, like a little old mouse who knows the coast is clear.
11
On the following Friday, as they were getting ready to go to Vauxhall Mansions, Marcus tried to hide his nervousness, his excitement and also his guilt. No one had told his mother about the salon. He knew that she had a right to be there. But if she came there would be so many complications, not the least being the Jenny affair. In any case, he couldn’t see her fitting in with those kind of people; he would have been ashamed of her. And it was thi
s that worried him more than anything.
She was straightening her hat in the mirror. ‘Today, such a nice hat I saw, Marcus,’ she said. ‘I thought for the concert I’d buy it.’
‘What colour is it?’
‘Brown.’
‘Oh Momma, I hate brown. Why don’t you have a change?’
‘It is a change. Only in colour is the same.’
‘Let me choose a colour for you,’ he said. He felt suddenly that the whole future of their relationship depended on the colour of her hat.
‘I like brown,’ she said. ‘Is my colour. Anyway, I already bought it,’ she smiled.
‘Let me see.’ Marcus wanted to know the worst right away.
‘No. Is a surprise for you,’ she chuckled like a child. ‘At the concert you will see it. You will be proud.’
Marcus doubted it. His mother had last bought a hat for his ninth birthday pantomime treat. That was almost three years ago. He looked forward dismally to yet another three brown years.
He picked up her shopping bag. Marcus wondered fleetingly whether she would bring it to the concert. He would have to hide it somewhere.
‘Let’s go,’ he said helplessly. He felt less guilty about the salon now. It was all her fault. If she insisted on buying a brown hat, what chance was she giving him?
But on the journey to Vauxhall Mansions the guilt came flooding back. As she took out her black purse to pay their fares on the bus, carefully counting out the brown pennies, he moved closer to her; as she took the tickets and stuffed them into her bag, where they no doubt joined the tickets from their first journey to Vauxhall Mansions almost a year ago, he said suddenly under his breath, hoping and fearing that she would hear, ‘I love you, Momma.’ And when he left her at Vauxhall Mansions, he kissed her. He watched her out of the Square and was disturbed that he didn’t feel any easier.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder, and even before stepping into the hall he called out, ‘Madame Sousatzka,’ like a password.
‘We’re downstairs,’ Cordle’s voice came from the basement. Marcus ran down to Uncle’s room. Everyone had collected there for the dress rehearsal. A strong smell of antiseptics filled the room. Marcus noticed that Jenny’s raised right hand was covered with a sticky yellow ointment. Cordle was bandaging it with meticulous care, gently avoiding pressure on the imagined burns.
‘You like Beethoven?’ Sousatzka was saying.
‘Oh, I think it’s lovely,’ said Jenny.
‘That won’t do at all,’ said Cordle. ‘Beethoven isn’t lovely. It’s great, it’s moving, it’s prophetic, but it isn’t lovely. Try again.’
‘Do you like the Beethoven?’ Madame Sousatzka asked gently.
‘I think it’s great, it’s moving, it’s prophetic.’ Jenny was putting her heart and soul into the part. She even managed a squeal of pain as Cordle tightened the bandage.
‘Very good,’ said Uncle, who had elected herself examiner. ‘Now what about something more specific? about the concerto itself.’
‘Yes,’ said Madame Sousatzka. ‘Already we practised that. What, my dear,’ she said, turning to Jenny, ‘do you think of the opening bars?’
Jenny bounded in on her cue. ‘I think it is the greatest opening ever written, it is pleading, it is lonely.’
‘Bravo,’ shouted Uncle, ‘You should be a music critic, Jenny.’
Marcus sat on the floor near the Countess. ‘Who are your favourite composers, my dear?’ he asked in a treble voice, flinging out a limp hand.
‘We haven’t done that one,’ said Jenny. ‘You’d better give me a few names.’
‘Just say Bach,’ Cordle advised her. ‘She won’t know a thing about Bach.’
‘I know something by Bach,’ Jenny exclaimed. ‘It’s a song. “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” I used to sing it in the school choir.’
‘Everybody sings that in school choirs. Don’t mention it,’ said Cordle. ‘If she asks you what is your favourite piece of Bach, say Brandenburg Five, as casually as you can. That’ll impress her. D’you get it? Brandenburg Five. Let’s practise.’
‘What’s your favourite piece of Bach?’ Marcus squeaked again.
Jenny twisted round in her chair. ‘Brandenburg Five,’ she threw off casually, flinging her bandaged arm in his direction.
‘Bravo,’ said Uncle again, awarding an extra mark.
‘I hope everything is all right,’ said Madame Sousatzka.
‘Everything’ll be fine,’ said Cordle. ‘As long as Jenny doesn’t speak unless she’s spoken to. Anyhow, she can always change the subject or one of you can interrupt.’
‘As long as you don’t leave me alone with her,’ said Jenny.
‘Don’t worry. You stick with me,’ Marcus told her. ‘I’ll do all the talking.’ He suddenly felt a proprietary right in Jenny. He sensed that she was depending on him. She put her injured arm round him.
‘Not that one,’ Cordle said, ‘you’re not supposed to be able to lift it. I think you’d better put it in a sling to remind you.’ Suddenly Jenny remembered that she had a client at four o’clock. ‘You’ll have to take the bandage off, Cordle, and do it again before we go. Otherwise it’s going to get disarranged.’
Cordle undid the bandage with the long-suffering patience of his profession. ‘I’ll never make as good a job of it the second time.’ But secretly he was happy to find an excuse to do it again. He loved bandaging. It was a clean, neat and tidy job, especially when there was no wound to sicken you. He found it very satisfying to unroll a virgin bandage, crossing it this way and that to get a neat little fit. He often regretted that his special skill did not call for more bandaging, and he fleetingly considered how he could justly incorporate it into his profession. He unwound Jenny’s bandage lovingly, trying to roll it back into its original shape. But once deflowered, it had lost its pristine symmetry. He threw it away into Uncle’s wastepaper basket, gleefully anticipating a fresh roll.
Jenny left them for her meeting: Marcus decided to practise, and Madame Sousatzka announced that she would start dressing. She ran after Jenny to borrow the magazine. Uncle and Cordle settled down to a game of draughts. Uncle was gently rocking in her chair, and from above them in the studio they could hear Marcus practising.
‘What do you think of Beethoven, Uncle?’ Cordle said.
‘I think he’s great, he’s moving, he’s prophetic,’ she laughed.
When they arrived at Manders’s house they found a number of cars parked outside. Marcus pressed the bell and a series of vulgar nursery chimes answered him. The door was opened by a man they assumed was a butler. He wore a new white coat, and looked unnervingly like Cordle. He practically forced the two women into the cloakroom, while Marcus waited outside.
Sousatzka and Jenny let a decent interval elapse before they came out again. The butler was looking at his watch, as if he was timing them. He was sniffing all the time, and they weren’t too sure whether it was a sniff of better breeding, or whether Jenny’s ointment was too overpowering. He asked for their card.
Jenny smiled at him. ‘We haven’t got cards,’ she whispered confidentially, as if to say that socially they were really on his level. ‘Just say Madame Sousatzka and party.’
He raised his eyebrows, convinced that they were gatecrashers.
‘We are expected,’ said Madame Sousatzka, on her dignity.
‘What did you say the name was?’ he asked haughtily. He obviously didn’t wish to be one of them.
‘Sousatzka,’ Marcus said in a clear voice, wondering how a man could be so ignorant, never to have heard the name before. ‘Madame Sousatzka.’
The butler sniffed again, took a deep breath, opened the lounge door and stood against the post. ‘Sousatzka,’ he threw off contemptuously, as if he were announcing the arrival of a greyhound, ‘and party,’ he finished, stressing the anonymity.
He was astonished at the welcome Mr Manders accorded them. He came forward and took their hands. He winked at Jenny. ‘My dear,’ he s
aid, ‘what’s happened to you?’
‘She burnt it,’ Marcus said. He felt, since he was the author of the play, he had a right to launch it.
‘How was that?’ Manders asked with concern.
‘Nothing very exciting,’ Jenny said. ‘Just steam from the kettle.’ Both Marcus and Madame Sousatzka nodded.
‘You can certainly smell it,’ Manders whispered.
‘Oh my dears,’ Mrs Manders swept towards them. ‘How nice of you to come. We’ve been waiting hours for you.’ She flung her arm in the direction of her sundry guests. She started to sniff and then noticed Jenny’s bandage. She put her hand on Jenny’s thumb. Jenny shrieked with the pain. Manders thought she was overdoing it.
‘It only happened yesterday, and it still hurts.’ Marcus smiled at Jenny, silently congratulating her on her script embellishments.
‘I’m so sorry, my dear,’ Mrs Manders sympathized. ‘You won’t be able to play for us. But our little Marcus is all right, I notice. I hope you’re ready, my dear. We’re all just dying to hear you.’ She indicated her guests again. They all looked perfectly healthy and quite happy as they were, drinking, talking, not even noticing the new arrivals. Mrs Manders’s greeting to Madame Sousatzka was an afterthought. ‘You must be quite nervous, Madame,’ she said. ‘Do sit down.’
She shepherded Marcus and Jenny to the other side of the room. Manders followed them. Madame Sousatzka turned around and found a chair that had been discreetly placed behind her while her back was turned. Another white-coated flunkey appeared with a single glass of sherry on a large silver tray. She sipped it quietly. She suddenly felt very hot, and realized that her chair had been placed against a radiator. She surreptitiously turned the knob to ‘Off, and noted happily that it was the only form of heating in the room. A little black dachshund suddenly appeared on her floor area. In her embarrassing isolation, Madame Sousatzka could have kissed it with gratitude. It was a godsend. There is nothing quite like a dog for a nervous wallflower. It was someone to talk to, so that if others looked her way they would see that she was occupied. She began to talk to the dog, cunningly putting out her foot so that it couldn’t get away. ‘Hullo darrlink,’ she said. ‘You come also to hear the music?’ Not surprisingly, the dog gave no answer. Madame Sousatzka tried again. ‘Oh, such a beautiful face you have,’ she said. She hated the sight of dogs, and this one was particularly hideous. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked, as the dog made to get away. At that moment she would have given her right arm for the dog to eat, if only he would stay in her area, but he slid off and Sousatzka just managed to kick him for rejecting her. She was left once again in public isolation. She got up with the intention of going. ‘Manders,’ she shouted.
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