‘What would be the point?’ Art says, at last. ‘Has she really been wronged? If she don’t know of it. It made her happy. What’s been robbed, if she don’t know what she lost?’
Guthrie grabs and pulls the plastic door handle, but the child lock is engaged. He slams the driver’s headrest with his palm. ‘Open it!’ His face is flushed and his breathing pond-shallow. He jerks at the handle again, but the lights have turned green. Sive waits until the cars in the lane over have passed before opening the child lock with a control in front. He’s gone. Like that. Out. All it took was one wrong word too many for Peter to deny his God. A surly honk from the car behind. Fuck. Gael twists to the back window. She can see him intimidating the bonnet of the car that blew the horn, hanging over it with football hooligan menace. As if he would hurt a fly. What did she lose? What haven’t any of us lost? The separation will happen for him every day of his life. But what can we lose, if we’re not wise to it? Sive drives on and, as they swing left, Gael catches sight of him lashing out at the car’s rear tyre and parading his grievance to the oncoming traffic until it compels him to the path – the great side track, running parallel to the main route, but not keeping pace.
When they’ve slotted in to their reserved parking by the concert hall’s backstage entrance, Sive directs Gael to trail him awhile, then to calm him down as best she can and, if she can’t, to call their father. ‘Get him some water and see he takes his meds. You’ll need to run through the whole argument with him, or he won’t let it go. You provoked him, Gael. Times I’m convinced your tongue is a catapult.’
Gael will go after her brother; she will solace him. But for now, her eyes graze Art’s. ‘He’s ready to fall for any old story,’ she says. ‘However it’s been jollied up.’
Sive tips her head back and tries to hear a violin tuning up, contracting its four discreet strings into alliance. She lets out a long stream of air. Four is not so many. You would think it could be done. That an electric tuner might be invented. When one string goes, it’s only practical to replace it. But then it behaves differently. It slips and gives more than it wants.
Some patrons have arrived early, all flair in asymmetric garments, and they inspect the ground for what they have to step on to get where they are going.
There is a snapping sound as Art lifts and closes the buckles of the baton case alternately with his thumbs, at an utter loss as to how they got here and so fast.
To be a conductor and female, you have to be exceptionally good. You have to live with the fact that your players don’t automatically look up to you, even for the sake of appearances. You have to claim the phallic object between your finger and your thumb. Command with it. Obviously women are worse, Gael knows. How can you be anything but mediocre when your brain is cluttered with the politics and statistics of your sex? You mustn’t look cute and cause the players’ minds to stray, so said some Russian. Pursed lips wrinkle early, says the Television. Classical music is inherently effeminate, says the Critic, so the translation mustn’t add softness or flower. It would be foolhardy to programme the Baroque or Romantic without the male grasp of the scales for balance. Con machismo is the universal, unwritten musical instruction. Females may either mimic or refuse to mimic – whichever one stoops to, it takes energy that would otherwise be spent on the bellicoso March in F U major. She cannot afford to be gifted and to leave it at that.
Last year, Sive was visiting conductor for a choral symphony at Cadogan Hall in London, which involved a forty-two-bar rest in the orchestration. During this, the choir sang unaccompanied and were tasked with holding their pitch until the orchestra rejoined them. Gael writhed in her seat as the sopranos sharpened by a semitone a minute. They misread Sive’s gnashing gestures. The moment the orchestra reunited with the choir, more than cymbals clashed. The flinching players tried desperately to transpose their parts, bar by bar, clef by clef, searching Sive’s unfamiliar expression for rescue – not knowing if they or the choir should be the ones to adjust. By the coda, the symphony was having its global premiere in a new key signature. The stiffness in her mother’s stance – back to the auditorium – suggested that she might altogether lock, offended as she was at how they had failed the music. Sive gave not a bow but a nod and left the stage without pointing to the leader or choir leader for directed applause, as is orchestral etiquette. Had Jarleth’s money been available to her still, she would have reimbursed each patron, so that their expectations might not be lowered thereafter. That kind of act had garnered Gael’s admiration on so many occasions. Her mother’s pursuit of greatness, at all cost. There is no spectrum of greatness. No scale to ascend. Only its attainment or not.
The main annoyance was that it soured the lunch date Gael had been so looking forward to, given that it was her first time seeing her mother since leaving home. ‘Some believe that musicians shouldn’t fear mistakes,’ went the Evening Standard review, laid out on the table between their bowls of Greek salad, ‘that today’s orchestral obsession with accuracy and precision stifles risk-taking and interpretation. If last night was anything to go by, Sive Riordan is in that camp of fearless conductors. To describe the performance as “sharp” risks the very misinterpretation at the heart of Riordan’s direction, or lack thereof. Never before have I wished that the notion of “throwing caution to the wind” had been taken literally. Those horns.’
The disgrace Gael saw writ across her mother’s mouth in that Kensington café (her baton was all that Jarleth had deigned to leave her in his wake) was one ailment Gael had a remedy for. ‘Tangy little Pinot Grigio’d bring out the Greek in this salad.’ She raised her arm, ordered a bottle on ice, then bullied her mother into buying a later Ryanair flight on her phone by threatening to faff off to Toronto or somesuch far-flung place at any given minute. If she was learning anything from the Philosophy of Science at King’s it was that, Life is … What was it? Oh yeah. They’re still doing data collection. That afternoon was when Gael did her own orchestration in the convoluted corridors of the Tate; an arrangement intended to be of the one-night kind, but the fetching Yorkshireman had too much of a good time breaking her mother’s frown apart with his ax-nt and the way he timed introducing himself, squaring up to a Rothko and glancing back at her. ‘Dunno what you call that, but I’m Art.’
‘It’s all noise,’ Sive told the troupes when she returned to Ireland, resisting the urge to blame the choir, which would have chimed too shrilly of the indignant female. She was repossessed of herself. Her perspective was galvanized. ‘It all comes down to excellence of sound. Our mistakes have to sound like most people’s best playing.’ Though she had no obligation to defend herself, she couldn’t afford to lose a single player’s respect. At all times, it had to be within her power to bend a roomful of professional artists to her subtle interpretation of a phrase, a register, a boisterous climax, or, indeed, to a month away from their newborns. Their faith in her usefulness was finally restored when they received funding for an Australian tour circuit during the Irish winter. Ah, the right sounds.
Guthrie whispers to Gael that Art is still awake, which is more than Jarleth managed at these concerts. He could only take them in small dozes. ‘Why do you insist on doing these long symphonies?’ he’d implore of Sive. ‘The human attention span is short. Would you ever just do three twenty-minute bits instead of a hundred-minute marathon? It’s less risky. Diversify, love.’ Of course, it didn’t start out like that. For years, Jarleth had been allured as anyone by the figure of his lover (considering himself the loved) standing way up there, goddesslike, begetting sublime harmonies with her body. But when he came to understand that she wasn’t flailing her arms about in an ecstasy of behest, that she was instead compelled by an unappeasable desire to find symmetry and realization in collective music – a form of communication grander than anything achievable between one man and one woman – he took to napping.
Gael finds it interesting not that Art is awake, nor that he seems truly wrapped up in the performance, but that
he is watching the players rather than her mother. No. He is watching the players watching her mother. She follows his gaze.
Gael sees the orchestra – the music and its players both – as a flock of starlings moving in formation around a pylon. The starlings’ movements are surely patterned, but who could say where they will go; how they will hesitate or surge? The timing, the extension of bows, a key signature’s leeway – now A, now tonally ambiguous, B flat minor – the black flock moves by an intuition that cannot be second-guessed. Nothing familiar in the cadences, comforting and dull as the pulse goes: so la, doh me, so fah, so so, a progression you’ve heard before. The key, a tonic. No, no. This swarm of throbbing temperamental strings, the shifting direction of the wind, abstruse tubas, this sound lifts its audience – lifts – and drops them. The first movement ends.
Gael plucks the programme from her brother’s clasp. Anton Bruckner’s Symphony No. 8 in C minor, ninety minutes. The flock has paused mid-air, instruments suspended. The wings seem slight now – drifting. All the white pages turn in a crackling gust, like so much airborne litter. Into the hush, the strings point coyly, then almost giddily lead the way towards a brighter climate; all of their statements going up at the end as if winter can be escaped by gaining altitude. Gael is reminded that this is an endangered species, this sound. The symphony has been called the Apocalyptic, according to the programme. Despite their common sightings in suburban gardens, this is a desperate gesture of survival: a testimony of self. The central motif is stated again and again, as if it’s stuck, as if there is no way to state it directly enough. The species is cornered into a sudden awareness of its lot. Some say it’s for fun or for communication that starlings teem in configuration. But it is more likely intended to confuse a bird of prey, who, despite their efforts, does not bewilder easy. There she swipes: Sive. A buzzard, let’s say, flitting at their heart, making the starlings fly even more obtusely, jabbing south-southwest, then hard north, forcing them to sharpen their will. She becomes frantic. She will exhaust the faction to a murmur and then she will have her way, but that measure of the tale is not scored. Its consummation happens in the dusk behind a plume of resin, a contraception of mutes, when the audience has fallen away.
Gael is numb to what she has just read, until a sliver of blood appears on her index finger. A gash from the programme, snatched from her hands. Seeing the blood, Guthrie reaches out again in apology and Gael has to hold her hand back to stop him from sucking it. ‘Don’t,’ he mutters. You don’t! she wants to say, but her mouth is dry as it’s been hanging open. Her teeth clack shut.
The massive statement of the main theme is given impressively, again now, in its clamorous rhythm. It’s neither reassuring nor unsettling – it doesn’t tell the listener what to think. The weight of a flock of starlings on electricity wires can cause minor power cuts, Gael once read. But these players have no such power; they can’t cut her off. They’re band members trying to follow the timpani and get the bowing right, all the while wondering when the valuation report will be submitted to the bank so that they can get on with remortgaging their houses, glad of the excuse they had this morning for refusing to reciprocate a handjob (forearm muscle fatigue), cursing their effort to convert to vegetarianism in order to keep up with their cerebral, conscientious teenagers, who are constantly freezing and famished.
What had she read?
‘This concert marks the early end of Sive Riordan’s tenureship as the RTÉ National Symphony Orchestra’s conductor and co-musical director,’ is what she read. ‘After seven years leading the internationally celebrated ensemble, Ms Riordan will step down from her role as chief conductor at the end of 2009. The leader of the orchestra, violinist Julie McNamara, said: “Sive has always been able to inspire the orchestra. Thanks to her unbelievable knowledge and commitment, she is admired both by us musicians and by the audiences in Ireland and abroad. She became my personal heroine when she introduced blind auditioning to prevent sexism and she helped to evolve the orchestra in her time with us. We missed her on her leave of absence last year, and we’re very sad that this one will be permanent.” Gordon Hamilton, NSO’s CEO and Chair of its Board of Trustees said: “Ms Riordan is parting on excellent terms with the NSO, with deep mutual respect.”’ The programme note cuts to Sive’s biography, but it is Jarleth’s obituary that suggests itself to Gael. As if he knows what she’s thinking, Guthrie shakes his head. Gael snatches at the programme, but he won’t let go, so they wrestle the glossy pages free of their staples and Guthrie snorts nervously, drooling onto the programme’s centre page, smack in the eye of a young man’s bravado portrait. The man wears a smirk and a licked-on black T-shirt. His tanned bulbous arms are crossed and he holds a baton in one fist like the ruler he just used to measure himself. Guthrie and Gael lean in to read the blurb below this portrait.
Looking Forward: Forward Looking
The NSO is thrilled to appoint Eoin Considine as Principal Guest Conductor Designate. This exciting, new, temporary position will see Eoin taking over as conductor at the beginning of the 2010 season (until 2012), following a two-year residency with the Salt Lake City Symphony in America. Eoin is familiar to many members of the RTÉ NSO, as he is also a talented composer and sarrusophonist, and played with the NS Youth Orchestra prior to his overseas exploits. Fans are drawn to Eoin’s accessible, humorous approach to conducting. Diversity, adaptability, stage presence and intensity are among the qualities Eoin brings to the rostrum. Audiences have seen him lead everything from traditional Masterworks to multimedia collaborations to show tunes and film scores. With Eoin at the helm, we hope the NSO will attract both new and traditional patrons. Eoin said: ‘I’m the son of two teachers. It’s in my blood to communicate – everything from the lives of the great composers to the way instruments convey a personality to the code of the black dots. I’m excited to communicate with Ireland.’ We’re looking forward to what Eoin has to say.
Art has zoned out of the music. His green eyes are marble-round. He pitches them sidelong at Guthrie, then onto Gael. ‘Either of you two need your hair held back?’
The image of it skims along her ear to the nape of her neck. She lets it linger.
What are the uneven panels of Art’s face primed with? What lies beneath that veneer? He might have asked Sive to retire and his story was a kind of readying, as though her conducting were a charity she had held up for long enough. Gael twists in her seat to take in the auditorium. The rear stalls are empty. The balconies’ front rows are barely in use. A surface audience. So much for ending on a high note. 2009: the budget cultural vintage. But then, this crowd-pleaser Considine doesn’t sound cheap. Sive has no pension. Now’s not the time to stop. She’s only just back on her feet, after Jarleth. Gael recalls the formal look on her father’s face when she told him neither she nor her brother needed his charity. It’s better to start out ropeless than to be all harnessed up to lines that may or may not be severed. Gael was unfazed at having to pay her own way, but Guthrie …
‘Was she fired?’
Art barely shakes his head in the prickled mock-starlight cast on him from above. The orchestra has begun the final movement, which is so erratic in mood it’s beginning to make Gael feel sick. Sulky droopy flute motifs. Aggressive staccato browbeating strings. Tremolo stair-bounding breakouts. Lyrical romantic slurs undershot with dread. It’s all so histrionic. So abrupt. ‘What’s she going to do?’
When a shushh showers them in spittle from the row behind, Gael spins around and yell-whispers, ‘God bless you.’
She takes her brother by the wrist and tells Art they’ll be home by one.
‘Stop power-walking.’ Gael holds Guthrie back by his arm, to keep them from catching up to a mob of youths up ahead. ‘They can smell it if you’re tense, like dogs.’
‘I’m not going faster than before,’ he says, ‘and anyway, when you stand still, you’re moving at a hundred-and-eight thousand kilometres an hour.’
A window creaks open – to scope th
em out or to release toaster smoke? Plastic bags skitter and snag on car door mirrors. One misappropriated wheelie bin leaks fetid compost all about the rim of a gutter, as they move from one block to the next, into up-and-cominger neighbourhoods. Cider cans make drunken gyrations around driveways. The atmosphere is thick from gorging on the country’s liquid constitution. You find your way home in such conditions by groping forward from one orange streetlamp to the next, like lifebuoy stations.
Gael had tried to convince him he wouldn’t be ID’d if they walked into Fibber’s hand-in-hand – he behind her – but he pretended not to hear. When he’s like this, Gael knows not to push. The pressure of his temper hasn’t quite let up. Being turned away would have added one pascal too many. Then again, given his skittishness and his unreasonable scanning of shadows, it may have been better to drag him, kicking and screaming, to the guarded side of a wall.
‘This was a bad idea,’ Guthrie says.
‘If you keep repeating that, it might come true.’
‘You don’t know how bad it’s got.’
‘I don’t need to live here to know.’
‘Everyone’s leaving,’ Guthrie says. ‘The ones staying are despairing.’ Gael groans, turning left down Synge Street onto the South Circular Road. ‘Guess how many people the government gave methadone to last week?’
‘You’ll work yourself into a tizzy,’ she says, evenly.
‘They just want everyone to fall asleep for a few years. Until it’s over.’
‘Well, I left, Guthrie, and now I’m here. So we can’t very well go home. To sleep. You mightn’t see me again for … who knows how long, since you won’t come to London.’ She sees that she’s losing him. ‘Even though I told you death-by-black-snot is rare.’ He spins round to identify some noise; to control the darkness by knowing it. ‘I’ll shout the airfare if you come for Christmas. My flatmate’ll be away so I wouldn’t even have to listen to you grinding your teeth.’
Orchid & the Wasp Page 8
