“Because I love it. That’s what you asked for.”
“You played well.”
She hopes he’ll elaborate but instead he wants to go back to the ‘Waldstein’, there are passages he asks to hear again, he makes her play them repeatedly, demonstrating at his own keyboard what he wants her to do. Imagine you’re singing, he tells her, think where you would take a breath, what the words might be, which syllables you would stress. Think of the audience who need to feel as if all of this is coming into being right now, in this exact moment. Trying to follow his instructions, struggling against the differing will of her own fingers, she wonders if there will ever be an audience. For half an hour they work on a single short section until Conroy says he can see she’s tired, they should finish with something else. From his pile of scores he lifts some loose sheets and passes them to her, photocopied pages of handwritten music. The notes are small but neatly formed, the tempo heading is ‘grave’.
“Try this.”
“What is it?”
“A slow movement by someone you’ve never heard of. Take a minute then start whenever you’re ready.” He gets up and returns to the window, looking out while she picks up the single line of the opening, and she wonders if his point now is to make her think about that first instant when everything is unknown and genuinely new, a moment always about to be lost. It’s a peculiar melody, a sinuous curve in the right hand, punctuated by unexpected angles. She supposes it to be a theme that will be developed or varied, but the following full chords introduce a new, unrelated idea. The harmonies feel wrong, she’s sure she must be making mistakes, misreading the tiny accidentals; she constantly expects to be told to stop, but he lets her continue. He said it took only a few seconds before the ‘Waldstein’ made sense to his childhood ear, but this piece is different, an object on which she can’t sustain any view, its shape constantly altering. She passes through flashes of beauty, transitory episodes of rich sonority, but set among formless progressions of bewildering complexity. And then the single line reappears, only this time it’s different, the corners have moved.
“Stop there,” he says gently. “What’s your opinion?”
“I couldn’t get it. I’d need to play it a few times.”
“When do you think it was written?”
There was something in it that reminded her of Messiaen. “Nineteen sixties?”
“Go back fifty years. Pierre Klauer was a student at the Paris Conservatory with a great future ahead of him. Shortly after writing this he shot himself.”
“I sensed a strangeness in the music.”
“A man who’s talented, confident, yet he’s about to commit suicide. A contradiction.” He shows her another of the photocopied sheets. “You see what he called it? The Secret Knowledge.”
“The secret is why he killed himself.”
“The secret is the music. I want you to learn the whole of the movement for next time. And I want you to keep hold of the confusion, don’t try to resolve it, because I can tell you now, there won’t be an answer, there never is. Art is always inconsistent.”
She came to this first lesson with the hope of being praised and complimented; instead she leaves still wondering if Mr Conroy thinks she has any talent at all. When she goes downstairs she sees that the dropped sheet has been removed, a different crowd of people fills the lobby, the protesters have gone for lunch. But on her way home, the bird is still there, exactly where it lay.
Her flat is on the first floor, she splits the rent with Nathalie who works shifts as a nurse and is mostly at her boyfriend’s; the couple below leave early for work every morning and make no noise. Paige might as well be living alone, though she still chooses the further isolation of headphones while practising. The Klauer piece will be a chore to learn, she’s not sure whether Mr Conroy will expect her to play it from memory. She wonders if he’ll ever make a pass at her, and how she’d feel about it.
In a couple of days it’s coming together, she knows the movement’s shape, even if she still doesn’t understand it. There are two main themes, she realises, presented alternately in different ways, together with other material that seems more random. Does she like the piece? The question is irrelevant: it’s simply there, and she has to learn it.
She meets her friend Ella for coffee and tells her about the college. Ella wants to know if there are any good-looking boys on the course. They’re in Starbucks, a new branch only recently opened, Paige wonders what the place used to be, how long it will survive in this latest incarnation, thinking it while Ella talks about something else, her freshly dyed red hair making her pretty face look even paler than usual, energised with transitory importance. Paige gets a call on her phone, looks at the screen and doesn’t recognise the number, puts the phone to her ear and Ella falls silent.
“Paige, it’s David Conroy.”
At first she can’t connect the name with any person, she’s so surprised to be called by her tutor.
“There’s something we need to discuss. Could we meet?”
Her confusion must be visible to Ella, who can hear it’s a man at the other end.
“I have to ask you to return the score I gave you. I’ll explain when I see you. Things are stranger than I thought.”
1919
Scotland
John Quinn waits at the gate of Russell Engineering on a dark January evening as the workers emerge, caps pulled low, coats buttoned against the frigid air. “Advance, one penny!” Quinn shouts, brandishing a bundle of printed pages in his upheld hand. “Support the campaign for a forty-hour week.” Most ignore him as they pass, too tired to comment. A few tell him to be off; their union, like most in Scotland, has already voted against – why should they heed this lad or his newspaper? But one man stops.
“I’ll buy a copy.” The accent is foreign.
“A penny.”
He searches his pocket. “Merde. Only three farthings.”
“Have it for two.”
“You should come on Friday when we have our pay packets.” He takes the paper, pays his coins and reads the masthead. “Advance. I like that. I’m a believer in progress.”
Quinn barely notices the last of the men trudging indolently behind the stranger, his features strikingly shadowed in the lamplight. “You’re French?”
“I was.”
“How do you come to be here?”
“Events occurred.” The newspaper consists of a single spread the Frenchman opens and quickly peruses. “You have written this?”
“There’s a group of us.”
“Communists?”
“Socialists.”
He nods pensively. “I should like to meet your group.”
Quinn is delighted. “You’re most welcome…”
“But I think your newspaper is very bad,” he says, dismissively folding it. “And you wasted your time trying to sell it here. You don’t mind my being blunt, do you?”
“Of course not,” Quinn says, humbled.
“In France we have had a little more experience of revolution. You could say that along with women and wine it is a national speciality.” The stranger laughs, nudges his new friend, and Quinn is bathed by the warmth of exotic lands. “My name is Pierre Klauer.” Their introductory handshake is like a pact.
“Come for tea,” Quinn says abruptly, almost surprising himself with his own hospitality.
“I should like that, whenever is convenient for you.”
“Come now. Unless you need be somewhere else.”
Pierre shrugs affably. “I have no prior engagement.”
The factory gate is quiet, the winter evening cold; there is no further cause for formality. “Let’s go then,” says Quinn. He’s parked his bike against a nearby wall; he pushes it while Pierre carries the satchel of unsold newspapers. Quinn asks how long the Frenchman has been in Scotland.
“I arrived before the war, unfortunately.”
“You’d have preferred to be with your own people?”
“I
was imprisoned by yours. My father was born in Germany; the one thing I have from him is his surname.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“What was prison like for you?”
“It gave me time to think.”
Leaning on the handlebars of the bike he wheels, Quinn agrees earnestly. “Plenty of time, certainly.” They take the path beside the river, poorly lit and muddy in parts. “Where do you live?”
“At a lodging house near Logie Colliery. And you?”
“Not far, in Mossmount.”
“Ah, the respectable part of town. Then you’re what they call ‘posh’?”
Quinn laughs, unsure if Pierre is being naive or ironic. “My father’s a doctor, a very good one and a brilliant man, though highly traditional in his politics. Like you, I’ve inherited nothing but a name. He says I’ve brought shame to it.”
“He lets you remain beneath his roof, that shows how much he loves you.”
“He needs me and my sister to look after him since mother fell ill.” Quinn catches himself. “How vain of me to expound on my own circumstances. I fear I may bore you.” He feels a comforting hand on his arm.
“It makes me happy that you speak freely.”
They walk in darkness; beyond the river’s murmur the town is alive only with the distant sound of workers retreating to home or pub.
Pierre asks, “Are you employed?”
“I’m a student.”
“I thought you might be.”
“Started in medicine, failed my exams, simply couldn’t take it in. Father suggested law but that was no better. Then the war…”
“You fought?”
“No,” says Quinn, slowing to a halt. “You told me honestly about your misfortune – it’s one I shared.”
“Prison?”
“I was called up but declared myself a pacifist. Father got me out, the lawyers argued that as a medical student I should never have been conscripted. So it was back to anatomy, and now it’s all over I can change subject again. Or to hell with it.”
“It was brave of you, refusing to enlist. For me there was no choice.”
“It wasn’t hard, telling the board I wouldn’t fight for capitalism. It was when I heard of so many friends dying that
I felt ashamed.”
“We must put the past behind us,” Pierre says soothingly. “For everyone this is the start of a new life. I began at the factory only two weeks ago.”
“And in France? What did you do there?”
“I told you,” says Pierre, “let’s not dwell on the past.”
They take the lane leading to Mossmount and come eventually to a street of dignified stone houses with neat gardens. Quinn’s front door opens before they reach it; a pretty red-haired young woman stands waiting.
“Hello, Jessie,” Quinn says, stooping to kiss her cheek, then looks over his shoulder. “Pierre, this is my wee sister.”
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
She smiles nervously, pleasurably, looking to her brother for further explanation, her face like that of a child seeing Santa Claus, but Quinn only asks, “Is father here?”
“In the front room.” Jessie offers to take the men’s coats for them as they step inside.
“Pierre’s having his tea here, can you manage that?”
“I expect so.”
A gravelly voice calls. “Is that you, Johnny?”
“Yes, father. We have a guest I’d like you to meet.”
“Come here, then.”
Dr Quinn sits in an armchair near the curtained window, a book open on his lap. Freckled, bald, eyebrows grey and shaggy, his old face is ruddy in the firelight. “I won’t stand, if you don’t mind.”
“Pierre Klauer, sir, at your service.”
“Is that a Belgian name you’ve got?”
“French, sir.”
“Then what would you prefer, whisky or brandy?”
“I like whisky very much.”
“See to it, Johnny, will you? Only a wee drop of water for me, mind. Have a seat, Pierre. I’ve been chuckling at this book, very droll. The Man Who Was Thursday. You know Chesterton?”
“No, sir.”
“I suppose not.” The doctor quickly finds another topic. “Most appalling what the Hun’s done to your country.”
“A tragedy.”
“How did the land of Beethoven ever go so wrong, can you tell me that? Do you like music, Pierre?”
“In fact I do.”
“I used to sing often when I was younger. Handel’s Messiah, they have it in France I expect.” He takes the glass his son offers and stares at it disapprovingly. “Are we running short? What’s your profession, Pierre?”
“He just started at Russell, father.”
The son’s interruption makes Dr Quinn stare from one man to the other as though wondering where the next voice might come from. “An engineer? That’s very fine. The world needs engineers. Was that your father’s profession too?”
“My father built his fortune from arms factories in Germany.”
A stunned blinking of Dr Quinn’s grey eyes. All he can manage after a moment is, “I see.”
“But you’ve broken with your father, haven’t you?” John asks uncertainly.
Pierre nods. “You could say I broke with everything.” He looks straight at Dr Quinn. “Would you prefer me to leave, sir?”
“Of course not.”
“I can’t help the way my father became rich. I’ve disowned him.”
The doctor pensively rubs the indentations of his crystal glass. “Very sad. Though under the circumstances, clearly appropriate.” He again looks from one man to the other. “Johnny, how did you two meet? How long have you been acquainted?”
“A while,” Pierre answers quickly. There is a palpable air of something unstated; John does nothing to contradict a lie he finds strangely pleasant.
“Pierre was interned as an alien.”
The doctor’s eyebrows sink with sorrowful understanding. So that’s it: prison-mates. Best not discuss further. “You’re having tea with us?”
“If I may.”
“Jessie should have sorted it by now, let’s go through.”
In the dining room the table is set, the meal is ready.
“This looks wonderful,” Pierre says approvingly, making Jessie blush as she comes from the kitchen with a serving ladle.
“If I’d known we’d have a guest…” She sits down without completing her sentence, toying instead with her hair.
“Will you write a wee note for mother tonight?” Dr Quinn asks, and she nods. He explains to Pierre, “My wife’s in a sanatorium. Her lungs, you understand. My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be so Jessie takes care of letters.”
“I wish your wife good health, sir.”
“We pray for her.”
Jessie crosses herself; no one else cares to repeat the gesture. Pierre is invited to serve himself the stew steaming in a casserole whose size emphasises the frugality of the contents. He takes a spoonful.
“Go on, lad,” the doctor urges. Slices of buttered bread lie on a plate beside a pot of tea. John Quinn looks at his sister and sees how she stares at the stranger, as much in awe as John himself. Taking a piece of bread, Pierre appears perfectly at ease.
“Are you Parisian?” Jessie asks.
“I was.”
“It must be so beautiful. Will you go back?”
“I think not.”
She, too, catches the seductive aroma of secrecy. Surely a woman, she guesses. “Do you like Scotland?”
“Certainly.”
“What in particular?”
Pierre smiles. “Not the weather, of course. But the landscape, the colours.”
“The people?”
“Yes, very friendly and welcoming. And the history.”
“I love history,” she says quickly. “When I was at school it was always my favourite subject.”
“But we learned s
o little of it,” John interrupts. “Real history, I mean. It was only kings and queens and battles and treaties.”
His sister’s mystified. “What else could it have been?”
“The lives of ordinary working folk.”
She laughs. “We know enough about that already.”
“I don’t know that you do.”
Dr Quinn intervenes. “Stop bickering, you two.”
“It’s just a discussion,” John says. “Pierre, you agree with me, don’t you? The history books are written by the ruling class and only tell their side of the story.”
All look to Pierre for an answer. He pouts thoughtfully as he considers the question. “There is always another side to everything.”
“Exactly!” says John.
“Even in the stories of the ruling class there may be something worth hearing.” He looks at Jessie while he speaks, and John begins to wonder if his new friend is really a socialist after all.
There is a loud knock at the front door; Jessie goes to answer.
“History is a science,” John says in a low voice that is almost belligerent. “They don’t teach the laws of history at school…”
But before he can elaborate further, Jessie comes back. “Father, there’s been an accident at the foundry.”
Dr Quinn shoots to his feet with sudden youthfulness. “Well then, I’d better see what some poor fool’s gone and done to himself.”
He goes to the hallway followed by his daughter, leaving John to pick up a theme he is unable to relinquish. “You agree, I suppose?”
“About the laws of history?”
“Otherwise I can’t understand why you might want to help with Advance. Why you stopped at the gate to talk to me, why you came here.”
Pierre considers the matter and in the gaslight looks almost beautiful. “Why?” he says. “Because history demands it. Yes, there are laws, John, as powerful as gravity, but they’re not for everyone to learn.”
“You don’t believe in educating the proletariat?”
“I’m not a Marxist.”
“Then what the devil are you? How can I know you’re not some management spy?”
“I suppose you can’t. I should leave.”
“No. But I don’t know if I should trust you.”
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