‘You can practise here,’ he said obstinately. ‘You already spend six hours a day at the piano. I can’t see how you can expect to spend any more, no matter where you are.’
‘Practising alone isn’t enough. I need a critic, a teacher. Someone like Professor Hurok who will help me to interpret, to look for new insight.’
‘No.’ The lines around his mouth hardened. ‘It’s impossible, Beth. There’s a war on, for God’s sake! There won’t be any international piano competitions this year – or next year, either, if the war continues. The world has got more important things to think about!’
‘I haven’t,’ she cried passionately. ‘There isn’t anything more important to me than my music!’
She had risen to her feet, and he looked up at her steadily. ‘Not even me, Beth?’ he asked quietly.
She felt a sob rise up in her throat, remembering the time he had come to her and comforted her when her mother had died, remembering how he had always been there when she had needed him, remembering how very much he had always loved her. ‘Oh God, Adam! Why can’t you see how much it means to me? Why can’t you see how forcing me to choose is driving a wedge between us?’
He rose to his feet, taking her hands in his. ‘It is you who are driving the wedge, Beth,’ he said gently. ‘Not me. You can continue your musical studies here, just as well as you can in London. And later, when we’ve put paid to Hitler and the world is sane again, then will be the time for you to think about pursuing a career on the concert platform. Until then, there is no point in returning to London. Yours will not be the only promising career to be put in cold storage till the war is over. Musicians will be entering the forces, just as men from every other walk of life are doing. It is the war that is robbing you of London and an international prize, Beth, not me.’
She looked despairingly into his eyes. Everything he said was common sense. The war would have affected international competitions; there would be other aspiring concert pianists, besides herself, whose careers had been brought to an abrupt halt. And yet.… And yet.… She closed her eyes, sick with longing, knowing that Raefe would not have taken such an attitude. That Raefe would have understood the depth of her need. That Raefe would not have allowed Hitler to interfere with any of his plans for the future.
‘I love you very much, Beth,’ Adam was saying, folding her into his arms and holding her close. ‘Please be patient. Wait until the war is over, and then I’ll give you all the support that I can.’
Defeated, frustrated tears pricked the back of her eyelids. Till the war was over. How many years would that be? And how many other reasons would he then find for a further postponement, and a further one?
‘If it isn’t possible for me to return to my studies with Professor Hurok,’ she said tenaciously, ‘I want to return to London anyway, Adam.’
He pulled away from her, looking at her white set face in bewilderment. ‘But why? There’s nothing I could do there. Here, if the Japs attack, I will at least be able to fight!’
‘We’ve been here for six months,’ she said, knowing that this was one battle she could not concede. ‘I’m tired of it, and—’
‘Tired of it?’ He began to laugh indulgently. ‘Good heavens, Beth. How can you tire of it? Sun, magnificent beaches, superb swimming, tennis, riding, the best lot of friends we’ve ever had. Don’t be ridiculous darling. You’re suffering from a wave of guilt at not being home and suffering all the agonies of the blackout and evacuation.’
‘No, I do feel guilty, but it isn’t just that. I need to get away, Adam. Have a complete change.’ He wouldn’t return to London, she knew, but there were other places in the world. Places where she would not run the risk of meeting Raefe, of having her defences stormed, of leaving Adam and never returning to him. ‘Couldn’t we go to Singapore for a while? Helena says it’s even more fascinating than Hong Kong.’
‘I suppose we could go for a week or two if you really want to,’ he said reluctantly.
She squeezed his hand. A week or two would be a start. She could always encourage him to prolong their stay once they were there. ‘Then, let’s go, Adam! Please. Quickly.’
He laughed, too relieved that an awful scene had been averted to read anything odd into her sudden enthusiasm for a visit to Singapore.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’d quite like to see Singapore myself. We’ll go at the end of next month, when the dry season starts.’
‘No!’ she said fiercely, and this time he was surprised by her vehemence. ‘I want to go now, Adam. This week it possible.’
‘And miss Tom Nicholson’s party?’
Her nails dug deep into her palms. Raefe would be at the party. If he looked at her as he had looked at her in Helena’s, then Adam would guess. The whole room would know. ‘Yes, darling,’ she said stiffly, ‘and miss Tom’s party.’
‘All right, Beth, if that’s what you want,’ he said with the air of a man who was being more than reasonably patient. ‘We’ll sail there; it will be more pleasant than flying. I’ll call in at the agency and book a couple of berths tomorrow.’
Chapter Thirteen
By six o’clock the next morning she was at her piano, wrestling with the Schubert B-flat Sonata. She had had a sleepless night, lying beside Adam, tortured by how easily she had been unfaithful to him. A week ago her life had seemed so ordered and secure, so predictable. Now nothing was predictable any longer. She had slipped out of bed quietly, so as not to disturb him, making herself a drink of lime juice and carrying it out on to the veranda. There was nothing she could do to wipe out what had happened. It was something she would have to learn to live with. And to forget.
She had turned away from the view of the distant harbour and the hills of Kowloon, her head hurting and her heart aching, knowing that she did not want to forget. Her betrayal of Adam had not only been physical; it had been, and continued to be, a mental betrayal that she could find no release from. She had sat down at the piano, grateful for the salvation it offered her, launching into the first movement, playing it far quicker than she usually did. It changed the entire character of her performance, and she forgot about Adam, forgot even Raefe, as she began to play the second movement, intrigued at the way that, too, was affected and changed.
It was ten-thirty by the time she had played the third and fourth movements to her satisfaction. She rose reluctantly to her feet. She couldn’t remember what Adam’s plans were for the day, but he hated having to leave the house without having said goodbye to her. She stretched her fingers, pleased with her new insights into a score she was deeply familiar with. She would return to it after she had had a late breakfast. She would play all four movements through again and then perhaps she would turn her attention to Bartók’s Second Piano Concerto. It was a piece of music that had, so far, defeated her. The score looked as if a printer had just thrown a million black notes on the page, and she had always thought of it as being utterly impossible.
As she walked towards the drawing-room, Chan hurried to meet her, his face anxious. ‘I found this beneath the windscreen of your car, missy. Perhaps it is important?’
It was the piece of paper she had ignored when driving away from the party. She could see now that it wasn’t a piece of streamer, and she took it from him. ‘Thank you, Chan. Is Mr Harland still in the house?’
‘Yes, missy. He’s down at the tennis-courts checking the nets.’
She thanked him again and looked down at the piece of paper in her hand. ‘Li Pi, 27 Stonewall Mansions, Kimberley Road, Kowloon.’ The handwriting was firm and strong. He must have slipped it under the windscreen-wiper before he had even entered Tom’s to see her. Which meant that he had anticipated her reaction and had not been surprised by it.
From beyond the open windows, the only sound was the chip-chop of the gardener trimming the lawn around the flowerbeds. The air was heavy, as if a storm was due, the scent from the frangipani trees heady and sweet. She stood for a long time, staring down at the note in her hand. Li Pi. S
he had heard of him when she had been at the Royal Academy. He was one of the great teachers, and he was now in Kowloon, and Raefe had said that if she went to him he would see her.
The gardener continued to trim the lawn. Through the window she could see Adam down at the tennis-courts, his hands deep in the pockets of his white flannels as he surveyed the nets.
Li Pi: he had taught at the Moscow Central Music School. His recordings of the Chopin Barcarolle and B-minor Sonata and the Schumann Concerto were incandescent interpretations that had become classics. She stared once more from the piece of paper in her hand to Adam, and back again. Would it be a further betrayal to him if she were to accept Raefe’s introduction? And if she didn’t?
Wouldn’t that be an even greater betrayal? A betrayal of her talent and all her years of work?
Mei Lin approached her and said in her sing-song voice: ‘I have made fresh coffee for you, missy.’
‘Thank you, Mei Lin.’ She looked down once again at the piece of paper in her hand and then said decisively: ‘I’m going out for a little while, Mei Lin. Tell Mr Harland that I’ll be back for lunch.’
‘Yes, missy,’ Mei Lin said unhappily. Mr Harland did not like to be brought such messages. He did not like it when she left the house and he did not know where she was. He did not even like it when she was in the house and playing her piano. She had seen his frown of annoyance only hours ago when he had emerged from their bedroom and heard the music filling the downstairs rooms. And now she would have to tell him that Mrs Harland had finished playing and had left the house without even waiting to speak to him. Reluctantly she stepped out into the garden and began to walk down past the flowerbeds and the gardener, towards the tennis-courts.
Elizabeth backed the Buick out of the garage, filled with the comforting certainty that she was doing the right thing. Adam had no need to know that it was Raefe who had introduced her to Li Pi and, even if he did know, there was no reason why he should be hurt or offended. Perhaps, if her professional life once more had direction and purpose, their personal life would regain the harmony it seemed to have lost.
She sped down the curving road towards Victoria, her stomach muscles tightening at the thought of the interview ahead of her. What if he did not consider her playing good enough? She had brought no music with her. Not even the Schubert score she had worked on all morning. She entered the crowded colourful streets of Wanchai. Lacquered ducks as flat as pancakes, birds’nests, and sharks’fins hung from shops that were little more than holes in the wall. Coloured washing on poles jutted out like flags from the windows of the tall flimsy buildings. In the harbour sampans were packed so close together that she could see an agile Chinese boatman using them as stepping-stones, hopping across the water without wetting a foot She drove down to the car ferry, driving the Buick aboard, getting out of it and standing at the deck-rail for the eight-minute crossing.
Professor Hurok had believed in her talent. She already had a remarkable list of achievements behind her. The Chopin Competition. The Brussels and Vienna Competitions. The Bartók recital at the Albert Hall.
The ferry docked in Kowloon, and she drove through the gaudy streets, wondering why a man who had spent so much of his life in the grey grandeur of Moscow should choose such an unlikely place for his retirement.
Stonewall Mansions was an old distinguished block of flats with a doorman on duty at the entrance. She asked for Li Pi, gave her name, and waited while he telephoned and received confirmation that she was expected.
The lift was small, and as it carried her upwards her stomach was cramped with nerves. She had been five months without a teacher. Roman Rakowski, who had recommended her to him, had never heard her play. Li Pi was seeing her out of politeness and had probably not the slightest intention of accepting her as a pupil. He was merely being kind, doing a favour to Roman Rakowski, who was in turn doing a favour to Raefe.
The lift stopped, and she walked along the corridor, stopping before number 27, her heart racing, her stomach tight She raised her hand to knock, but before she could do so a small black-clad Chinese opened the door.
‘My name is Elizabeth Harland. I have come to see Li Pi …,’ she began, thinking that she was speaking to an elderly houseboy, and then she saw the fierce intelligence and the flicker of amusement in his eyes and flushed crimson.
‘Please come in, Mrs Harland,’ Li Pi said graciously, opening the door wide. ‘I have been expecting you to call.’
The room was huge and white-walled, the floor covered with sharply coloured rugs, the sparse furniture, dark and heavily carved, dominated by a magnificent Steinway concert grand.
‘It’s very kind of you to see me.… I didn’t bring any music with me…’
‘Please don’t be so anxious,’ Li Pi said smilingly. ‘Would you like iced tea or coffee, or perhaps a lime juice?’
‘Lime juice, please.’ She could feel her stomach muscles beginning to relax. It was going to be all right. She could sense it, feel it in her blood and in her bones.
He made the drinks himself, pouring the ice-cold lime juice from a vacuum flask, saying as he handed hers to her: ‘So you are a pianist, Mrs Harland?’
Her eyes met his, and she was no longer nervous or unsure of herself. ‘Yes,’ she said fiercely. ‘And I want to be a great pianist.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he said understandingly. ‘The dream of so many thousands…’
She put down her glass of lime juice and said, her voice throbbing: ‘Let me play for you.’ She had to show him that she was not one of the thousands who merely dreamed. That she had the talent and the determination, the stamina to make her dream come true.
He nodded, giving her no suggestions, no guidance. She crossed to the beautiful piano and sat down before it, her throat dry, her heart slamming hard against her chest. The next few minutes were going to be far more important than her concert débuts at the Central Hall and the Wigmore Hall. More important even than her Liszt and Chopin Competition performances. She sat quite still for a few minutes, composing herself, and then she lifted her hands, bringing them down on the keys with deft sureness, and the sombre, rich notes of Schubert’s B-flat Sonata filled the sundrenched room.
When she had finished, he handed her the score of Brahms’s F-minor Sonata and then, when the last notes had died away, the score of Debussy’s ‘Des pas sur la neige’. It was a piece she had never played before, and at first she was unsure of herself; and then, instinctively, she captured the melancholy atmosphere, the sadness, the intolerable dilemma that was present in it.
She waited tensely for his opinion, the adrenalin produced by her intense concentration singing along her veins. He was silent for what seemed like an age and then he said, with a nod of his head: ‘You have talent. Indisputably, you have talent. But for the concert platform mere talent is not enough.’ He crossed the room towards her, taking her hands, examining her fingers, her wrists, saying: ‘The concert pianist must have many other qualities, Mrs Harland. He must possess unusual intelligence and culture, feeling, temperament, imagination, poetry and, finally, a personal magnetism which enables him to inspire audiences of thousands of strangers whom chance has brought together with one and the same feeling. If any of these qualities is missing, the deficiency will be apparent in every phrase he plays.’
‘And if he has them?’ she asked urgently.
‘Then he must work, work, work. Practising must be a relentless occupation with countless monastic-hours each day devoted to its perfection. Nothing and no one must be of greater importance!’
Her eyes held his, their sea-green depths no longer cool but burning with passion. ‘Will you accept me as a pupil?’
He paused for so long that she thought she would faint ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘You have the necessary demons within. They are buried deep, and are not immediately noticeable, but they are there. However, understand this. The energy I shall demand you to expend upon that piano in any one lesson will be equal to the energy a boxer expends upo
n his antagonist at a prize-fight. It will be equal to a matador killing three large bulls. Never ask for mercy, for none will be given. At the end of every lesson, you will be ready to drop with exhaustion and you will weep with exhaustion. Then, and only then, will I be satisfied.’
Her smile was incandescent. ‘I’m ready for my first bull, maestro,’ she said zestfully.
Li Pi smiled. ‘The Schubert B-flat Sonata,’ he said. ‘It was terrible. There were no shadings. The modulations from major to minor were too sudden. The tension must be kept alive in those long melodies and within those long movements. Schubert can present an idea, a subject, from so many different angles. For that you need a particular kind of sensitivity. Now, once again, from the beginning.’
‘Did Mrs Harland say where she was going?’ Adam asked Mei Lin, the lines running from his nose to his mouth seeming deeper than usual.
‘No, sir. She said she would be back for lunch.’
Adam glanced down at his wristwatch. It was already ten-fifty. ‘All right. Thank you, Mei Lin.’
He gave the courts a last, critical check, wondering if Beth had forgotten that they had invited the Ledshams for a game of doubles on Thursday evening. Perhaps she expected that by Thursday they would be aboard a boat bound for Singapore. He still hadn’t been down to the shipping line to book a passage. He began to walk desultorily back towards the house.
The truth of it was that he had no real desire to jaunt off to Singapore. Not just at the present moment. Ever since war against Germany had been declared, there had been talk in Hong Kong of forming a volunteer force, just in case war in Europe triggered off one in the East. If a volunteer force were formed, he wanted to be in at its inception, not lounging on a boat in the South Pacific.
A Multitude of Sins Page 25
