by JJ Marsh
She stopped eating and stared at him, her expression incredulous. “Are you crazy? No way am I staying here! I’ve made arrangements with my family and all my friends. Le Duc is having a party for me on Saturday. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. I thought you were excited as well.”
He took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t say I was excited. The point is, there’s not much for me to go back to in Bratislava. It’s different for you, I know, but I’m trying to build a life here, make friends, grab opportunities and elevate my status within the orchestra. The maestro offered a personal invitation and I know from talking to other members of the string section, it’s considered very bad form to refuse.”
A frown wrinkled her forehead. “Why would you want to do that? You’re a cellist in ... OK ... not a world-class orchestra and only tutti just yet, but on the right road to something decent. I can’t understand why Wilk would use any of his up-and-coming players as buskers at the weekend. Unless it’s some kind of punishment.” She stabbed some kidney beans with her fork.
“No, no. More like a chance. I’d be playing with two senior violinists, actually, and the fourth member of the quartet is Anton.”
“Two senior violinists? You mean those spiteful little bitches from the garden party? What is wrong with you? If you really want to elevate your status, there are better ways to spend your time than entertaining freeloaders on Sundays. Think about it, does it raise your profile or make any money? Sometimes I wonder if you have any ambition at all. Make your mind up, Rolf. You can’t waste your talent strumming on street corners. We had a plan to spend one season here, making a name for yourself, then moving onto something bigger and better. How are you going to attract the right kind of attention by playing in a mediocre string quartet?”
A heat crept up Rolf’s throat. “One season? That makes no sense. It will take one season and a tour before I’ve worked out my probation period. I need to stay for a minimum of two years. We never said one season, or at least I don’t remember discussing it.”
“In that case, you need to pay more attention. You don’t need to build a life here or make friends. We’re moving upwards and onwards. Or we would be if you stick to the plan. Tell the maestro you’d rather focus on the day job. Expecting you to play in an ensemble on top of the strenuous orchestra work is unreasonable.”
They ate in silence for a minute, Rolf trying to imagine the maestro’s face if he refused his offer. “It might be too much for me, you’re right. But I won’t know that until I’ve tried. Would you mind if I stayed here this weekend and you went to Slovakia alone?”
She placed her knife and fork together, despite the fact she had not finished her food. “Mind? Not at all. You stay here and play tunes for the tourists with your snotty-nosed little pals. I’m going to spend three wonderful days mixing with my own kind. God knows I’ve been starved of civilised society these last few months. I cannot wait for Friday. Now we can afford it, I might go back more often. I miss my friends more than you know.”
Rolf waited to see if she would eat any more, but she got up, turned off the CD and faced him. “You have two concerts next weekend, Rolf, I know your schedule. So your offer to postpone Bratislava till next weekend was pure bullshit. You don’t fool me, and you never will.” She went into the bedroom without waiting for a reply. He cleaned up the kitchen, then sat in the living room waiting for her to come out. She didn’t.
He stared out of the window, half-worried, half-relieved. She might be angry for a few days, but at least she hadn’t refused him. He could stay here and join the quartet. He asked himself why he had omitted to mention the party. She wouldn’t be here, so why should she care? In his heart, he knew she would care very much and find a way of preventing it. If she found out later ... he’d have to beg for Anton’s discretion. On the bright side, she hadn’t refused him his weekend alone. How else could he realise his full potential when not holding her hand?
7
Rolf’s first public appearance with the whole City Orchestra was at a museum fundraiser, where the orchestra played one of his favourite ballet scores. Stravinsky’s Firebird appealed to Rolf’s fondness for morality tales. The story was simple but perfect: a princely hero captures an unearthly creature who pleads to be released. He agrees and she gives him a feather, enabling him to summon her when he needs help. When he falls foul of the indestructible bad guy, he calls the Firebird. She flies to his aid, hypnotises his enemies and delivers his triumph.
More than the satisfying narrative of a merciful gesture bringing its own eventual reward, Rolf loved the physicality of the piece; the slides in The Infernal Dance, the down bows in the finale and the magical harmonic glissando which never failed to raise goose bumps. His excitement was at its peak when they arrived at the museum and he chattered, joked and made inane observations in the men’s dressing room. At one point, Bertrand took him aside.
“Just some friendly advice, my friend. You obviously don’t suffer from stage fright and I am happy for you. The rest of us feel the pressure. So do us all a favour and shut up, huh?
Rolf looked around the white faces and sweaty top lips, all studiously ignoring their conversation, and took Bertrand’s advice. How come he never noticed these things?
The concert was received with great enthusiasm even though it took the whole of The Enchanted Garden for the players to adjust to the acoustics. Applause and admiration energised his colleagues, so that after the final bows, their dressing-room was filled with laughs and banter. The only silent member was Rolf. His playing was good, if not great, his timing was accurate and the string section as a whole was on fire. Onstage, he was invincible. Onstage, he believed.
The weather was rotten nearly all week but the atmosphere in the rehearsal room grew steadily brighter. Their playing became tighter and more disciplined, although the maestro was far from satisfied. He stopped them frequently, finding fault with the percussionists, the second violinists and the brass section. Rolf himself came in for criticism of his pace. He accepted it humbly and made adjustments.
On Friday morning, the sun shone and the city sparkled as if throwing off a grey cloak to reveal its sequinned finery beneath. He was running late because Leonor spent ages in the bathroom. She refused to let him in while she was performing her toilette, insisting she needed some privacy. When she finally came out, he had a lightning quick wash, brushed his teeth and went to say goodbye. She was in the living-room with young Dieter Fitz.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Jaro.”
“Hello, Dieter. How are you today?”
“A little nervous. It’s my first lesson,” he said, with a shy glance at Leonor.
“Nothing to be nervous about. You have a fine teacher. I’m leaving now, otherwise I’ll be late.”
“I’ll see you off,” said Leonor.
“Have a good day, Herr Jaro!”
“You too, Dieter.”
Leonor kissed him, a chaste sort of peck as if she were distracted. “Good luck with your concerts. I’ll be back early on Monday.”
“Thank you. Have a fun weekend. Hang on. Monday? I thought you were coming back Sunday evening.”
“I changed my mind. There’s someone I wanted to see who can only make it on Sunday evening. You’d better go. There are the bells.”
“Shit. And I’ve missed the bus. I’ll have to run.”
“Bye, my love. Take care.”
Fortunately, there was a big fuss at the Konzerthalle as the heavy week of rain had taken its toll on the roof. Some tiles had slipped and water made its way down the walls, damaging the electrics in their rehearsal room. The maintenance people were examining the problem so the players would have to relocate to the main stage. In all the upheaval, Rolf’s late arrival by twenty minutes went unnoticed by everyone but Trudi. She made a theatrical gesture of looking at her watch but then winked and broke into a wide grin.
One of the maintenance men came to speak to the building manager, who was in conversation with the maestro.
He wore a leather work belt with loops for screwdrivers, a hammer and a spirit level. Rolf stared at that leather belt as if it were a scorpion. Without warning, cold terror overcame him and he stumbled backwards towards the door, dragging his cello with him. The sweat from his forehead and upper lip became a chill and his pulse thumped so hard it crossed his mind he might be having a heart attack. Outside the room, he leaned against the wall, his hand resting on his throat, trying to breathe.
He closed his eyes and was back there in an instant. The wide corridor with plush carpets, the pounding music from a room downstairs, a sense of weightlessness dulling the pain, a large hand on the back of his neck, pushing him past the open doorway, telling him there was nothing to see.
Don’t look, Sokolov said, but Rolf’s eyes disobeyed, darting right for a second. What he saw made no sense. Leather and limbs in an impossible contortion and a nauseating smell. He kept walking, leaving the scene, leaving Dimitry behind.
He squeezed his eyes tight and pressed his fingers to his eyelids until he saw stars.
“Rolf? Are you OK?”
It took him a moment to regain his vision and look down at the face of Jun, her head tilted in concern. “Jun, hello. I…” He had no idea what to say. “Lightheaded, you know. I was late. Should have eaten some breakfast instead of just drinking coffee. Sorry.”
Her gaze searched his eyes. “Give me your cello. I will set it up for you. Go to the cafeteria and get yourself a Berliner or something sweet. I can explain to the maestro it is a low blood sugar problem. Quickly, everyone is going to the stage.”
Her kindness and the shock of memory almost brought him to tears. He didn’t trust his voice, so gave her the thumbs up and turned in the direction of the cafeteria. En route, he ducked into the gents toilets, chose an empty cubicle and sat on the toilet seat, his head in his hands. He needed Leonor. She was the only one who knew.
For some reason, possibly the forced upgrade to a new environment, the orchestra seemed invigorated and the various sections played more harmoniously than Rolf could remember. A frisson ran through the group when the maestro, standing under a spotlight, gave them a round of applause. One of the oboists actually giggled and everyone was smiling.
It was different in this space. Not just the acoustics and the lights, it was a sense of audience. The auditorium was empty, of course it was, but the sense of potential faces, ears listening and eyes watching gave them an imaginary public. It upped their game and every single performer felt it. They ran through the entire programme before they broke for lunch. The maestro dismissed them with a nod of approval and warned them they would have notes before they began the afternoon session.
For a change, Rolf decided to avoid Trudi and Jun, and hurried into the street to get something unhealthy and messy from an Imbiss. He was torn. He didn’t want to think about the past – or at least certain aspects of it – nor did he have any enthusiasm for orchestra gossip today. With a certain guilty pleasure, he bought himself a kebab and wandered down the street to a park. As always, street musicians plied their trade. A saxophonist under the beech tree played Gabriel Yared. A teenage quartet the other side of the flowerbeds performed a sparky little medley of songs from The Sound of Music. Their patter was as cheeky as their blatant appeal to tourists and they made him laugh. He took a tour of the whole park, passing a guy on a marimba and at the furthest point, a cellist accompanied by a soprano performing Bach’s Öffne dich, mein ganzes Herz. They made an excellent duo, the cello acting as counterpoint to the swoops and dives of the woman’s exceptional voice. They were probably students from the conservatoire.
Tomorrow, this would be him, standing in a public space. Not exactly a park, perhaps, but a location where people could stop and listen or pass on by. Not quite busking like these guys, but one step up. It was a lesson in humility to play with a quartet in an environment where people were not compelled to stay – the opposite of the Konzerthalle. If someone walked out during a performance, it was a pointed statement. Whereas if passers-by stopped and stayed, you had hooked them. He dropped his kebab paper into a litter bin and left the park with all its musical delights to return to the Konzerthalle. His thoughts focused more on the weekend’s concerts than the official opening of the season in three weeks’ time.
If anything, the morning’s performance was superseded by that of the afternoon. To Rolf’s astonishment, René found another gear in his violin solo, as if all through rehearsals he’d merely been marking time. As a person and even as a concertmaster, he was unbearably arrogant, but no one could criticise his musicianship. Of course the maestro had notes for the cello section, too, which meant Rolf was left with homework over the weekend. As they packed up, a sudden giddy rush bubbled up in him at the thought of three days to himself. Tomorrow and Sunday he would need to perform, but nothing more than excerpts from Schubert’s Death and the Maiden and Mozart’s Haydn quartets. And tonight, it was party time.
He was walking into the wings when Trudi yelled his name. “Rolf! Where are you going? Wait for me!” She scurried across the stage carrying her violin. “Why do you keep sneaking off? We couldn’t find you at lunchtime and now you’re trying to get away without me. I promised to come and help you get ready for the party, remember? Jun’s coming too. Are we going to walk or take the bus?” Trudi looked over her shoulder and hissed. “Jun! Let’s go! See you later, Bertrand!”
Jun and Rolf put frozen apero pastries into the oven, chopped vegetables, opened dips and took everything downstairs to the garden, where bottles of beer and wine sat in buckets filled with ice. Anton and Trudi were preparing tea lights and lanterns to decorate the area, laughing and teasing one another like old friends.
“Hi, Rolf! This is a surprise but I’m really happy you’ve invited me. What do you want to do about music? I can bring my speaker out here, if you like.”
“Thanks, Anton, I’m not that experienced at throwing parties. I’ve got food and drink and guests, but apart from that…”
Anton came to stand in front of him. “You got a lot more than that. You’ve got a team. How about I organise the music and open my French windows so people can use my bathroom. It’s fine, I don’t mind. I know most of these people. Can I contribute anything?”
His friendly enthusiasm melted any hostility Rolf had previously harboured towards his neighbour. “You’re very kind, and no, you can’t contribute any more than you already have. You’re very generous to offer your bathroom and your music. I appreciate it. Umm, one thing?”
Anton waited.
“Could we not mention this to Leonor? It’s just ...”
“My lips are sealed. Everyone deserves their secrets. Now, music!”
Guests were due to arrive at half past seven, so once the food and drink were arranged, the music set up, paper plates, cups and napkins piled up beneath the pergola, Rolf rustled up four Slivopolitans, using frozen plum purée, slivovitz, Cointreau and lime juice for his friends. With great care, he took the tray downstairs and into the garden, where he stopped to admire the scene. It looked exactly like one of his daydreams.
Trudi and Jun had invited twenty-five members of the orchestra and as they were naturally punctual, everyone was ready to toast Bertrand’s happiness by eight in the evening. It may have been the cocktail or the two beers Rolf drank subsequently but he found the evening both invigorating and relaxing at the same time. It seemed as if there were four hosts: Trudi, Jun, Anton and himself. Jun collected empty paper plates and placed them in the waste bag while Anton went upstairs for a second bag of ice. Trudi encouraged everyone to help themselves to the buckets of chilled drinks and ensured that teetotallers were catered for with juice, water and iced tea.
He found himself chatting to people he barely knew with ease, and sat cross-legged on a blanket with two Austrian percussionists sharing a joint. Blue sauntered out of Anton’s apartment, his little bell tingling on his sky-blue collar as he sashayed his way between the guests’ legs. Bertrand seemed delighted with th
e whole event and mentioned Rolf repeatedly in his thank-you speech. Before Rolf had even managed to converse with everyone present, it was already nine thirty and people began to leave. Despite his protestations, Jun, Anton and Trudi cleared up the garden while he was saying his goodbyes to his guests. When he returned from the front door after waving goodbye to the last stragglers, the only indication that an event had taken place were the lanterns. Trudi, Jun and Anton sat under the pergola looking very pleased with themselves indeed.
“You are amazing!” said Rolf, collapsing into a chair. “Thank you, professional party people! We all deserve another drink.”
Trudi reached over and patted his shoulder. “Thank you! And thanks to Anton for tolerating our invasion. I have to go home now but I want to say I had a lovely evening.”
Jun emptied her wine glass. “Me too. It was just the right kind of party, not too small, not too big, and not too cliquey. I shouldn’t really say this, but I had a whole lot more fun than at the sponsors’ garden party. Trudi, do you want to share a taxi?”
“You’re leaving already? It’s early yet and it’s Friday night,” Rolf protested.
Trudi placed her fists on her hips. “Friday night before a Saturday lunchtime concert to be rehearsed at ten o’clock tomorrow. Anton, don’t let him get drunk. I’m trusting you. Goodnight, guys, see you in the morning.”
Rolf saw them to the door and waited until they had hailed a taxi. He had developed a great deal of affection for those two talented women. He closed the front door and returned to the garden, where Anton leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced behind his head as he stared up at the sky. Rolf bent to run his hand over Blue’s fur and the cat bunted his head into Rolf’s palm.
