Appassionata (58 page)
‘You peeg,’ repeated Astrid. ‘And I don’t want requiem dedicate to me.’ Bursting into tears she ran back to the car.
‘I do see her point,’ said Viking coolly. ‘I was just returning your kids, Boris, here they are.’ As Boris was safely covered now, he drew the two children round onto the lawn. ‘And as Astrid hasn’t had a day off for a month, I thought I’d take her on a jaunt.’
‘No,’ roared Boris.
But Viking was too quick for him, whistling to a reluctant Nugent while sprinting back to the car, he jumped in beside a still-sobbing Astrid, and reversed down the lane to the victorious accompaniment of
Don Juan
’s horn call.
Don Juan
’s horn call.
Boris was demented.
‘Run after my Astrid, tell her it was a moment of euphoria,’ he beseeched Abby. ‘I love her, and more important I cannot afford to lose a wonderful nanny for keeds.’
‘Don’t be such a shit, Boris,’ said Marcus, putting an arm round Abby’s heaving shoulders.
‘Everyone ees against me,’ said Boris and stormed off to The Bordello.
Abby was livid. What was the point of being the Immortal Beloved if you had to share the honour with a Swedish au pair, and for someone, who delayed for ever when producing music, Boris had proved disappointingly precipitous when it came to making love.
Twenty minutes later, Boris was back, drenched again. Finding The Bordello locked, he had hammered on the door until Astrid had poured a bucket of water over him. He had then hovered in the bushes until Viking emerged to check he had gone and knocked out one of Viking’s front teeth.
‘I hope he suffer.’
‘He won’t, it’s always being knocked out, it’s only crowned,’ said Flora.
Boris proceeded to tear up the horn solo of ‘Rachel’s Lament’.
‘Bloody hell, I spent all yesterday copying that out,’ grumbled Flora, shuddering at the increase in maggots as she retrieved the page from the bin.
Nor was she very pleased herself. Boris had promised to dedicate the
Requiem
to her, and she’d spent far too much on a pair of new Black-Watch-tartan dungarees for Viking’s return, and now he’d shoved off with Astrid. The astrologers had been absolutely right that Jupiter, bringer of jollity, was about to be rammed by a comet.
Requiem
to her, and she’d spent far too much on a pair of new Black-Watch-tartan dungarees for Viking’s return, and now he’d shoved off with Astrid. The astrologers had been absolutely right that Jupiter, bringer of jollity, was about to be rammed by a comet.
Boris was now looking helplessly at his children, who were trying to coax down Scriabin and Sibelius.
‘Vot would you like for supper?’
‘Oh, Marcus’ll find them something,’ said Abby.
‘Marcus will not,’ said Flora, catching sight of his stricken face. ‘Marcus and I are off to see
Four Veddings and a Funeral
.’
Four Veddings and a Funeral
.’
Appassionata
THIRD MOVEMENT
THIRTY-FIVE
The first rehearsal of
Rachel’s Requiem
took place on the afternoon of the RSO’s first day back at work. Expecting to be bored rigid, the musicians trailed in weighed down by sweets, knitting, magazines, even computer games.
Rachel’s Requiem
took place on the afternoon of the RSO’s first day back at work. Expecting to be bored rigid, the musicians trailed in weighed down by sweets, knitting, magazines, even computer games.
‘Ay’d take a good book,’ advised Miss Parrott.
‘I’d take a library,’ said Viking, who had had his front tooth put back, but was secretly incensed that ‘Rachel’s Lament’ had been given to the cor anglais. Carmine was livid that his wife was going to play it and would be around spying on him his first week back.
Simon Painshaw and Peter Plumpton were also livid they hadn’t been given the big solo as promised. Eldred had also been promised it, but was too upset to mind. His wife hadn’t come back, and after four and a half weeks’ respite, he would have to endure Hilary’s scorn and sighs once more.
Francis the Good Loser was also fed up. He had mislaid the cup of coffee and the doughnut he’d bought at the buffet, which in fact had been nicked by the First Bassoon, known as ‘Jerry the Joker’, who was now sitting innocently at his desk.
‘Heard the latest viola joke?’ he said to Steve, the union rep, who was his Second Bassoon. ‘If you’re driving down a hill and your brakes fail, who d’you hit, a viola player or a conductor?’
‘Dunno,’ said Steve.
‘The conductor,’ said Jerry. ‘Business before pleasure.’
‘Too right,’ said Steve, as Abby marched in looking tight-lipped and embattled.
Immediately, like a great aviary, the RSO launched into a frenzy of tuning up. Determined to stand no nonsense, Abby asked the eternally good-natured Charlton Handsome to move the horns upstage.
‘Excuse me, Maestro,’ drawled Viking, ‘is that a good idea?’
‘Why not?’ said Abby irritably.
‘If we’re too far away, you won’t be able to follow us.’
Abby’s explosion was averted by the librarian running in. ‘Here are the parts for the cor anglais and the piccolo, we’ll have the rest of the woodwind parts by the break.’
‘Why bother?’ said Hilary nastily.
Shooting her a withering glance, Abby opened the score. She was relieved that Boris was still too angry with Viking to show up. She could have done with his support, but composers tended to shoot themselves at first rehearsals, because their music, sight-read, sounded so terrible.
‘Quiet please.’ Abby looked round at the orchestra, spread out like enemy snipers in the forest. Even Miss Parrott’s harp reared up like a chess-castle waiting to whizz across the board and take her.
Abby took a deep breath.
‘We are about to play the most beautiful piece of music probably of the entire twentieth century. It is a requiem written in memory of Boris’s young, incredibly talented wife, who committed suicide.’
‘Lucky Boris – what was his secret?’ sneered Carmine Jones.
Cathie Jones, who’d gone white as she digested the importance and extreme complexity of her solo, now flushed scarlet with mortification.
‘You basstard, Carmine.’ Blue was on his feet – only Cathie’s anguished, terrified glance stopped him hitting Carmine across the stage.
‘Whose incredibly talented wife committed suicide in 1991,’ repeated Abby firmly.
‘You must have identified with that,’ simpered Hilary.
‘Don’t be a bitch,’ called out Flora. ‘This is a masterpiece.’
Rank-and-file viola players were not supposed to express opinions. Flora was getting much too uppity. Hilary scowled at her.
‘Tell us about your famous mother, Flawless,’ said Dixie, putting down his tax returns.
‘Why isn’t Boris conducting this?’ grumbled Juno.
‘We used to have Schnapps-breaks every half-hour,’ said Nellie wistfully. ‘D’you remember the time he gave us miniatures of brandy before we recorded Mahler
One
, and we got through it in an hour with no retakes.’
One
, and we got through it in an hour with no retakes.’
‘I loved Boris,’ sighed Juno.
‘You’ll have to put up with me,’ snapped Abby. ‘Give us an A, Simon, let’s get started.’
After a month off, the orchestra were very rusty, fingers and lips couldn’t be trusted. Effing and blinding under their breath they began ploughing through the ‘Dies Irae’. Jerry the Joker played ‘God Save the Queen’ on his bassoon to see if Abby noticed.
‘I heard you, get out, Jerry,’ she shouted. ‘As a section leader you’re supposed to set a good example.’
‘What a frightful piece of music this is,’ sighed Dixie.
‘Cheer up,’ said Jerry, going out grinning and licking doughnut sugar off his fingers. ‘You’ll only have to play it once.’
‘We’re recording it,’ Abby, who was battling for at least four performances as well, yelled after him. ‘But not till the middle of October to give you the time to digest the complexities.’
‘And puke them all up again,’ called out Randy.
Abby tried another tack.
‘You’ve got to familiarize yourself with it to love it,’ she pleaded. ‘In 1915, when they first rehearsed Prokofiev’s
Scythian Suite
—’
Scythian Suite
—’
The orchestra raised their eyes to heaven and started to yawn ostentatiously.
‘Scythian Suite,’
persisted Abby, ‘one of the cellists said to the conductor: “Just because I have a wife who is sick and three kids to support, why must I be forced to endure such hell?” Musicians have always resisted innovation, if you know what I mean.’
persisted Abby, ‘one of the cellists said to the conductor: “Just because I have a wife who is sick and three kids to support, why must I be forced to endure such hell?” Musicians have always resisted innovation, if you know what I mean.’
‘That’s the trouble,’ said Carmine rudely, ‘none of us know what you do mean.’
‘Musicians don’t want to be lectured,’ said Davie Buckle, starting another game of patience on top of his drums. ‘They want to play the concert, then go out, get pissed and have a curry.’
The orchestra fell about.
It was time for Cathie to play ‘Rachel’s Lament’ for the first time, initially just as an extended echo in the ‘Lachrymosa’, then leading up to the long final solo in the ‘Libera Me’.
Surely they must realize how beautiful it is, prayed Abby. But Cathie was so nervous, so exhausted at the end of the school holidays, and so conscious of Carmine’s angry little red brake-light eyes boring into her, that she made a complete hash of it.
‘Gee, you screwed up on that one,’ said Abby in disappointment after the third botched attempt and leapt down to talk to Cathie. If she fluffed the “Lachrymosa” how the hell was she going to cope with the “Libera Me”.
‘I thought Boris was giving the big solo to Viking,’ whispered Dixie.
‘Boris has changed his total lack of tune,’ whispered back Randy. ‘Evidently Boris is knocking off his au pair and Viking’s nicked her, but only after Viking caught Boris in flagrante with—’ a wicked smile spread over Randy’s face, as he lowered his voice even more.
‘You gotta be joking,’ Dixie looked at Abby, his eyes on stalks. Then, immediately turning to his Second Trombone, ‘Did you know that Boris is bonking—’
Soon the story was whizzing around the orchestra, like starlings alighting on different trees at dusk.
‘What are you reading, Flawless?’ asked Viking.
‘“Sohrab and Rustram”,’ snapped Flora, who hadn’t forgiven Viking. ‘It’s about much more heroic men than you lot.’
‘Someone should write a poem called “So Bad on Rostrum”.’
‘That’s not funny, if you hadn’t jumped on Astrid, you’d be playing that solo.’
As they struggled for another ten minutes, Abby felt utterly superfluous, the orchestra were far too busy sight-reading to look at her.
‘Where the fuck are we?’ Viking asked Blue, as resounding crashes, twangs and shrieks rent the air.
‘Two bars to go. I’ll bring you in—’
Abby called a halt. ‘That was terrible.’
‘It would help if you beat a little more clearly,’ called out Juno.
Abby ignored her.
‘The next bit is really sad,’ Abby attempted a weak joke. ‘Could you play it, I guess, as Lionel looks?’
Lionel was furious. Confronted by a series of glissandos and teeth-gritting shrieks achieved by drawing the side of the bow down the strings, he pretended to cry.
‘I cannot bear it,’ he said, putting his head carefully in his hands so as not to disturb the lustrous blow-dried waves. ‘My string players have dedicated their lives to producing a beautiful sound—’
Abby raised an eyebrow.
‘And they are forced to make fools of themselves playing this junk.’
Lionel was acting up because over the page he had discovered the long solo Boris had deliberately made difficult for him, which was only accompanied by the basses. Compelled to tackle it, he pretended to be fooling around and deliberately making the most ghastly cock up.
‘You’re not trying,’ raged Abby, beyond any awareness that it was below the belt to bawl out a leader in front of his orchestra.
The RSO brightened at the prospect of a screaming match.
‘It’s unplayable,’ said Lionel flatly.
‘Don’t be such a goddamn wimp.’
‘You only say that, Maestro,’ furiously Hilary leapt to the defence of her beloved, ‘because there’s no way you could ever play it.’
Putting down the
Selected Poems of Matthew Arnold
, Flora said calmly, ‘Boris used to play the violin in an orchestra. He’s perfectly aware of its limitations and capabilities.’
Selected Poems of Matthew Arnold
, Flora said calmly, ‘Boris used to play the violin in an orchestra. He’s perfectly aware of its limitations and capabilities.’
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