Madame Sousatzka (10 page)

‘What is right for him, or what is right for you?' Uncle said, coming to the point right away. Madame Sousatzka's answer was a loud wail. She knew that Uncle knew the dilemma, and Uncle knew that she knew. ‘We'll see Jenny,' she said. ‘We'll have a session. It'll solve everything.'
Madame Sousatzka shrugged.

‘Didn't it solve Cordle's problem? Follow the glass, that's what I say. It's never been wrong. You go and see Jenny.'

‘It's urgent,' Madame Sousatzka said. ‘You think she will do it tonight for me? Tonight you can come?'

Uncle thought for a minute. She was always free but she was never ready to admit it. ‘I could be free tonight,' she said generously. ‘And ask Cordle. He's always willing. Ask her to arrange it tonight. At ten o'clock, when Marcus is in bed.'

‘He's a nasty one, that Manders,' said Madame Sousatzka suddenly. ‘A business man. He is like the others. I told him that. Human beings for him are like the things in the shop.'

‘There have to be people like Manders,' said Uncle, ‘otherwise what would happen to all the Marcuses?'

‘So many Marcuses there are not,' Madame Sousatzka interrupted her.

‘In any case, Sousatzka,' she went on affectionately, ‘he will have to advertise Marcus as your pupil. Think of all the good that will do you. You will be the most famous teacher in London. All the little Marcuses will come to you.'

‘No, no,' Madame Sousatzka began to cry again. ‘There is only one Marcus. He is different. When he come to me, he play only with the fingers.' Uncle secretly wondered what on earth else one would play the piano with. ‘Now,' Madame Sousatzka went on, ‘he play with everything; his mind, his body, his …' she was at loss for words, ‘with everything he play. Without me, he is nothing.'

‘But he doesn't belong to you,' Uncle said. She was already very tired from her unaccustomed exertions and would gladly have left the decision in the hands of the glass. ‘Arrange it for tonight, my dear. I'll come up to Jenny's at ten o'clock.' At the thought of the four flights of stairs she would have to climb to get to the session, she turned sideways in her chair and dropped off to sleep.

Madame Sousatzka got up quietly and went over to Marcus's door. ‘Marcus,' she called softly. She opened his door and found him lying on the bed, playing draughts with himself. ‘No, no,' she whispered, seeing him make a
misguided move. ‘Look, the black will take the two white.'

‘But I'm black,' Marcus said.

‘Who plays the white?'

‘Me too, of course,' he laughed, ‘but somebody has to lose.'

Madame Sousatzka sat down heavily on the bed, disturbing the board and disarranging the pieces. Marcus collected them into a little red bag.

‘Uncle's asleep,' Madame Sousatzka said. ‘Shall I play with you?'

‘I don't feel like playing any more,' Marcus said. ‘I'd like to practise. Can I use the piano now?'

‘Yes,' she said sadly. ‘But only the studies you must practise. And not just because of the concert. In any case, you hear? In any case.' She kissed him on the top of his head and tip-toed uncomfortably out of Uncle's apartment.

Outside the door, she fumbled in her purse for pennies and clutching them in her hand she climbed the stairs to the telephone box on the first landing. She realized she couldn't go up to Jenny's. Manders was probably still there and she didn't want to meet him again. In any case, she had never interfered with Jenny's business, because she wasn't curious about it.

She put in her pennies before dialling the number, and she held her thumb on Button A on the ready. The fact that she was right this time was purely accidental. From the landing she could hear the telephone ringing in Jenny's room. She listened for a long time. She visualised the room, and was sure that had Jenny been in, the ‘phone could have been reached by now from the most distant part of the room. Yet she let it ring. Jenny never went out on Fridays. She heard Mr Cordle breathing heavily behind his door. He was probably painting one of his charts. Suddenly the ringing from upstairs stopped. Madame Sousatzka heard a very drowsy ‘hullo' through the receiver. She pressed Button A. ‘Jenny?' she whispered. Jenny whispered back. ‘It's me, Sousatzka. I wondered, tonight, if the glass is at home?'

‘Tonight?'

‘Yes. Is very important. Did he tell you? I must know
what to do. Uncle will come, and I go now to Cordle. Please Jenny. I know I have to make an appointment. But I make appointment now. Emergency case,' she spluttered, suddenly inspired by the instructions for dialling Police, Fire and Ambulance on the board above the telephone.

‘Don't worry,' Jenny laughed. ‘At ten o'clock. I'll have it ready.'

Jenny put the ‘phone down, and Madame Sousatzka heard her walking about her room upstairs. Then she too placed the receiver, and out of habit pressed Button B. ‘Cordle,' she called from the landing, ‘I come to see you.'

‘Wait, wait,' he shouted in panic. ‘I'm painting on the door.'

Madame Sousatzka waited outside until Cordle let her in. He had on a gold smock with paintbrushes sticking out of the large front pockets. The chart on the door had been newly painted. For some reason or other, Mr Cordle had embarked on oils. Normally, he covered his charts with poster paints. He was obviously more serious about this new one.

‘You discover a new colour?' Madame Sousatzka asked conversationally.

Cordle rubbed his hands together. ‘Sousatzka,' he whispered, ‘I think I've got it.' But Sousatzka was too worried with her own problem to show any enthusiasm over Cordle's new discovery. ‘I've got it,' Cordle said again, thinking she hadn't heard him. ‘It will change my whole method. And it was Marcus who first gave me the idea.'

At the sound of his name, Sousatzka showed a sudden interest. ‘It is because of him I come to you,' she said.

‘Are you changing your method, too?' Mr Cordle asked, frightened. He felt that since his profession was more or less dependent on hers there ought to be some kind of liaison between their two methods.

‘No.' Sousatzka was adamant. ‘The method is the same.' And she told Mr Cordle all about Mr Manders. ‘Uncle says we must ask the glass. Jenny is making it for tonight. You can come, Mr Cordle?' she pleaded.

‘Of course I'll come. I'm a great believer in the glass, especially as in my case when it was impossible to make a
decision. But Sousatzka,' he warned, ‘what the glass says, you must obey.'

‘I know, I know,' said Madame Sousatzka, almost breaking down. ‘That is the trouble.'

‘What is it you want?'

‘I want what's right for my boy.' There was a silence. Cordle didn't know how to advise her, and like the Countess, he preferred to pass on the responsibility.

‘The glass will help you,' he told her. ‘I'll be upstairs at ten o'clock.'

He drew the chart gently away from the door to let Madame Sousatzka through, and she walked slowly down the stairs to her room. Marcus was practising a study and the brilliance of his playing sickened her. She waited outside the door until he'd finished, correcting him in whispers as he proceeded. When he had finished, she heard the rustle of music sheets. He was singing to himself. She recognised it as a Beethoven Piano Concerto and she felt defeat and a terrible despair. He had at last found the music and she heard him playing the opening bars. She didn't want to listen but her tired defeat glued her to the door. She heard footsteps on the landing and she realised that it must be Manders coming down. She didn't want to see him again, neither did she want at that moment to join Marcus in the studio. She ran into an alcove at the bottom of the hall and watched him come down the stairs. When he reached the studio door he stopped and listened. He was smiling. Sousatzka could have killed him. He had no right to trespass on her bond with Marcus like a cheap adulterer. He had no right to listen to him outside her door. He had even less right to smile.

It seemed hours before he turned away and left the house. Marcus was still playing, singing the orchestral score as he went along. Then he stopped in the middle of a difficult passage. He tried it again but still without success. Madame Sousatzka began to smile. She listened as Marcus repeated the phrase, slowing the speed, testing new fingering, and each time entangling himself more. She started to laugh as she heard him set the metronome and try it again. But the machine had ticked away the whole passage before
Marcus was half-way through. Then she heard him bang his fists again and again on the piano in his annoyance, and she drowned the pedalled din with loud laughter. She went on laughing long after the noise from the piano had ceased. Uncle, Cordle and Jenny heard it echo through the house, like the muffled shriek of a ghost-train.

Through the windows of the studio Marcus saw his mother coming up the front steps. None of the bells worked and she didn't know how to get in by just pushing the door. No-one was expecting her, so if he didn't open the door she would have to go away. He let some time elapse. He knew she was pressing the dead bells and waiting. He saw her out there, with her brown hat and her shopping bag and her impatience. He was determined not to let her in, and he knew at the same time that he would regret it. If he were to shut her out from his private world, not a lifetime of hand-holding and kissing would make up for it.

He gripped the sides of the piano stool, chaining himself to his seat. She would go away and tomorrow he would explain to her that the bells didn't work, so nobody had heard her.

But Madame Sousatzka was still outside in the hall. She had seen a shadow behind the glass door, and Marcus heard her opening it. He felt himself blushing. He got up quickly, looking around for evidence to remove. He felt there should be something to hide, a letter, a photograph or a diary. But there was nothing. All the evidence was inside him, and he knew that that way it was far harder to conceal. He started to play again, very loudly, to give himself an excuse for not hearing her come into the room. When he heard his mother's voice he stopped playing abruptly, and pretended astonishment. But he felt that neither his mother nor Madame Sousatzka believed him, and he overdid his surprise to convince them.

‘You said nothing to me that your mother comes, Marcus,' Madame Sousatzka said, slightly angry.

‘I forgot to tell you. I was too excited about Mr Manders and I forgot.'

‘Marcus,' Madame Sousatzka said. ‘This Manders. He is not right for you. First thing. Second thing, I hear you play Beethoven fourth. Is too difficult. You are not ready.'

‘Of course it's not ready yet. I couldn't play it tomorrow. But with lessons and practice I could play it easily.' He was suddenly glad that his mother was there.

Mrs Crominski realised with some relief that at least she would have Marcus on her side. She could afford to give way a little. ‘Now Marcus,' she said, ‘Is important Madame Sousatzka says what she thinks. After all, Madame Sousatzka is the teacher.'

Marcus was horrified at what he took to be a change of side. ‘But Momma, I know I can play it. I know I'm ready.'

‘Oh, is a problem,' Mrs Crominski said happily, looking forward to the discussion. Having opposed Marcus to Madame Sousatzka she had put herself in the happy position of arbitrator. ‘All right,' she said, ‘so that piece isn't ready. Suppose we agree, Madame Sousatzka. Is plenty other pieces. And even for this piece' – she didn't want to risk naming it in case she got it wrong – ‘is time to be ready. Not tomorrow is the concert.'

Both of them looked at Madame Sousatzka. It was undeniably her turn.

‘For me, is even bigger problem than is for Marcus,' she said. ‘If Marcus plays bad, is bad for Marcus. But for Sousatzka, is much worse. For Sousatzka's reputation, is bad. For Sousatzka's living.'

The discussion had taken quite an unexpected turn. To pursue the question of the concert, now, seemed like depriving Madame Sousatzka of her livelihood.

‘But why should Marcus play bad?' Mrs Crominski asked.

‘For me, he is not ready.'

‘So no concert?' Mrs Crominski said, and her tone was threatening.

‘That I do not say. Perhaps when he is ready. We see.' The glass was going to decide for her, but she didn't want to tell them about it.

‘When shall we see?' Mrs Crominski pressed on.

‘Tomorrow, perhaps.'

Mrs Crominski had the good sense not to press her further. She knew that the tone of threat in her voice had not been lost on Madame Sousatzka. She knew that Madame Sousatzka had made her decision, and she was prepared to give her more time to announce it so that it wouldn't look as if forced on her. ‘Next week is plenty time, Madame Sousatzka,' she said. ‘I understand for you is a big decision. Take time. Overnight you do not decide these big matters. Take a week. A fortnight, perhaps.' Mrs Crominski was handing out allowances with easy charity, the sort of generosity a victorious wife can afford to mete out to a discarded mistress, and Madame Sousatzka hated her for it.

She tried to smile. She didn't want Mrs Crominski to know that the decision had been forced on her. She would ask the glass anyway, and if the glass decided there was to be no concert, she would listen to the glass, whatever the consequences. She wanted Mrs Crominski to go. She wanted to be alone with Marcus for a while.

‘Well,' said Mrs Crominski, standing up, ‘we have talked what is necessary. Now I go. Perhaps you want to talk to Marcus.' She went over to Marcus to kiss him, and Marcus tried to turn his face away. His mother had won, and though she'd fought on his behalf, all his feelings went out to Madame Sousatzka. He too wanted to be alone with her. Mrs Crominski left the room practically unnoticed, while Marcus and Madame Sousatzka stared at each other helplessly.

She walked over to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. ‘Sousatzka is losing her Marcus,' she said.