Madame Sousatzka (18 page)

The conductor stretched out his hand and guided Marcus over. ‘Better than being at school, eh?' he said.

The orchestra laughed dutifully. Marcus didn't think it was very funny. In fact, at that moment he would have
willingly opted for a life-sentence at school in preference to his present occupation. Somehow Marcus found himself seated and adjusting the stool. He wiped his hands down the sides of his suit and placed them for confidence on the keys. He saw them reflected in the shining black wood. They looked so small and stunted that he was convinced they were not his own, and he had to take them away quickly and see the reflection disappear in order to convince himself that they were his. He looked up and his eye caught the conductor's, but only because the conductor was directly in his line of vision. But the look was as decisive as a faint nod at an auction sale, and the conductor raised his baton. ‘I'm not ready,' Marcus wanted to shout, but he knew that, feeling as he did, he would never be ready. He lifted his fingers to the keys, looking at them only for a moment to get his bearings, and then, staring at the infinitesimal tip of the conductor's baton, he played the opening chord.

The first solo drew an audible gurgle of joy from Madame Sousatzka. Marcus heard her and the trembling left him. During the first movement, Madame Sousatzka saw Manders tip-toe into the hall. He was seething with anger at not having been notified. He made a note to see the green man after the rehearsal. He climbed the steps to the terrace stalls, seating himself in the middle where he could be seen.

The orchestra had reached the beginning of the cadenza and the conductor leaned over to have a word with Marcus. Madame Sousatzka half rose from her seat. Then sadly she sat down again, realizing for the first time that Marcus was no longer with her. Marcus started playing a few bars before the final trill. She covered her face with her hands and counted. At the end of the trill Marcus looked up at the conductor, and the orchestra arrived punctually to see him through the end of the movement.

The concerto rehearsal lasted an hour; that is, a little longer than its actual running time. It was obviously a work with which the orchestral players were very familiar, and which they played in run-through mood, having left their vibratos in their dinner-jackets. They were like long-practised
midwives to whom birth and delivery had ceased to be a miracle. When the concerto was finished, they clapped on their instruments with one hand, feeling in their pockets for their cigarettes with the other. ‘Seen the paper this morning, Harry?' Marcus heard a violinist say. ‘Looks like your shares have dropped again.'

Manders was tripping down the steps towards the platform. Madame Sousatzka got up and managed to reach the platform at the same time. They both went towards Marcus, eager yet hesitant as if by some error they had both drawn the winning ticket in a lottery. Madame Sousatzka was the first to reach him. He took her outstretched hand. ‘I must play more, and more,' he said. ‘It's wonderful.'

‘You will, my darrlink,' she said sadly, ‘but you have so much to learn yet. For many concerts, you are not ready. Sousatzka knows, my darrlink.' She grasped his hand in hers, and felt it suddenly grow cold. She knew at that moment she had lost him.

Number 132 Vauxhall Mansions started to prepare for the concert at four o'clock in the afternoon. Madame Sousatzka had arranged a little party for Marcus and his mother, together with Jenny, Cordle and Uncle, for after the concert. She was still undecided as to whether to ask the Manders. With Jenny's help she had prepared a table of food and covered it with a damp white cloth. Of the left-overs, she made an informal tea-party in the kitchen for the residents.

Mrs Crominski was going to join them at the house an hour before the concert. Out of nervousness, she wanted to put off her participation until the last moment. She wanted desperately to be with Marcus, to go to the rehearsal with him, to help him into his evening dress. But she was afraid she might break down in front of him. So she had decided to keep out of the way.

Madame Sousatzka and her tenants had assembled in the kitchen for the tea. All of them, except Marcus, were in dressing-gowns as a preparation for getting dressed. Uncle was collecting pennies from Cordle and Jenny for a bath. It
was a great occasion for her. Her dressing-gown had once been chiffon, and bright blue, but little remained now either of its texture or colour. And it clung un-chiffon-like to her and she to it like a touchstone of a fading memory. Her hair was rolled tightly into curlers, clinging to her scalp like a cap of serrated cardboard. Cordle's dressing-gown was what is known in the trade as ‘serviceable', and indeed it looked as if it had done yeoman service for years. It was red with a corded edge. A large brown burn had replaced the pocket. But he kept his hand in the hole notwithstanding, just to keep up appearances. Jenny's dressinggown was new, and it looked more like a loose dress. It was short and buttoned down the front. She had a large stock of dressing-gowns. Marcus always saw her in a different one. The garment that enveloped Madame Sousatzka would, in any other setting, have been called a mackintosh, which indeed it was. But here it looked no more out of place than Uncle's, which had originally been born in a boudoir.

Madame Sousatzka sat at the head of the table with Marcus by her side. Uncle slipped into the wall bench next to Cordle and Jenny began to pour the tea. ‘What you wearing, Uncle?' she said.

‘The black.'

‘Which black?'

‘My
black of course.' Uncle was behaving like an
haute couturière
, fighting off the Press before an opening.

‘I'm wearing black too,' said Jenny, ‘the one with the frilled sleeve.' Jenny was more forthcoming.

‘We'll all be in black,' said Madame Sousatzka as cheerfully as she could. ‘I also wear mine.'

After this announcement, nobody spoke, and the silence continued throughout the meal. Occasionally, someone asked for the sugar or a sandwich.

‘In six hours' time,' Marcus said suddenly, ‘it'll all be over.'

‘How did the rehearsal go?' asked Cordle. He hadn't seen Marcus or Sousatzka since their return and he was aching to know how Marcus had gone down.

‘It went well, of course,' said Madame Sousatzka. ‘But
why ask? It only goes well. A good orchestra, too.'

‘Yes, you should have heard them,' Marcus chimed in enthusiastically. For a moment he'd forgotten all about the concert. He felt that it was already over.

‘We will,' said Uncle, reminding him.

‘Yes,' he said thoughtfully, ‘but I mean, all on top of you. So close. And to be playing with them. Once it starts, it's a wonderful feeling. It's just that walk from the end of the platform to the piano. You walk, and walk, and you don't seem to cover any space. That's terrible.'

‘It'll be different tonight with an audience,' said Cordle. ‘Have a sandwich.' He wanted to put Marcus at his ease. ‘Don't look at the piano while you're walking. Look at the orchestra, or your feet, or look at the conductor and smile if you can, and the piano will seem to come to you.'

Even the thought of the walk made Marcus tremble. He decided to practise it. If he opened the door of the studio, and walked from the first floor down the stairs through the hall to the piano, it was about the same distance. He told Madame Sousatzka he was going to practise a little, and he ran upstairs to the first landing. He tried to imagine himself behind the green curtain that cut off the platform from back-stage. He counted three and imagined the curtains drawn back. He looked at the banks of flowers on the banisters and nodded to the back-desk of the violins at the bottom of the stairs. He tip-toed on the black and white tiles of the hall floor through the violin desks, and reached the leader of the orchestra at the studio door. He stretched out his hand to take the conductor's who reached out to him from the piano. Then he sat down. ‘Well, that was no trouble,' he thought, but he realized that all he had done was to walk from the first landing to the studio. He banged his elbows in a fury on the keyboard and rested his head on his hands in a solid agony of nervousness.

Madame Sousatzka came rushing to the studio on hearing the noise. ‘What is it, my darrlink?' she said, going up to him.

Marcus didn't lift his head. ‘I wish it were all over,' he said. ‘I wish I'd never learnt the piano. Why can't you
leave me alone?' he shouted at her suddenly, the tears streaming down his face.

‘You have the talent,' Madame Sousatzka said quietly. ‘A gift you have. From God you have a gift. And a gift is a responsibility. You have not to worry. I know you have not to worry. D'you hear me?' she said, her voice a little louder. ‘I know you play well, and when Sousatzka knows, she is right. Sousatzka has never been so sure. Never in her life. She knows it plays well,' she thundered at him. His nervousness had infected her. ‘For nearly a year you come here,' she pleaded with him, ‘every week Sousatzka give you the heart, the soul, the life even, to bring the music out. I should leave him alone,' she whimpered, suddenly quiet, ‘I should leave him to his school, his arithmetic, his geography, he should grow up a fine man, in the advertising perhaps, an executive even like Manders he could have been,' she spat out. ‘A man in the middle, a dealer,' she hissed. ‘I should leave him alone. I should myself play. I should be in the Festival Hall. Nobody gave me the life, the soul, the music. Sousatzka gave you everything, my darrlink,' she broke down, the tears running down her cheeks. Marcus daren't look at her. He felt her hand on his head. ‘No, I shouldn't be in Festival Hall,' she said gently. ‘You are playing there for me, and it will play for you, like it would play for me. Tonight we will listen together. Don't practise any more, my darrlink. Sousatzka knows you are ready.' She knew she would have to admit it sooner or later. She also knew that as far as Marcus was concerned, the admission was now too late.

‘I'll never be ready,' he said.

When Marcus was dressed, he sat at the piano in the studio, staring at the keys, not daring to touch them. He heard a rapping on the glass panel of the front door. He knew it must be his mother, and he felt suddenly excited that she was there. Then he wondered what she was rapping the glass with, and the fear that it might be her shopping-bag took the edge off his excitement. Grateful for something to do, he ran to the door.

Mrs Crominski stood there shyly, trying to stifle a smile
that threatened to dissolve into hysteria. She was fidgeting with the metal clasp of her new handbag, which she had obviously used as a knocker. Marcus looked all around her and found no sign of the shopping-bag. Having ascertained that it wasn't with her, he was able to look at her properly.

She waited for him to say something about her hat, but he was silent. She no longer wanted him to comment on it. ‘So wonderful you look,' she said. ‘Your poor father should only see you.' She slid her little finger underneath her veil to wipe away a tear.

Marcus was staring at her hat. It was brown. Undeniably. So was her coat. A new coat, but brown all the same. He knew that if he looked at her feet, they would be brown too.

‘You like it?' she said timidly, pointing nervously at her hat.

He put his arm round her and brought her inside. ‘Let me look at you,' he said.

Mrs Crominski couldn't bear it. ‘What's to look?' she said. ‘You like or you don't like.'

‘I like,' he laughed. It was the veil on her hat, and the silk stockings, that had conquered his objections to the colour. Veils and silks belonged to Jenny's world, and Uncle's and Madame Sousatzka's. His mother had qualified for membership. He felt suddenly free. ‘Madame Sousatzka,' he called, ‘Momma's here.'

He took her into the studio, confident that her membership would be a permanent one. But as he watched her sitting in the chair, awkward, not knowing where to put her new shoes, hotly blowing at her veil, unaccustomed to her trappings, he knew that she was dressed up for the part, and that when the play was over she would be just brown again.

She opened her bag and brought a small packet wrapped in tissue-paper. ‘Marcus,' she said, ‘your father gave me this. I should give it to you, he said, when you're grown-up. Tonight I give it to you. I want tonight Poppa should be with you.' She opened the packet and brought out a plain gold watch. As she put it on Marcus's wrist, he winced with the pain of loving her. He longed for some sign of the old
brown woman, the woman who embarrassed him, who shamed him, who wrung out in him all the twisted feelings he had learned to accommodate. ‘Something also I brought for you to eat at the concert,' she said. ‘Perhaps you should be hungry.'

Gratefully, he tore open the second parcel. Three scraped raw carrots. Vegetables, vegetables, vegetables. With a great sense of relief, he was back in battle.

They all went to the concert together. Mrs Crominski and Madame Sousatzka took Marcus back-stage, and left him in the artist's room to the half-full jug of water, the dusty upright piano and a new suit-full of tremblings. He looked down at his knees jutting out from under the hem of his short black trousers. He caught sight of the black silk bow on his patent shoes, and he felt sick. He could only imagine what he looked like, because he'd avoided looking at himself in the mirror. Manders had bought him this suit. It had no doubt gone down on his expense sheet for publicity. Marcus felt hired in it, and he resolved never to wear it again. He wandered over to the table and poured himself a glass of water, because he felt it was expected of him. The water made him sweat even more. There was a telephone on the window-sill and Marcus wondered why it was necessary in the artist's room. He picked up the receiver, but it was dead. He sat down limply in the chair and waited. He could hear members of the orchestra tuning up in the corridor outside. He heard one of them laugh, and he was convinced that they were laughing at him. Someone blew a long shrill note on a clarinet, and Marcus thought of the football match he'd been allowed to watch when his school was playing a visiting team. He loved football, but of course, with his handicap, he couldn't play. He might injure a finger, his mother told the headmaster. He'd be taking a risk with tennis too, and cricket. He could swim, of course. After all, the headmaster had said, the little chap's got to have exercise. He remembered the school swimming gala. Being the fastest of the swimmers, he was chosen to swim last in the relay race. The last swimmer of the opposing team had already taken off, meeting their own
third swimmer half-way down the pool. Marcus clung to the marble edge with his toes, his arms curved outwards, ready for the dive. When the third swimmer touched the bar, Marcus plunged into the water. His opponent had already completed three-quarters of the length. They began to shout his name from the stands, dividing the two syllables like two tom-toms beating him along the pool. The black and rubber head of his opponent seemed to be bobbing towards him, and suddenly, driven by the beat of his name, he knew he was going to win. It seemed he wasn't swimming any more. He was moving his arms and legs, but something had taken over, and he only came back into his body as he touched the rail a few seconds before his opponent. ‘It swam well,' Marcus thought to himself. ‘Perhaps I am ready.'