Madame Sousatzka (8 page)

Jenny casually looked inside the cup whilst taking a pair of spectacles out of her bag. Marcus had never seen Jenny in glasses before. She looked quite a different person in them, and what with the ‘phone call, the tea-reading, and now the glasses, Marcus felt Jenny more and more a stranger.

He looked quickly around the room for something that was familiar to him. The crumpet plate was empty, the nail varnish had somehow vanished. He looked back at Jenny and the frown folded underneath her glasses removed her once more from him. He soon had the unaccountable feeling that if she was a stranger to him, then perhaps he wasn't Marcus any more. He quickly looked at the palm of his right hand where it joined the wrist and recognized in the middle the small brown birthmark. Reassured, he stretched out his hand and snatched the glasses from Jenny's face. She seemed not to notice their removal and continued to stare fixedly into the cup.

‘It's her,' she screamed suddenly, ‘it's Sousatzka. It's her. I could tell her anywhere.'

‘How can you see her without your glasses?' Marcus asked, waving them in the air.

‘You don't need glasses for a vision,' Jenny said, half
to herself. ‘She's there. I can see her. Though there are thousands of people around her. Hundreds and hundreds of people. And they're trying to make her move away, because she's hiding something. They're angry,' Jenny had begun to pant with excitement. ‘Move Sousatzka,' she shouted, ‘Move. Oh no. Don't. Please,' she stuttered.

‘Don't what?' Marcus whispered, caught up in her excitement. ‘What's she doing now?'

‘Yes,' Jenny went on breathlessly, ‘good heavens, it can't be. It is, I can see him,' she went on, rather like an engrossed radio commentator forgetful of his audience.

‘Who can you see?' Marcus pleaded with her. ‘What's going on?'

‘Nothing,' Jenny said, suddenly relaxing in her chair and breathing calmly as if at last exorcised. ‘Nothing. Just a crowd of people like I said, and Madame Sousatzka in the middle.'

‘Was it at my concert?' Marcus asked eagerly.

‘Maybe it was,' Jenny was startled, suddenly understanding the meaning of the vision. ‘Marcus,' she said, leaning forward, ‘how long are you going to go on learning with Madame Sousatzka?'

The ‘phone rang and Jenny jumped up from her chair. ‘I'm going,' Marcus said. This wasn't a regular Friday night at all. ‘I'll go and play draughts downstairs.'

Jenny quickly put her hand on his shoulder. Though she was anxious to answer the ‘phone, she was more anxious that Marcus should stay with her. Holding him with one hand, she unhooked the receiver with the other.

‘Hullo?' she questioned. There was no answer. ‘Hullo,' she said, again and again, angrily at first, and finally with relief. ‘You see,' she said, putting the receiver down, ‘There's no-one there. They must have got the wrong number.'

Marcus sat down again, though he wasn't happy with Jenny any more. And why were they all on about Madame Sousatzka all of a sudden? Mr Cordle with his labels, and now Jenny with her vision. He didn't want them to talk about her any more.

‘I won the two hundred yards breast stroke on Monday,' he said.

‘Did you, love?' Jenny was genuinely pleased. ‘Did you get a medal or something?'

‘I got a cup. Maybe I can whip it out of school and bring it to you next Friday. Would you like to see it?'

‘Yes, I'd love to see it. You can have your tea out of it, and I'll read your tea-leaves,' she laughed.

‘Jenny,' Marcus leaned towards her, ‘about those things you saw in my cup. Are they true, I mean, has anything ever come true, what you've read, I mean?'

‘Course it does. You haven't got any faith. Cordle's mother died, didn't she? I read it in his cups three weeks before it happened and he didn't even know she was ill. Then a friend of mine went on holiday and her husband was drowned. I could have told her that before she went. I saw it in his cup.'

‘Didn't you tell him?'

‘No, of course not,' said Jenny. ‘You can't go against fate. If it's in the cups, it'll happen, and there's nothing anyone can do about it.'

‘Don't you ever read anything happy in cups?'

‘I read your concert, didn't I? That's happy, isn't it?'

‘But it wasn't happy for Sousatzka. You know it wasn't.'

Jenny didn't answer. Absentmindedly, she blew on her finger-nails to dry them.

‘Shall I wash up for you, Jenny?' Marcus said, getting up. He always washed up for her on a Friday.

‘No,' Jenny shouted, almost falling out of her seat as she stopped him taking the cups away. ‘I'll do it myself later,' she said quietly. Marcus sat down again and they said nothing to each other.

‘I think I'll go down and have a game of draughts,' he said after a while, not able to bear the silence any longer. He was hurt but not surprised that Jenny made no move to keep him.

Marcus walked down the stairs dejectedly. On the top flight leading from Jenny's room the banister was of wrought iron with unadorned metal supports. He took a pencil out of his pocket and strummed it along the rails. He
felt lonely and the noise comforted him. As he neared Mr Cordle's room on the second landing, he put the pencil away and tip-toed past his door on to the stairs. From here onwards, the stairway became more respectable. It was encased with hardwood and Marcus had to walk silently and alone.

Madame Sousatzka was fumbling with the telephone on the first landing. In all her years as a box hirer, she had never understood the vital difference between Button A and Button B. She was shouting frantically to an unhearing recipient while the pennies dribbled back into the hole. Suddenly she caught sight of them. ‘Oh, I'm sorry,' she said to no one in particular, and she reinserted them. As each penny dropped, Madame Sousatzka counted hastily, repeating the number she was going to dial between each penny. Marcus watched her turn the dial with a red pencil.

‘Hullo,' she shrieked after a while. ‘Now I've got you,' her tone of voice seemed to say triumphantly. She pressed Button B. The pennies wearily stuttered down the slot and Madame Sousatzka wearily picked them out again. ‘I'm sorry,' she mumbled, and Marcus turned to go downstairs.

As he reached the hall floor, he saw the shadow of a man climbing the front steps, and scrutinizing the names of the bells on the side of the door. Not that it would have helped him. None of the bells worked, neither was there a knocker on the door. Only those in the know could gain access to 132 Vauxhall Mansions, by heaving one shoulder on to the front door. Even Madame Sousatzka used to do it when she'd forgotten her keys, and on entering she would shove the door with her other shoulder to even out the pain.

Marcus watched the man press on the bells, and he sat on the bottom stair, listening to the silence in the house. The man pressed again after a few minutes and stepped back a little to look up at the front windows. He pressed for a third time, leaning his ear against the glass panel.

Marcus smiled. He felt the man had been patient enough to deserve an entry. He turned the metal knob of the door and pulled, but the door had for so long been used to rough treatment that it refused to respond to any conventional handling. ‘Push,' Marcus shouted through the hole that
had once been a letter-box. Marcus stood back while the visitor pushed. And in a second they were facing each other in the hall.

‘Hullo, hullo,' screamed Madame Sousatzka again from upstairs. There was a silence and Marcus heard the familiar sound of falling pennies. Marcus stepped behind the visitor and shut the door. With Madame Sousatzka upstairs, and he alone on the hall floor, he felt a sense of authority.

‘What do you want?' he asked the man.

‘Jenny?' the man asked. He had obviously never been to the house before and he was a bit nervous about coming at all.

‘Jenny who?' said Marcus jealously. Although his evening had been a failure, he still felt that being a Friday, Jenny belonged to him.

‘I don't know,' the man said simply. ‘Just Jenny.'

Marcus realised for the first time that, after almost a year, he didn't know Jenny's second name either.

‘You must be Marcus,' the man said, trying to establish a better right of entry. ‘Jenny's told me about you.'

‘What did she say?' Marcus said eagerly. He loved Jenny suddenly for having told strangers about him.

‘She told me that I must hear you play, and that if I think well of you, I must get you a concert.'

‘Hullo, Marion darrlink,' Madame Sousatzka was triumphant on the first landing.

Marcus looked around. Once Madame Sousatzka had managed to get through, she'd be on the ‘phone for ages. ‘Who are you?' Marcus whispered like a conspirator.

The man bent down and whispered in Marcus's ear. ‘Felix Manders.'

It was a name that to Marcus was a legend. All the great artists depended on his name for their concerts. In Marcus's mind, he owned all the concert halls of the world. Somehow, he'd never imagined him as a man at all, dressed as he was in a dark grey suit with a red carnation in his lapel; nor smiling, as he smiled at Marcus then, modestly and self-effacingly. He had never worn a suit or a smile. He was always a shadow behind a performer, sometimes on a
pianist's shoulder or on a ‘cellist's lap. Marcus wanted to run to the stairs and shout, ‘Madame Sousatzka, come down at once. Felix Manders is here. Felix Manders has come to Vauxhall Mansions.' But for some reason or other, he wanted to keep the secret between them. ‘Mr Manders,' he whispered, ‘come inside. I'll play for you now.'

But auditioning was obviously not the object of Manders's visit and he was impatient to go upstairs and see Jenny. ‘Another time,' he said kindly, ‘I'll make an arrangement.'

‘No,' Marcus pulled him by the sleeve. ‘I'll play to you now. I'll play you the study I'm learning. Please listen.' He was dragging Mr Manders into Madame Sousatzka's room. ‘Sit down,' he said, almost pushing him into the great armchair behind the piano. ‘It won't take long. Then I'll take you up to Jenny.'

Mr Manders was clearly embarrassed. He found himself in a very awkward position. He'd been caught and was the subject of very gentle if unconscious blackmail. ‘All right,' he said, ‘just the study.'

‘I will listen, you will listen, and it will play,' Marcus said. Saying this was another way of crossing his fingers for luck. He pressed into the opening chord. It was probably the first time in his career as an impresario that Mr Manders had been offered a study as a selling point. Not that it mattered except conventionally so. Mr Manders couldn't have told Czerny from Chopin. He had built up his business, like many commercial patrons of the arts, on the maxim, ‘I don't know anything about music but I know what I like'. And strangely enough, what pleased Mr Manders very often turned out to be what an undiscriminating public liked, and he was always careful to dress up his product with a gimmick or two.

He had one famous pianist on his books who played from a deck-chair. One of his singers sang with her hands on her head ‘to keep the sounds from soaring', she had said, ‘beyond my control'. She went down awfully well, especially in the provinces. But his greatest catch of all was his lady ‘cellist, who, for her audition, had played side-saddle. He'd got her a lot of work, mainly recitals, because she was not
too popular with orchestras. The rank and file of the ‘cello section, most of whom could play her off her saddle, looked upon her as a traitor. But she made a good living, and Manders his commission.

He looked at Marcus and wondered what he could make of him. His playing sounded brilliant enough. He was especially impressed by the scale and arpeggio passages, above all when they were fortissimo. Quiet playing didn't interest him. He wanted fireworks and display. The boy had talent; anyone could see that, but it took a man like Manders to visualise him in short velvet pants passing, as he quite easily could, for nine years old. He began to concoct phrases for his press hand-out. ‘An ordinary, simple boy. Plays cricket for his school. A good swimmer. Loves his mother. Mischievous like any other ordinary little boy.' (Find examples from
Schoolboy Adventure
here.) ‘Heard the great Paderewski by accident from his cradle, and determined from that moment to play the piano. Was playing before he was crawling. His technique is terrifying.' (Good word.) ‘The problem of parents faced with a genius as a son.' (A natural for the Sundays.) Letters to the Editor. ‘My Joe could read when he was three months old. Can any reader beat that?' There was no end to it. Besides, Mr Manders could do with a prodigy. His present one was nearing twenty and was getting more and more difficult to push. Although he looked younger, his voice had broken years ago, and he was obliged to keep his mouth shut at interviews while Manders talked for him. His legs were hairy, too, and they looked a bit silly beneath those short velvet trousers. No. As long as you could push a prodigy, it was good business. Mr Manders made his decision immediately. ‘Come and see me,' he said aloud, although the study that Marcus was playing was not yet finished. ‘I think I can help you.'

Marcus didn't hear. He didn't even notice Mr Manders stand up. He didn't hear the door open, or even feel Madame Sousatzka standing behind him. She waited for the end of the study.

‘Manders,' she said, addressing him as if he were a recently articled clerk, ‘What are you doing here?'

Madame Sousatzka had never met Manders, but she knew his face well. It was a face known to thousands of concert-goers. It appeared in the auditorium a few minutes before a concert was about to begin and it sat on a gangway seat, fitted with hearing aids and reserved for the deaf. It took a last look around with satisfaction, and usually closed its eyes until the interval. ‘What are you doing in my room?' she asked again.