Madame Sousatzka (9 page)

‘He came to see Jenny,' Marcus said, ‘and when he told me who he was, I said I'd play to him.'

Mr Manders heartily wished he'd never set foot in the house. His relationship with Jenny was strictly a clandestine one. He'd only come because he was going away and he wanted to see her before he left. He wanted to take Madame Sousatzka into his confidence, but the boy was in the way.

‘Jenny?' Madame Sousatzka enquired. This was a new one on her. She thought she knew all Jenny's clients. ‘Jenny?' she repeated, suddenly realising the opportunities of the situation.

‘That's right,' Mr Manders confessed weakly.

‘You come to give Jenny an audition?'

‘In what?' Marcus asked.

‘You run off, my darrlink,' Madame Sousatzka told him. ‘I want a little talk with Mr Manders.' Manders was trapped and he knew it. He smiled at Marcus as the boy left the room.

‘Shall I tell Jenny you're here, Mr Manders?' he asked.

‘No, that's all right. I'll see her later.'

Marcus shut the door. Manders took out his pen and tapped it on his fingers. He tried to assume the authority he felt in his agent's office, but it was difficult standing up. He could hardly take a seat with Madame Sousatzka standing over him. But she sat down, on the piano stool, which Marcus had twiddled to its highest level. Perched high on the seat, she motioned Manders to sit down. He sat on the low armchair opposite her. He felt he was almost sitting on the floor. Madame Sousatzka stared at him without saying a word. Her right hand felt the piano keys, and as she stared at him she casually played a scale. She paused as she
reached the top, and then as casually came down again. Then, staring hard at him, she struck the tonic chord. ‘He's not ready,' she said.

‘But of course the boy's ready, Madame Sousatzka.' Manders leaned forward as far as was anatomically possible on his low seat. He was smiling and relieved that Madame Sousatzka didn't want to talk to him about Jenny. ‘He's more than ready. If he doesn't come out now, he'll grow stale. Why don't we launch him while he's still young?'

‘We?' asked Madame Sousatzka. ‘He's still my pupil. He still has much to learn.'

‘Rubinstein has a lot to learn,' Manders said, though he couldn't frankly say what. ‘So has Horowitz. So has … Well, all great artists have a lot to learn. But they learn by experience. And what experience can this boy get, if he doesn't concertise?'

‘Mr Manders,' Madame Sousatzka said, with great condescension, ‘to play the piano is not only to play the notes. You are a businessman. About music,' she waved her arm contemptuously, ‘you know nothing. Some people, they sell clothes; some other people, they sell furniture. You, you sell the artists. That is your business. You dress up the artist, so he sells very good. Only last week you had a black man playing the piano in the big hall. I heard him. He played the piano, Mr Manders, like I drive the train, and believe me, Mr Manders, I don't drive a train. But he's black. Very good. That's different. Now you want to take my boy, put him in little velvet trousers, take with him his special elevated pedal, put him in the Festival Hall, and make a lot of money. It doesn't matter if the boy cannot play well. Then, when he is older and he must wear the long trousers, you drop him. Perhaps he is playing even better by then the piano. But you say to him, “I'm sorry, they won't buy any more.” Then what? Answer me that, perhaps, Manders. Then what?' she repeated angrily.

‘If you've no wish to see the boy launched just yet, I agree with you, and I'm prepared to wait until you think he's ready.' Mr Manders did not want at that moment to fall into Madame Sousatzka's bad books. What with the
Jenny business, there was too much at stake. He had to keep in with her. ‘Of course, you know more about music than I do,' he flattered her.

‘That I am hoping,' she said, ‘That at least I am hoping.'

Mr Manders laughed feebly.

‘You can go to Jenny now,' she said, ‘and leave the boy alone.'

‘Of course, of course, Madame Sousatzka,' he answered. He got up and leaned over the piano. ‘It would be a little awkward,' he whispered, ‘in my profession, you know, if it were to get around about, well, you know, Jenny?'

‘Leave the boy alone,' was all Madame Sousatzka would give him. In return for her silence Manders was prepared to leave Marcus alone for ever. He felt he'd struck an easy bargain. ‘Not even when he's ready,' he laughed.

‘When he's ready,' she said, showing him the door, ‘he won't need an agent.'

When Manders had gone, Madame Sousatzka sat crumpled in the low armchair. She felt alone and frightened, like a self-appointed monarch who sees his realm crumble. And what's more, the enemy had struck at the capital. None of her other pupils had Marcus's gift. And apart from that, there was Marcus the boy. He was the son that Boris might have given her. He was the grandson, born to survive her parents. He was the continuation of a broken line, like the trail of a diced worm which renews itself with a simple inviolable faith. But she knew too that she would lose him; that he had never really belonged to her; that not all her love for him had given her the rights of possession. She had a sudden terrible longing for Boris. She opened the piano and began a quiet Russian love-song, singing it gently with his half-remembered words. Outside it was getting dark. A large van pulled up outside one of the houses in the square.

Madame Sousatzka went over to the window. Two men were carrying a mattress into the van, and another two followed with a kitchen table. Then a woman came out of the house carrying a flower vase and suitcase. She was followed by two small children who stopped to pick all the flowers out of the front garden. They all got into the van and the driver shut the doors. Then they drove off quietly.
The whole operation had taken about five minutes. Madame Sousatzka stared at the abandoned house. Each front room window was covered with net curtains, empty shrouds, a semblance of habitation. She was suddenly filled with hatred for the family that had stolen out of the square. She felt herself betrayed, and she closed the curtains quickly. She stared at the piano and at the study that Marcus had just played to Manders. ‘It's not fair,' she sobbed, and she sat on the elevated stool, perched high and moaning, like a stranded sea-gull.

When Marcus left Madame Sousatzka's room it occurred to him to stand outside the door and listen to their conversation. But he was too restless to stand still for very long. Mr Manders was going to help, him. He'd said he would. He had to tell somebody. His mother, he thought, and he was happy that he'd thought of her first. She would be ringing him up anyway, as she did every Friday night, but he couldn't wait for her to call. He would ring her himself. He ran upstairs to the ‘phone box.

‘Momma,' he said, as she answered.

‘Oh my God,' she screamed. ‘What happened? You had accident? I said no good would come of that woman.'

‘No, Momma,' Marcus said, instantly regretting that he had phoned her. After her remark about Madame Sousatzka, he even dallied with the idea of not telling her at all. ‘Everything's all right,' he said without enthusiasm. ‘It's just that I've got some news.'

‘So? What is it? Tell me.'

‘Guess,' Marcus teased her.

‘I should guess, he tells me. Listen Marcus, you tell me at once, or I shall scream,' she threatened him.

‘Momma,' he whispered, his excitement flooding back, ‘I'm going to give a concert.'

‘A concert? Where? What? How?'

And so Marcus told her all about Manders and how he'd played for him.

‘A concert,' Mrs Crominski said. ‘At last you're ready. What does she say, Madame Sousatzka?'

‘I think she's a bit angry. She's talking to Mr Manders now.'

‘Angry she should be?' Mrs Crominski was incredulous. ‘Ah,' it suddenly became clear to her. ‘Now I understand. Now everything I understand. I'm coming,' she said decisively.
‘Yes, I'm coming,' she said, anticipating his objections. ‘I'll get my hat.' She put the ‘phone down before Marcus could protest. He regretted having told her. He could see her pulling down her brown hat in front of the mirror. He knew she was thinking what a horrible hat it was. He knew she was pained that Marcus hated it. He wouldn't tell anyone she was coming. He would pretend he was surprised to see her. He tried not to think about it.

He wanted to talk about Manders to someone else. Jenny? There wouldn't be much time with her. Manders was going up. And what did Mr Manders want with Jenny anyway? Mr Cordle? The memory of the labels was too fresh in Marcus's mind. Old Cordle would go on about it again. There was Uncle. He'd go downstairs to her.

By the time you reached Uncle's apartment, the stairway had given way to concrete. It was impossible ever to surprise the Countess. She had fourteen stone steps to count before you arrived, and even if you managed to muffle them all, you still had to negotiate the area of cracked lino in front of her door. Uncle would have heard a fly land on that lino and she would call ‘Who's there?' long before you reached her door.

Marcus ran down the stone steps. ‘It's Marcus,' he called, anticipating her question, and saving her the trouble of opening her mouth.

She did not look up when Marcus came in. He stood in front of her breathless with excitement. He waited for her to ask him what had happened. But Uncle was especially tired today. A stomach upset had necessitated several journeys out of doors, and a raised eyebrow to Marcus was all that she could muster.

‘Mr Manders is upstairs,' he panted.

Another raised eyebrow.

‘You know, Mr Manders,' said Marcus, who was as familiar with her means of communication as he was with Mr Cordle's crazy terminology. ‘The impresario,' he went on. ‘I played to him.' Having exhausted her eyebrows Uncle opened her mouth, wide enough, she hoped, to express amazement.

‘Yes, honestly,' Marcus said, laughing. ‘He said he's
going to help me. I'm going to give a concert.' He put his arms on her shoulders and spun her chair round, disturbing the rhythm of her rocking. He knelt down in front of her. ‘I'm going to give a concert,' he said, slowly and deliberately, so that it would sink right inside the dirty Countess.

Poor Uncle didn't have a feature left with which she could ask all the questions she was dying to put to Marcus. And she spoke very quickly, as if she were short of time, rather like a car-driver who, seeing his petrol gauge veer to empty, accelerates. ‘Does Madame Sousatzka know?'

‘She was there. She heard me.'

‘She let you play?' Uncle was incredulous. So Marcus told her the whole story. ‘They're up there now, talking about me.'

‘More likely they're talking about Jenny.' And suddenly the Countess burst out laughing. Laughter was obviously what she conserved her energy for, because it was a violent laugh, young and full of strength.

‘What's the matter, Uncle, d'you think Madame Sousatzka won't let me? Will she stop me, Uncle, will she say I'm not ready?'

Uncle put her hand round his shoulders. Coming from her it was a generous gesture, and Marcus appreciated this unsolicited donation of her energy. Moreover, she bent forward and kissed him on his forehead. It was a field day for Uncle. No doubt she would spend a week recuperating.

‘It's all right, dear,' she said to him. ‘She'll come round. You'll see. I'll talk to her. You'll give your concert. And we'll all come. Cordle, Jenny, Sousatzka and me.' She paused for a well-deserved half-time. ‘I'll wear my tiara,' she laughed. ‘I'll tell everybody that I'm your week-end landlady. And after the concert, we'll have a grand party, and I'll dance with Cordle, and you'll dance with Jenny, and Madame Sousatzka will dance with … she'll dance with,' Uncle went on in mock seriousness, ‘She'll dance a quadrille with Mr Felix Manders.' And then Uncle did an unbelievable thing. She actually got up, lifted Marcus to his feet, and held out her hand gracefully for the dance. Marcus took the tips of her fingers and the Countess hummed a stately minuet. They managed to find an
uncluttered patch of floor to execute the dance, dictated by the Countess's humming and her obviously expert guidance. When the dance came to an end the Countess took an imaginary chiffon handkerchief from her wrist and, waving it sadly across her face like a flag at half-mast, she curtsied low to Marcus, who very seriously bowed in response.

And it was thus that Madame Sousatzka found them, when she came unnoticed into Uncle's room. She clapped her hands and the dancers turned round, astonished. Uncle managed to remember that first and foremost she must sit down, and she returned to her rocking-chair, leaving Marcus gaping at Madame Sousatzka in the doorway.

Her eyes were red and her fringe dishevelled. She stopped clapping and Marcus saw a crumpled white handkerchief in her fist.

‘What's the matter, Madame Sousatzka?' he said, going up to her. Madame Sousatzka stretched out her arms to him as he approached and held him closely to her. Then she began sobbing all over again, silently, without saying a word.

‘Come and sit down, dear,' the Countess said without turning her head. ‘Marcus, go to your room for a while. I'd like to talk to Madame Sousatzka. You can get out the draughts whilst you're waiting, and set the board. I'm white, don't forget,' she laughed, ‘Jenny says black's unlucky.'

Marcus went to his room, which adjoined Uncle's, and led directly from it. He shut the door behind him and sat trembling on his bed. The thought of eavesdropping this time did not enter his mind.

‘It's Manders, isn't it?' said Uncle, when Madame Sousatzka had sat down.

Madame Sousatzka nodded her head sadly. ‘Yes, it's him. I want to do what is right for the boy. You know that, Uncle. What is right for him.'