The Voices (6 page)

‘I thought she was having a fit or something.’

The doctor drew his head back sharply and adopted an expression that declared his amusement and incredulity. ‘No. I think not.’

‘Then what was it? What happened?’

‘A little
absence,
that’s all.’

‘An absence?’

The doctor’s eyebrows drew closer together. ‘Mrs Norton,’ he continued with weary forbearance, ‘I could refer your daughter to a specialist, but it would serve no purpose, save, perhaps, that of easing
your
anxiety.’ Laura felt a creeping sense of shame. Yet again she had wasted his time. The hiatus that followed made her feel uncomfortably exposed. She was desperate for the doctor to say something else, to end the silence and, with it, her humiliation; however, he remained impassive and she was forced to mutter, ‘Yes, yes. I’m sorry.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘Oh, good heavens, Mrs Norton, please. You’ve no need to apologize. Motherhood is a demanding occupation.’ He stood up and extended his hand. ‘Your daughter’s fine.’

Mid-May

Christopher was so engrossed in his work that he’d lost track of time. It was probably two o’clock in the morning, or thereabouts. He could only estimate the hour because he’d left his wristwatch on the kitchen table. Christopher liked working late – the absence of distraction. It reminded him of his years spent at the BBC when he would stay behind to use the equipment for his own compositions and musical experiments. He felt a twinge of sadness, a nostalgic yearning for his younger days – the solitude and cigarettes, the sleepless nights and grey, autumn mornings. Just before sunrise, he would leave the BBC studios in Maida Vale and walk up and down Elgin Avenue. There was usually no one about, apart from the occasional prostitute dressed in a raincoat and high heels. Of course, there was something contrived about his behaviour. Even then he knew that he was adopting an attitude, a posture, but the romance of it all was so very seductive, and the excitement of being part of something entirely new was a powerful drug. The fact that he was
able to create music from sounds that had never before been heard by the human ear was, as far as he was concerned, utterly miraculous.

The music coming through the headphones dispelled Christopher’s reminiscences and brought him firmly back into the present. His ‘score’ was marked with circular coffee stains and looked more architectural than musical. The system of notation he employed was a haphazard combination of borrowed symbols and his own idiosyncratic shorthand – angled lines, filled-in oblongs and a range of invented hieroglyphs. When a melodic fragment did appear it was accompanied by a general indication of the desired effect:
reed, carillon, theremin.

Pitches fell at different rates, their descent finding chance harmonies that quickly dissolved again into discord. A throbbing bass note, deeper than the lowest church organ pedal, provided a fundamental that helped the listener to appreciate these moments of transparency. The music suggested slow disintegration and reminded Christopher of a painting by Salvador Dalí showing a landscape draped in wilting clock faces. It was a beguiling sound and Christopher was pleased with what he had accomplished, but at the same time he regretted that this artful composition would be largely wasted on an audience whose attention, at this particular juncture in
the film, would be wholly directed at the screen and an action sequence involving a perilous escape from an exploding space station. He imagined teenage boys sitting in half-empty cinemas, their eyes flickering in the darkness, their hands transferring popcorn from big cardboard buckets into their wide-open mouths.

Christopher had been finding that he was increasingly envious of those Oxford peers of his who had continued to compose serious music. When their pieces were praised by critics in the broadsheets he felt strangely desolate. He had begun to think much more about posterity. In the past he had accepted his loss of ‘reputation’ with stoic indifference. It would have been churlish to complain as he had been amply compensated. His association with the film industry had allowed him to enjoy London throughout its decade of swinging pre-eminence. But now that his fiftieth birthday was only a few years away, things had changed. The world was a gloomier place and getting lucrative commissions wasn’t quite so easy. These days, he found it harder to be ‘philosophical’ and his expulsion from the ranks of the avant-garde rankled.

Christopher had become so preoccupied that when the music faded he forgot to turn the tape machine off. The reels turned and the headphones hissed. He had followed
his train of thought as he might a clue in a labyrinth, and he had discovered hitherto unsuspected dead ends of bitterness and envy. A noise roused him. He had been too self-obsessed to do much more than register that an event had occurred; however, a disquieting after-impression lingered. What had he heard, exactly? It had been buried in the tape hiss, a rhythmic inflection, something that, by rights, shouldn’t really have been there.

He rewound the tape and watched the digits on the counter revolving backwards. After a few moments he pressed ‘stop’ and ‘play’ and turned up the volume. The hiss in the headphones sounded like a cataract. Christopher listened, and then he started when he heard a voice speaking over the roar. Even though it was loud, he couldn’t make out what was being said. He tried again. This time, he was able to determine the gender of the speaker, a woman with an unusually deep voice, and she was speaking in German.

Christopher replayed the phrase several times and found that with each repetition he was able to hear what was being said a little better.

‘Wie heilig für uns Toten.’

Christopher’s German was good enough to translate what she was saying:
How sacred for us dead.

It sounded like a fragment of something larger, an
excerpt from a sermon or poem. Was there any more? He let the tape run on. After five or six seconds of tape hiss, the deep, female voice returned.
‘Lange sollen diese Mauern Zeuge unserer Arbeit sein.’
Once again, Christopher had to replay the phrase several times before he was able to translate it:
Long shall these walls be witness to our work.
After another short interval, Christopher heard a man’s voice – much clearer than the woman’s – saying,
‘Die Sonne sinkt.’ The sun is sinking.
Nothing else followed.

Christopher spoke out loud the phrases he had listened to: ‘How sacred for us dead . . . Long shall these walls be witness to our work . . . The sun is sinking.’

He did not puzzle over the significance of these cryptic utterances, but rather he wondered how it was that two voices (and two German voices at that) had come to appear on what should have been a completely blank part of the tape.

Christopher and Laura were sitting at their dining-room table with their guests, Simon and Amanda Ogilvy. The starter course had already been served – an Alsatian fondue made from Munster cheese – along with a flowery Riesling. It was a tricky operation, spearing the pieces of wholemeal bread, rotating the skewers in the molten
cheese, and preventing any excess from dribbling onto the tablecloth, but frequent practice had made them all expert. Candles flickered, joss sticks burned and an unobtrusive Mozart string quartet played in the background.

After the fondue, Christopher went to the kitchen and returned with a wide earthenware pot brimming with spaghetti bolognese. The Mozart quartet had come to an end but the ‘automatic arm’ on the turntable hadn’t lifted. A regular, muffled pulse was coming through the speakers. Christopher told his guests to help themselves and went to change the record. He replaced Mozart with Bach: Glenn Gould playing the two- and three-part inventions. Simon was talking about a programme he had heard on the radio in which several politicians had been attempting to predict the outcome of the current economic crisis. As Christopher sat down, his friend said, ‘We’ve been living well beyond our means and we can’t go on like this.’

‘What if the money does run out?’ asked Laura innocently. ‘What will happen? I mean, I know this sounds selfish, but how will it affect people like us?’

‘I don’t know,’ Simon replied. ‘You hear different things. The Americans already think we’re a Third World country. Shanty towns on the heath – it isn’t inconceivable – no food in the shops. God knows. The real issue, of course, is whether democracy can survive if things get
any worse. There are a lot of people out there,’ he said, pointing at the window, inviting his companions to imagine an unthinking multitude beyond the glass, ‘who want somebody strong to take over and sort it all out.’

‘We’re not going down that road,’ said Christopher. ‘I don’t think our military have the stomach for it. If they had, they would have acted by now. No.’ He twisted his fork into the mountain of spaghetti and minced beef piled on his plate. ‘It isn’t going to happen, whatever the scaremongers say.’

‘Who would want a dictatorship?’ asked Laura. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

‘David Bowie,’ Amanda replied.

Christopher stopped eating. ‘What?’

‘He said some very odd things last year,’ Amanda continued, ‘about wanting the army to take over.’

‘Jesus,’ Christopher growled. ‘What was he thinking?’

‘It just goes to show how frustrated people are,’ said Simon. ‘A sign of the times.’

‘My students found his position very confusing,’ Amanda continued. ‘You know, for a man who used to wear make-up and a quilted body stocking.’

‘Who cares what David Bowie thinks?’ said Christopher, more vehemently than he had intended.

‘He’s very influential,’ Amanda replied.

‘He’s a pop singer,’ said Christopher, enunciating the word ‘pop’ with scornful emphasis.

‘Yes. But people like him matter now,’ said Amanda. Then, turning to Laura, she said, ‘Are we speaking too loudly?’

Laura indicated the baby monitor. ‘We’d know if there was a problem. I think she’ll sleep through.’

‘What time will she wake up?’

‘Six if we’re lucky.’

‘Christ.’

Simon was still thinking about the economy. ‘The unions demand more money, profits go down, and the cost of goods goes up. I hope to God Callaghan doesn’t repeat Wilson’s mistakes.’

In due course, the table was cleared, and Laura retreated to the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned pushing a trolley, on top of which was a Black Forest gateau. ‘I took it out of the freezer an hour ago. I hope it’s properly defrosted.’ She cut the cake into thick slices and circulated the plates. Addressing Simon, she said, ‘I understand you’re having something performed at the proms this year.’

‘Not in the Albert Hall, though. They’re putting all us
living
composers in the Roundhouse. I know it’s petty, but
I’m a bit irritated by their decision. When you get a prom, you expect the Albert Hall, not a train shed.’

Laura took her place at the table. ‘Is it a new piece?’

‘Nyx,’
said Simon, ‘for chamber orchestra and tape.’

‘Nyx?’
Laura repeated.

‘Night,’ said Amanda. ‘In Greek myth, she was one of the earliest deities, the daughter of Chaos.’

Simon smiled at his wife. ‘Amanda suggested the title.’

Christopher asked his friend some questions about the new work and their talk soon became more technical and exclusive. Laura and Amanda lost interest and began a conversation of their own. By the time coffee was being served, the women were speaking in low, confidential tones about a common acquaintance, and Christopher inferred that it was acceptable to invite Simon upstairs to the studio. ‘I’d like you to hear something,’ he said.

It was not uncommon for the men and women to separate at this point in the evening. Consequently, Laura and Amanda barely acknowledged their husbands’ departure. The two friends climbed the stairs, but on the way up Christopher entered the nursery to check on Faye. He could smell her – a curious blend of animal fragrances and talcum powder. Christopher looked through the bars of the cot. Faye had her eyes closed and was sucking her
thumb in her sleep. She had kicked off her blanket but Christopher didn’t bother covering her again. The room was warm and slightly stuffy, even though the upper sash window had been left open a fraction to let in fresh air.

‘She’s very beautiful,’ whispered Simon.

Christopher nodded. ‘Like her mother.’ They tiptoed out of the room and continued their ascent.

In the studio, Christopher played his friend the music he had composed to accompany the escape sequence in
Android Insurrection.
Simon stood listening, clasping his chin, his brow furrowed with concentration. The pitches began to descend and his expression showed surprise when the notes suddenly constellated to produce recognizable harmonies.

‘That’s rather good,’ said Simon. ‘Quite unexpected.’

Christopher felt a sense of relief. He wanted Simon’s approval.

A decade earlier, Simon had been struggling to get commissions. He had been living in a cramped, rather shabby hovel overlooking the bleak scrubland of Wanstead Flats. At that time, Christopher was doing exceptionally well – parties, fast cars, women. Back then, he didn’t care what Simon thought. Now that Simon’s music was being performed by the world’s leading orchestras, Christopher cared very much. The two men
seemed to have gone through a reversal of fortunes. Or, at least, that was how Christopher perceived the situation. He played Simon a few more pieces, although none had the same effect as the first, and Christopher’s sense of accomplishment gradually ebbed away. Moreover, he found himself feeling slightly resentful towards his friend. Simon could have been a little more fulsome, he thought, less reserved in his praise. Christopher maintained a show of conviviality, and later, when Simon and Amanda were leaving, he shook Simon’s hand and wished him well.

‘Let’s leave the washing-up,’ said Christopher.

‘I don’t mind doing it,’ said Laura.

Christopher dismissed her offer. ‘I’ll help tomorrow morning.’

Laura went to collect the baby monitor and when she returned, she switched off the ground-floor lights and they went straight to bed.