The Gradual

by Christopher Priest

  ‘Sorry, Msr Sussken. No problem. Believe me.’

  She stepped into the well of the sailing boat, climbed up to the rail then leapt gingerly across the narrow gap to the dinghy. She was holding her abacus in her hand, steadying herself with one arm as she landed in the dinghy. Renettia released the rope she was holding and the dinghy immediately began to drift away.

  I shouted to them, appealing to them not to do this. The dinghy had already half turned. Kan was sitting on the thwart immediately behind the other woman. She took up the spare oars. They began rowing, leaning over their oars, straining their arms and backs as they pulled away. Their inexperience with rowing was obvious – the oars frequently splashed and they barely moved forward. Although because their boat had turned away they were facing me, neither of them would look in my direction. They were heading in the approximate direction of Hakerline, but the tide was against them and their progress was slow. Most of the increasing distance between us was caused by my sailboat drifting on the same tide, towards Temmil.

  I was genuinely terrified of the predicament they had put me in. The immensity of the sea, its vast depth, the unlimited range of hazards it was likely to contain – all these frightened me. I sat down clumsily beside the tiller. The bulk of the yacht’s hull was before me – I could not easily see ahead. I stood up again, then leaned from side to side as far as I dared, glimpsing the coast of Temmil. The mainsail swung towards me with a change in the wind and I sat down again.

  I took up position beside the rudder and loosened the tie. I calmed myself with six deep breaths, a practice I had taken up in the days when I was performing or conducting and had to walk out to the platform in front of an audience. It was a technique that always helped me make sense of potentially complex situations.

  Now, six breaths later – the sea was calm, the wind was light, there were no other ships close by, several hours of daylight were ahead. No storm or violent gale seemed likely. I knew that the yacht was a simple design, that the sails were already hoisted and that Kan and Renettia had managed to bring it this far without much practice beforehand.

  A long gust of wind came at me and the boat reacted. It turned away from the island, leaning alarmingly to one side. I pushed the rudder against the direction of the wind. The boat responded at once, twisting back, bucking against the waves it met. It was still leaning over because of the wind but I had been aware of that while Renettia and Kan were sailing so I knew it was normal. The larger of the two sails filled with the wind, bulging out, and I could feel a continuous pressure from the rudder.

  I glanced back. The dinghy was still in sight, almost within shouting distance. The two women were rowing hard.

  I began to feel more confident. The weather was unlikely to change, the rigging of the sails was something I could not alter, but it seemed all right, or probably all right, and my destination was obviously not too far away.

  I remained tense and alert, though. I was constantly aware of possible dangers, but as I sailed inexorably closer to the island I could see houses and other buildings along the shore. I also saw the long, low arm of a harbour wall stretching out into the sea.

  My entry to the harbour turned out to be surprisingly straightforward, although not incident free. Once I had managed to turn the boat towards the harbour entrance I tried to see ahead to some sort of safe landing area, or somewhere not already crowded with other boats. I managed to pass the harbour wall with only one slight scrape and with part of the mainsail torn when it snagged on some kind of metal fitting that jutted from the end of the wall. After that the boat simply headed towards a part of the jetty where dozens of other boats were already tied up. It slid heavily against them. Someone on the quay noticed what was happening and he and two other men managed to grab the rail with a boat hook. They dragged me without further damage to a spare mooring.

  Embarrassed and flustered, but immensely relieved, I climbed ashore. As I stood on the concrete wharf, gladdened beyond words that I was on solid ground again, I knew my legs and arms were trembling and that sweat was pouring down my face, neck and chest.

  59

  I already knew that it was impossible to go ashore without having to submit to formalities in the Shelterate building. There was no hope of a quiet or unobserved arrival in Temmil Waterside – my erratic approach had been monitored almost from the moment the two adept women abandoned me. I learned that had I drifted into real danger the harbour guards would have launched a high-speed rescue boat. For a short while I was notorious and of course the Shelterate officials were interested in me.

  First I had to visit the harbourmaster’s office because I had not booked a mooring and my arrival was unscheduled. A mooring fee inevitably had to be found. After that I carried my luggage across to the Shelterate office. Because I was not a transit passenger I had to enter the island formally. The officials confirmed what I already knew: that I had landed in Temmil Waterside, capital of the island of the same name. A seignioral seal was affixed to my visa. They then searched my baggage and the familiar conversation ensued when they opened the case and found my violin. I offered them my stave – this time a paper slip was printed by the scanner and handed to me. The amber light shone from the machine, and without asking me the officer added another three hundred and sixty days to the stave’s memory.

  At the end I was made to sign a form of indemnity, declaring that I was immune from gradual anomaly. By this time I was so tired of the endless obsession with the vortex phenomenon that I signed without reading anything beyond the first couple of lines. A copy of my declaration was then stapled to the back of my visa and I was charged another ten simoleons.

  I walked out into the street.

  I did not feel like celebrating. I did not even feel a sense of completion now the long journey had ended. I simply felt tired.

  I walked into the town, barely looking about me. The place seemed quiet – that was not how I remembered it from before. I headed for the hotel where the orchestra had stayed. It was a large manorial building in its own parkland but when I located it at the top of the town the main gates were closed and chained. A sign warned me that twenty-four-hour security surveillance was in place. I could see that the windows of the main block were shuttered. I walked back down towards the quayside, went to the first hotel I saw. I was checking in with the receptionist when the manager emerged quickly from his office and announced in an annoyed voice that the hotel was full. I knew from the way he regarded me that I appeared too scruffy for his high-class establishment. I was weary, much in need of a bath and a change of clothes. I gave up without an argument and continued the search, eventually finding a small, over-priced pension near the harbour.

  By this time I was too tired to care about the expense. I checked in and paid for five nights in advance. I did not even notice the name of the place. I went to my room and was soon asleep.

  60

  The succession of long sea journeys had worn me out but after three days of lazing around in the town I was physically restored. I had caught up with sleep. I had adjusted to being on solid ground once more and I did not miss the shipboard life at all, so much a part of normal daily experience. All my clothes had been laundered by the hotel staff and I had bought some extra new ones. I was eating regularly and well, I had my thickly growing hair cut, I secured my finances by moving all my funds to a non-seignioral Waterside bank, and I had explored the town and much of the surrounding countryside.

  The first feelings of restlessness brought on by the impermanence of staying in a hotel were starting to matter, though, and Temmil Waterside itself began to reveal its limitations.

  Much had changed since my earlier visit. It was not just the loss of that large hotel where the tour party had stayed, but the hall where we had performed the great concluding concerts had also closed. It too was shuttered and locked, with security guards on patrol. I was escorted none too politely from the site. On the way out I noticed a large board had been erected by a property company, anno
uncing that the area had been acquired for redevelopment. A gated community of sixty-five retirement homes for select buyers was being planned. I was shocked by this but saddened too: the existence of a well equipped concert hall always acts as a focus for musical activity, drawing in young players and performers.

  Remembering what I had seen of Waterside’s café culture I went in search of the bars and restaurants I had briefly visited, where live music was played. In one place on the waterfront a string quartet had played most evenings of the week, and other bars in the same area featured guitarists, pianists or singers. As I walked around in the daytime it was difficult to see which of the places now would have facilities for music, but it was worse at night. Almost everywhere was closed after dark. Many of the smaller places I had seen on my first visit appeared to have been converted into fast food outlets.

  Because of the volcano dominating the island, Temmil had richly fertile soil and wildflowers grew in profusion. Wine was grown on the lower slopes of the Gronner, and the plains in the north of the island produced many different fruits and vegetables. I learned these facts from a seignioral pamphlet about the island.

  I was interested in the Gronner from the start, never having lived anywhere near an active volcano before. Waterside itself was on a distant, lower slope of the Gronner, but because the volcano was surrounded by several smaller hills there were only a few positions in the town from which it was possible to see the cone or whatever outflow there was. On the hotel’s television I discovered a local station which routinely carried data and pictures from the scientific stations set up to monitor the activity. Every night there was a news update about the state of the volcano: around the time I arrived it was said to be active but stable, with what the authorities described as Reduced Amber: in other words, not much probability of an eruption producing lava or ash. After I had been on the island about seven days this state was upgraded to Average Amber, but the likelihood remained low. There were occasional minor tremors in the ground but some of the local people I spoke to said these were normal. The worst known eruption had occurred more than a hundred years earlier. No one at all was concerned about the mountain and soon I too felt the same way.

  I realized that whatever I had thought of Temmil on my first visit, much had changed since. There were few signs of anything I would recognize as cultural activity. There was only one bookshop, for instance, and their stock was to me unadventurous and dull. There were two galleries near the waterfront, but although they both claimed to support local artists the kind of work they had on show, predominantly views of the harbour, cliffs and the Gronner, was the kind of conventional landscape painting found in most tourist resorts. There was no theatre, the concert hall had closed, the only cinema was a small one that showed commercial films. There was a modern leisure centre on the edge of town and this had a swimming pool, a gym and craft shops.

  It was not long before I was questioning my decision to be there. Everything about Temmil except the scenery had changed, and beautiful scenery was the norm all over the Archipelago.

  I had to decide what to do – the choices were simple. I thought hard about the journey home. Temmil was a disappointment and without it my long travels lost all meaning. It was depressing to think about giving up and going home, and the thought of all those ships I would need to sail on was a daunting one. There was also the likelihood that if I tried to go back into Glaund itself I would be arrested. It did not feel like a real choice, so maybe I should move on further and try to find another island? Then, six days after my arrival in Temmil Waterside, I noticed an advertisement for a villa that was available to rent. The printed photograph made it look attractive so I went to view it, even though I had already started browsing through the shipping brochures.

  The house was on a hillside close to the town and with a view across part of it. It was halfway up the hill, at the end of a narrow track leading between two flowery banks. The house had two main rooms and a large single bedroom, with a balcony running around three of the four sides. It provided shade, but also, from one side of the house, there was a view of the sea.

  There was a piano in one of the rooms, a good quality baby grand. This clinched it. I could hardly believe my luck, because I knew I would not stay sane without a piano in my life. I could play my violin well enough, but I could never compose on it. As soon as I saw the piano I decided I would take the house, no matter what else might be wrong or unsuitable about it. The agent showing me around pretended to ignore the instrument but I could not stop staring at it. Finally the agent said the piano had been requested by a previous tenant and that naturally it would be removed before I took possession. I would hear of no such thing – my decision about what to do had suddenly been made. I paid the agent twelve weeks’ rent in advance and moved into the villa four days later.

  I was happy in the house from the outset. An expanse of the sea was visible from where I sat at the keyboard, with Hakerline across the narrow strait and four other islands spreading out towards the horizon. Many small crags, rocks and reefs broke through the shallow waters close to the shore. The Gronner was not in sight from the house because of the hills. Dense woodland grew on the slopes behind the villa.

  At the beginning of my first full day in the house I walked down to the town and purchased many sheets of manuscript paper. Imaginative excitement was at last coursing through me.

  I quickly settled down into the way of life I knew best, what I could only describe as compositional bliss. The endless voyages across the Archipelago had left their imagic impressions, and I could sense the music of the islands swirling inside me. I started with a simple piece, almost an exercise after so long away from a piano: I wrote a sonata for the piano, a melodic and conventional piece, a private route towards a rediscovery of my art. I gave it no title – just the Sixth Piano Sonata, for that is what it was.

  Something had changed in me, though. While I was still in Glaund I had been inspired by the islands in a general way: their actual existence, their presence offshore from the mainland, the unspecified promise they seemed to hold. It had all been how I felt, rather than what I knew. Now I related to the islands in a direct and personal way, knowing them as well as having feelings. Each one had communicated something to me, something personal and unique. My sonata, with its unrevealing title, was in fact about the island of Quy. For some reason, images of my time on Quy flooded through my imagination as I composed.

  After that I began some melodic sketches for what I thought would probably grow into a larger orchestral work, but I became restless with it. Again, images of individual islands were dominant.

  As I turned from one piece to another it was as if, internally, my consciousness also moved. I was on, or in, or somehow submerged by, the island of Callock. Then I turned to Leyah and was across warm seas and through new currents into a weird islander sensibility I barely understood. I moved on to Unna, tiny Unna, which I had only glimpsed from afar, late one night on a deck beneath the stars, yet something from that lay within me, bright, a derived dazzle of arpeggios.

  But I did not want to commit to only one piece at a time, especially not a large work which would take some time to complete. I was still not in contact with any classical musicians on the island and I would need at least a small ensemble to work with so that I could try out my ideas. I stopped composing and the mad consciousness of the islands left me.

  I turned to another idea I had been nurturing while I crossed the seas from island to island. I had become fascinated by the idea of time slippage, the experience of gradual time. How might that be translated into music?

  It made me think of an unsuccessful early suite, which I had called Dream Island, written in the difficult period after I returned from the tour. I had long thought of that as a failed piece, an experiment with counterpoint and randomness. I had known all along that it would be difficult for the performers to play and probably baffling for an audience to hear. I wondered now if the same idea of betrayal by time, of
the undetectable detriment, might be better achieved if I worked it into a more conventional format.

  I wrote at the piano keyboard, page after page of draft, some of it satisfactory, some of it less so. It was the transition that I found difficult: I had clear musical images in my mind, but working them into the actual score often defied me.

  At night I dreamed of the islands I had seen and visited, the slow progression of one after another as the ferries ploughed their routes across the calm straits between them, places varied and mysterious, land close at hand but often unattainable, each small island with its invisible, indiscernible power of time distortion. I began to realize that I best understood the effect of the gradual if I interpreted it in musical terms. The Archipelago was in my dreams, and every morning I would rise from my bed and go straight to the piano, trying to capture, define, describe, use the fleeting impressions, the unreliable memories of the music of dreams.

  61

  One evening, after a long day at the piano keyboard, I walked down into Waterside. I had been living and writing alone too long and needed the company of other people. I went after sunset, relishing the quiet as the cicadas stilled at last. A warm wind blew from the sea.

  I went first to the harbour, where I watched the departure of the regular motorboat that acted as a ferry between Temmil and Hakerline Promise. The lights in the harbour were dimmed after the boat left, so I walked into the town. The streets were mostly quiet, although a few of the restaurants were open. I had eaten already.

  I wandered further away from the centre and eventually came to an area I had seen during daytime, where there were several large warehouses or stores. I noticed a lighted doorway leading off from one of the narrow streets. I heard music drifting up from below. There was a man standing by the door but he ignored me as I walked past and went down a narrow wooden staircase into the darkness of the building’s cellar. The low ceiling created a claustrophobic environment, but the air was clear and breathable. Tables were scattered about, where customers were sitting with drinks. The place was not full.