Quiet you bastards! The clock had ten seconds to go. I summoned all my powers of perception and focused them, laser-like, on the last glass. A sniff and a little sip. A generous hint of oxidation, dried dates and burnt hair. An old memory, from way back. An elderly woman, asleep on the sofa, snoring gently, a small glass goblet on the coffee table before her. My own hand reaching out – but it’s a child’s hand. I was barely five years old. I grasp the copita and my eyes bulge as I savour the taste of pure paradise. The liquid coats my tongue and slips down my throat, more glorious than any toffee, still watching my grandmother in case she stirs. My tiny hand takes the bottle and turns it to read the label.
“Malmsey, Madeira, twenty years old.”
Frog dropped his head, eyes closed. For a shocking second I thought I was wrong then the audience burst into cheers as the countdown clock ticked two, one, zero. Valentina, Juliette and Hugo, my fellow finishers, rushed over and embraced me, while Fritz stood back slightly, looking both smug and a bit green around the gills. I was caught off balance and we tumbled on the floor in a heap, my head buried in Valentina’s breasts, as the audience rose to their feet, cheering wildly.
Then the Invocator banged his staff to quieten the crowd, and spoke again. “Herr Stich. Madame Lavigne. Monsieur Blanchett. Señora Soto. Mr Hart. You have pleased the gods!”
The audience cheered and whistled again. Sounds like they’re a few gins down the road themselves, I thought, extracting my head from Valentina’s chest and struggling to my hands and knees. She remained flat on her back, whooping for joy, a sight with which I was quite familiar of course.
Hugo and Juliette were still embracing, holding each other semi-upright in drunken French solidarity. Fritz was the only one still standing, although only just, as he leant over the bench displaying the musical instruments, both palms face down. Steady old chap, I thought, don’t puke on your oboe or you’re in real trouble. I caught a brief glimpse of Tallah, the Lebanese lady, who had failed to complete the tasting, being escorted to a side door.
Then it dawned on me, as the audience quietened once more, that the ordeal was only half done. I brought the Invocator into focus as he regarded us, imperiously, from his throne.
“And now Le Récital!”
4.3
Le Récital
And so via Kadmos of Tyre
And Melampos we learn.
Oh this Odeion!
Hurry! Lest Apollo rise too soon.
You’ve got a fine line in bullshit old chap, I muttered to myself as the Invocator intoned his verse. I clambered to my feet and gave Valentina a hand, dragging her to an upright, if swaying, position. I even adjusted her dress where a nipple had popped into view, gentleman that I am.
Frog was at my shoulder once more. “The recitals will begin shortly,” he murmured. “You will each perform your piece, following the order in which you finished the tasting. You must remain standing while the others perform.”
That meant I’d be last. Bugger. I could barely stand upright for a second, let alone through four performances. Unless… of course! My spare sachet of Madame Joubert’s! I would need to find a surreptitious way to consume it while Frog, the staff-wielding bearded wonders and a thousand Minstrels of Wine had me under their beady eyes.
I moved my left hand lazily to the tail of my jacket. That was where my secret pocket lay – a small incision in the seam of the lining. I could feel the slight bulge made by the rectangle of paper. But how could I swallow it? Previously I’d always dissolved it in water and, given the way it fizzed on contact with liquids, I didn’t fancy trying to swallow it dry. Even with the audience focused on the performer, a dinner-jacketed man foaming at the mouth like a rabid penguin might just arouse suspicion.
Fritz stepped onto a slightly raised platform in front of the orchestra and turned to face the audience. His Frog had already placed his music on a stand and taken a seat to his right, ready to turn the pages when necessary. There were a few seconds of discordant violin sounds and random horn notes as the musicians checked their final tuning. The conductor stepped onto another raised platform and faced the orchestra, his back to the rest of us.
“May I raise a glass to my fine fellow Initiates?” I asked Frog.
He looked surprised, then pleased. “Of course.”
I grabbed a glass of red wine from the nearest table and raised it high over my head, in the direction of Fritz. He looked slightly surprised and nodded back as the audience burst into applause at my generous tribute. What a noble chap that Mr Hart is, he’ll make a fabulous addition to the ranks of the Minstrels! I took a very small sip – it was Wikus’s wine, surely a lucky sign – and kept the glass in my hand.
The lead violin bowed a single note and Fritz raised his oboe to his lips, playing a note in return, checking he was tuned. Satisfied, he nodded to the conductor and stood to attention. The violins erupted into life. The screen hanging from the ceiling informed the audience that this was Bach’s Oboe Concerto in A Major. And a jolly good tune it was too, what with the violins scrubbing away melodically for a minute or so before Fritz piped up on his oboe. I’m no classical aficionado but he seemed to be doing a reasonable enough job, swaying around expressively as he tootled away. Of course, that may have had more to do with imbibing one hundred and eighty glasses, than with pure musical rapture.
After five minutes there was a few seconds’ pause, then Fritz got stuck into the second movement. A bit slower, this one. And it was time for me to get stuck into my sachet of Madame Joubert’s. Ever so slowly, I felt once more for the little parcel with my spare hand. I eased a couple of fingers into the slit in my jacket’s lining and clamped the paper wrap between my forefinger and middle finger.
Frog suddenly looked right at me and I froze. Stay calm Felix. I smiled and nodded in time to Fritz’s somewhat dirge-like rendering of the second movement. Frog looked away and I breathed once more. I extracted the sachet and held it in my sweating palm.
Fritz was now onto the third movement. The tempo picked up once more and the poor chap looked as though he was flagging a little, his face red and eyes staring. The rhythmical swaying had given away to little staggering steps backward and forwards. Steady on Fritz, I thought, any more of that and you’ll be exiting stage left, arse over tit.
And then, with a little trill, it was over. Fritz lowered his oboe and panted, still staggering slightly. The audience applauded politely, and I gently tapped the fingers of my fist against the palm of the hand holding my glass. Fritz bowed deeply for several seconds, then stood bolt upright. It was the last straw. With a shocked, purple face and bulging eyes, he took two sharp steps backwards and collapsed into the cello section. The applause was replaced by a crash of falling music stands and splintering wood.
As various staff-bearers helped Fritz back to his feet, I could see the Invocator in deep discussion with six senior Minstrels, all of whom wore purple cloaks. They returned to their seats, three either side, and he banged his staff on the ground. “Herr Stich has sinned against the gods!”
Fritz had disentangled himself from the music stands and cello strings by now and lunged forward a few steps, wild-eyed. “Was ist das? WAS?” Fritz wasn’t happy at all. In fact, it’d be fair to say he’d gone Full German.
“Your technical skill was adequate but you lacked flair,” announced the Invocator, dispassionately.
“Flair? Flair? WAS IST DIESES SCHEISSE?” screamed Fritz at the judges, waving his oboe like a club.
A pair of well-built staff-bearers trapped him in a pincer movement and, one on each arm, dragged him to a side door. “VERDAMMTE SCHEISSE!”
I have to say I’d picked up more European swear words in the past few hours than in the entire previous decade. Even if I went the same way as Fritz, the evening wouldn’t have been a complete waste of time.
Valentina was already up on the platform. She was seated, dress hitched up, a cello nestling between her beautiful tanned thighs. Trust Valentina to be a virtuoso at th
e only instrument you had to actually fuck to get a note out of. And she was a virtuoso. I knew she had played with the Mendoza Philharmonic Orchestra since she was a teenager. She now held the audience rapt with an astonishing rendition of Schumann’s Cello Concerto in A minor. She didn’t even need the sheet music, she knew it by heart.
I remember her telling me one night in bed, after a heavy evening on the Malbec, that she played the cello. “That’s a very big instrument for a delicate flower like you, isn’t it?” I replied, rather stupidly.
“Let me show you how I play the cello,” she shouted, clamping my kidneys between her thighs from behind. “I play con la pasión, like this!”
She grasped a favourite piece of my anatomy in lieu of a bow, grabbed my throat with the other hand and proceeded to demonstrate some Mozart. I can’t say I remember which piece it was, exactly, but it ended with one hell of a climax.
I was spellbound, along with the rest of the audience, and when the piece was over the standing ovation was immediate. The judges and Invocator conferred very briefly, nodding to one another. The man in the purple hooded cape rose to his feet. “Minstrel Valentina Soto has pleased the gods!”
Valentina screamed and the audience erupted once more. Her Frog approached the platform and held out a purple cloak, which she flung over her bare shoulders. We had our first Minstrel!
Juliette, the wine journalist, climbed onto the platform, a French horn wrapped around her arm. I suddenly realised I hadn’t yet taken my medicine. My eyelids were starting to droop and I had to keep blinking to prevent my head spinning.
‘Mozart’s Horn Concerto no. 4 in E flat’ appeared on the screen. The violins delivered their jolly intro for a minute or so, then Juliette took a deep breath and launched into her part. She started well enough, pooping and parping quite musically as the accompanying violins sawed their way through the happy melody.
I raised my fist to my mouth, as if nervous for Juliette, leaving the little rectangle of paper just proud of my curled finger and thumb. I worked the wrap between my front teeth and moved my fist slowly across my lips, tearing the tiny package open. I swallowed the scrap of paper that remained in my mouth. Hopefully all eyes were on Juliette and not my surreptitious performance-enhancement.
I needn’t have worried. We were over ten minutes into the piece and Juliette was looking decidedly pasty. She reached the famous third movement, the Rondo, a fairly tricky part with lots of fast, delicate little notes. She started to slow down and I could see the conductor eyeing her with concern. He tried to slow the orchestra to match her pace but she began to miss notes completely.
I could hear a buzz of concern rising from the audience. A couple of judges were conferring and I could see grave looks and a shaking of heads. Poor Juliette. She was obviously very accomplished but she’d picked a dastardly tricky piece. Presumably all the easier horn concertos had been performed by Initiates from previous years.
Then she stopped making any noise at all. The horn was still at her lips but she was just making little jerking movements rather than blowing. I could see her eyes were streaming and I wondered why she didn’t just pack it in. Suddenly, a huge fountain of pink liquid erupted from the end of the horn. Smaller spouts sprayed from the valves while violent jets squirted from the sides of Juliette’s mouth. The conductor, only a yard or so away, caught one of these squirts in his ear and threw his hands up in horror. The audience screamed in disgust as Juliette staggered forward, another torrent of hot, bile-scented wine erupting from her mouth.
This was my moment. I placed the open wrap of Madame Joubert’s over my wine glass and vigorously massaged the paper. I could feel the powder sliding from the little wrap into the Shiraz, and the glass trembled slightly as the magic dust fizzed and dissolved. I slipped the empty sachet into my pocket and swirled the liquid, keeping the glass down and out of sight.
A staff-bearer had escorted Juliette from the platform by this time while another, grimacing, followed with her horn, still dripping with pre-owned wine. A third was sponging down the conductor, who looked on the verge of puking himself. It seemed rather unnecessary for the Invocator to inform us that Juliette had sinned, but he did so anyway.
Hugo now climbed onto the platform, violin in hand, checking with the leader of the orchestra that he was properly tuned. I could see he was suffering from drunken fatigue, his chest rising and falling as he took deep breaths.
This was my moment. I raised my glass as I had for Fritz an hour earlier. “Bonne chance, mon brave!” Hugo raised his bow by way of acknowledgment.
I raised the glass to my lips and swallowed the rest of the wine. There were two or three big gulps and I hoped to God the powder would kick in before the wine did. As I drained the glass, I felt a sludge of undissolved powder ooze over my tongue and down my throat. It crackled like popping candy and I put my hand to my mouth, stifling a splutter. Bugger! There hadn’t been enough wine in the glass to dissolve it all. I could feel the exploding medicine pinging its way up the back of my throat to my nose. I spluttered again. Oh Christ, don’t spill any wine, I thought. What a disaster to be disqualified at this stage!
Frog looked at me in alarm. “You probably shouldn’t drink any more before your performance Mr Hart.”
I swallowed hard, desperately hoping he couldn’t hear my crackling throat. “Very true, Frog,” I replied weakly. “I just wanted to salute my friend.”
Frog nodded and patted my arm. “You’re a true and virtuous young man, Mr Hart.”
The conductor had been wiped down to his satisfaction. But instead of the full orchestra bursting into life, a lone pianist began a haunting introduction. After a minute, Hugo joined her on his violin, and a fairly mournful old tune it was too. The screen informed us this was Tchaikovsky’s Méditation, Op. 42 no. 1. I tried to feign interest, although mostly I was just trying to stay upright. Come on Madame Joubert’s, work your magic, I prayed.
“My God, there’s blood bubbling out of your nose Mr Hart.” Frog was staring at me in alarm. I could see out of the corner of my eye that a large pink bubble was inflating out of my right nostril. I whisked the handkerchief from my breast pocket and wiped it away.
“It’s nothing. Just something I picked up in The Congo a few years ago. Plays up when I’m in the presence of artistic genius.”
Frog stared a few seconds more then dragged his eyes back to the performance.
I tried to sniff the stray wine bubbles back up my nose. Thankfully, the crackling in my throat had subsided and I could feel the calming warmth of Madame Joubert’s concoction spreading through my body. My spinning head began to slow and the fatigue lifted. Hugo was fiddling away like quite the maestro, the fingers of his left hand running up and down the strings like a demented crab. I had no idea what the judges thought, it sounded rather too much like a mouse torturing session to me, but the audience were rapt.
The strength had returned to my limbs by now and I started to feel very warm in my dinner jacket. “Frog! Can I take my jacket off?” I whispered, a little louder than I intended.
“No, that is not permitted.”
Up yours, I thought. I was distinctly overheating, however. My arm and leg muscles were pumping like miniature power stations and I flexed my pectorals under my shirt. I felt as though I’d just done half an hour in the weights room at Hampstead Gym. I took a long deep breath. “La la la la la la laaaaaa,” I intoned.
“Shush!” scolded Frog in horror.
I shut my mouth. Jesus Christ! What was wrong with me? I was feeling distinctly peculiar, although I also felt fantastic, like a magnificent animal, a fabulous beast among mere men. I started making little boxing jabs just short of Frog’s head. “Give me your best shot, Frog, come on,” I challenged, ducking and weaving in front of him.
“What in God’s name has come over you Mr Hart,” whispered Frog severely. “This is most irregular behaviour.”
It was indeed. Very irregular. But I couldn’t stop myself. I started doing little j
umps on the spot. Fuck me, it was hot in this theatre. I needed a cold shower.
Hugo was about to finish, slowly bowing some very high notes and setting my teeth on edge if truth be told. If that was old Tchaikovsky’s idea of a meditation, I dreaded to think what he did when he was worked up. Funny lot, those Russians.
The audience erupted into applause and the judges were huddled around the Invocator’s throne.
“Bravo!” I hollered. “More! More!” Hugo was dripping with sweat and game me a nervous wave with his bow. “More! Fucking yes!”
“It is your turn Mr Hart. He’s not doing an encore. Please do quieten down and follow me.”
Frog led me past the raised platform and we threaded through the desks of violins. A large space had been cleared in the centre of the orchestra, and there lay my instruments. I took up my position, facing the conductor and the wider audience behind him. The violins stretched away to my right, cellos to my left, while the woodwind and brass were just out of eyeshot, diagonally behind me.
“Minstrel Hugo Blanchett has pleased the gods!” announced the Invocator.
Hugo had done it! The audience stood and applauded and I cheered, waving my fists. Hugo’s Frog handed him the purple robe and he grasped it weakly, grinning but too exhausted to put it on. The applause subsided and the screen displayed my piece, the Concerto for Six Timpani and Orchestra by Georg Druschetzky.
The recital was always going to be tricky for me. Although I’m a man of immense sensitivity and artistic flair, I have little experience of classical music. I prefer the manly shouts of the sports field and the ecstatic screams of the bedroom to the gentle tinkle of chamber music. My only experience with a violin was breaking one over the head of a cheeky little bastard in year four, and I’d be hard-pressed to work out which end of a clarinet to blow into. And, just as Gatesave’s own Minstrel, Joan Armitage, pointed out a year earlier, there was sweet bugger all written for the bass guitar before 1910. Not that I was much better at strumming than bowing.
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