‘Oh Sai, you should get this, but you don’t. You may be the world’s greatest violinist, but in your heart you’re a baby. What do you know of real love? Living as a couple for years, building a life together, raising a child? For you it’s all about men lusting after you while you fix on your unattainable ideal. You can’t get beyond that. There’s nothing real about it, there never was, and there never will be.’
Her allies had been dropping away one by one – Anna and Tom by health and fate, and in a special form of anguish Jelly could sense Myra’s spirit was now dividing from her own. But Adila?
‘Perhaps I should move out,’ said Jelly.
Adila’s eyebrows lifted. Then she shrugged and said, ‘Suit yourself.’
In the silence that followed, Jelly, as if deep underwater, swam to the stairs and found her way to her room.
She had depended on Adila and Alec for her very life. She had been living here as their guest – a family member and an essential part of the household, or so she’d hoped – for nearly a decade. Supposing, just supposing, the unthinkable were to happen? Supposing, no matter what high words Adila uttered, there really had been some kind of… well, what? A ménage-à-trois? Taking place under her nose, all this time, yet she had refused to see it? Now the entire precarious balance of it, assuming it existed, must change, with the Palmstiernas leaving London and Ebba going her own way. What could she do? Was it not better to control her own fate and act now?
Her suitcase still lay in the corner, where Adila had thrown it three days ago. She watched her hands reach into the wardrobe for her clothes, garment by garment, and fold them as if she were going on tour. But where could she go?
She put her remaining allies into a sieve and shook it to see who was left. Hortense had enough problems of her own and would only be exasperated, or worry about taking sides between her sisters. Tovey? His door would be open, but in Edinburgh, and she had rehearsals for the Schumann in London very soon. George was in Dublin. Ulli? In Nazi Germany, if he were still alive and free, and she could scarcely stand to think of the alternative. Anna –
Of course, Anna in Sussex. She darted into the study and tried the telephone. The ringing, insistent, unanswered, jarred her. She let it ring, praying silently for a welcome Scottish greeting.
Nothing. She could try again later, but when was later? Where would she be by ‘later’?
Ten days until the concerto. If she couldn’t go to Anna’s, she could find a hotel for a few days, then perhaps some other friend’s until the concert was over, and think again after that. It could wait. This was only life, which wasn’t music and therefore didn’t matter. Take the music away and what was she? A maiden aunt? A washed-up, middle-aged spinster, mourning a long-dead hoped-for fiancé who might not have married her even if he’d lived? Did she have to accept her lot – any more than the Schumann concerto had to accept the malign judgement of Onkel Jo? Rubbish!
Jelly threw open her window and took a long breath. She’d start again. She only saw herself as a maiden aunt because she lived as one here, in this house. If she were on her own, if she lived at the centre of her own life rather than the fringes of someone else’s, she could be free but lonely, as Joachim’s motto said, or free but happy, like Brahms. Either way, free to be herself.
She thought of Sep and recited to his memory. ‘My name is Jelly d’Arányi. I am the only woman who has ever had my name. I am the only woman who shall ever live my life. And live it I have, and I do, and I shall.’
She still had some money in the bank. What’s more, she was still a star. And just this once, she would go to where stars belonged. She would go to the Savoy.
Jelly was halfway down the stairs, suitcases, dress carrier and violin case arranged over shoulders, elbow and knuckles, when Adila thundered up from the kitchen, mouth open in horror. ‘Jelly! What are you doing? Have you gone crazy?’
‘As I said,’ Jelly laughed, ‘I’m leaving.’
Chapter 19
The uniformed, very young porter placed Jelly’s larger suitcase on a stand in a corner of the room. ‘What’s your name, dear?’ she asked him.
‘John, madam,’ he mumbled. Shy, about 14, probably new in the job.
‘Thank you for your help, John.’ She gave him a tip – his ears reddened – then waited for him to close the door behind him before falling onto the bed, still in her damp coat and shoes. Chaos reigning within, she began to take stock of what she’d done.
Thank heavens the room was warm; back in the Twenties the Savoy had installed central heating, apparently powered by steam. A large, comfortable bed; a shining mirror over the mantelpiece; a wooden desk by the wall, bearing a writing set; brocade draperies patterned with white, cream and grey, all of it in up-to-the-minute style moderne, with contrasting grains in the wood panels and forms sleek enough to feel positively aerodynamic. Jelly pulled back the curtain: the view showed her the Thames, glinting back reflections of charcoal and tobacco-coloured clouds. The double-layer window proofed the room against sound and draughts. Funny that it wasn’t terribly British to like such windows. In Hungary, if you didn’t have them, you’d die of cold in midwinter. In Britain, somehow you were thought wimpish if you minded draughts, however bad they were for your bones.
Perhaps she should move abroad. Somewhere warm. Not Hungary, though. Italy? Ah, Italy. Mediterranean sun, olive trees, fresh basil, ultramarine sky. The land of Botticelli and Titian, warm and dry and healing. Was Mussolini as bad as Hitler? She had no idea. When the Schumann was over, perhaps she’d read up on the situation. Nothing could stop her living the life she chose, if she held to her vision strongly enough. Loneliness. Freedom. Free but happy.
Right now, she felt free but hungry. It was dinner time. The hotel offered round-the-clock room service; she could order whatever she liked. Yet it was quiet up here; too quiet. A busy restaurant might be cheery. Or would it depress her to be there on her own? Would anyone recognise her, and if so, how and why? Would there be praise for her playing, or whispers, pointing fingers and sniggers over spirit messages?
A long-ago voice whispered deep in her memory. She seemed to hear Onkel Jo’s voice just as it had been, fresh, clear, a strong tenor that tried to hide the ebb and flow of his Hungarian accent under a brusque Germanicism, the Rs rolled in the throat. She closed her eyes, listened. ‘Dear child, I am with you. I love you and I want you to be all right.’
Can a spirit from earth, held in a living body, go out to meet one that has departed? How do you know what is real and what isn’t? Perhaps imagination is real? Or perhaps she really, seriously needed some food. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, it had been a dreadful day, and it was getting late. Sometimes she forgot she needed to eat.
She changed into a serviceable long black dress with scooped-out back, threw a silk and lace wrap over it, brushed her hair, put on some powder and lipstick. If fingers were to point, at least she would look good. The drift of dance music on the piano led her in the right direction along the soft-carpeted corridors.
A woman alone in the Savoy restaurant, though, was not as welcome as she had hoped. After all, the waiters didn’t know she was a famous musician. The maître d’hôtel tried to show her to a table near the door to the kitchens, tucked out of sight of most other diners. She’d have to eat her meal beside the constant coming-and-going of trays, the door opening and closing, the draughts and the shouting of orders, just because she was a woman without a male companion. ‘I’m afraid we’re rather full, madam,’ the maître d’ said by way of apology, ‘and you do not actually have a reservation… ’
‘I could come back a little later, if the kitchen is still open?’ Jelly gave her brightest smile.
‘It is entirely up to madam. For how long is madam visiting England?’
‘I’ve lived here for more than 20 years,’ Jelly said, smile painted on. ‘I’m a musician. I’m playing at the Queen’s Hall next week.’
He gave a stiff little bow. ‘Perhaps if madam would like to wait for a more comfor
table place, I might suggest a cocktail in the American Bar or the lounge, and we will call you when your table is ready?’
‘What an excellent thought. Thank you, sir!’ Jelly, putting on her theatrical self, set her shoulders back, tilted her neck, flashed her smile, and watched the snobby man recoil slightly under the bolt of charisma. At least she hadn’t lost that.
She didn’t feel especially hungry any more, only a little dizzy, which wasn’t so bad. Making her way into the lounge, where sofas and armchairs lazed under the chandeliers, with low-glowing candles dotted around the tables for evening, she noticed that the resident pianist was remarkably good. Space was less of a problem in here at this hour; she spotted a few older couples, two or three gaggles of businessmen in dinner suits, and in the far corner a silk-gowned group who looked as if they might be sisters. As a single woman, it would be easier to disappear into a generous armchair here than to sit on full view in the Art Deco American Bar. She took the initiative herself, rather than allowing the staff to choose a table for her: ‘As close as possible to the piano. And a White Lady please? Thank you so much, that is wonderful.’
The armchair seemed to fold itself around her, warm and smelling a little of musky pot-pourri; she sat, legs crossed, head leaning back, breathing deeply and listening to ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’, a song that usually made her cry. She wasn’t going to cry this time. She had to stop her silly habit of bursting into tears at the slightest excuse. She had to grow up. Forty-four was a little late, but it was time, was it not?
The cocktail hit home. Bliss. You had to drink the Savoy’s White Lady; the hotel’s own barman had invented it, adding Cointreau to gin and lemon juice, and its citrus flowers of coolness and heat could bolster you in an instant. It would carry you back to all the times you’d tasted it before, and beyond that to every occasion when you’d been here in this lounge with Sep, with Tom, with Tovey; with Elgar; and with Bartók, who wanted fresh fruit with his tea instead of scones and was overjoyed to find bananas there, since he couldn’t get them in Hungary. And you’d laughed and flirted and never thought of the future, and if now and then a whisper passed through your mind hinting that this life was too good, that the fairytale had to come to an end sometime, you’d ignore it as pessimism, or simply nuff and stonsense.
Her cocktail was finished; she ordered another. The pianist glanced across at her and she saw a flicker of recognition behind his spectacles. And then she knew him: of course, he’d played at the baron’s party. She’d spoken to him at length. He’d told her about Germany and his family’s persecution; he’d been praying that his wife and children could join him. That was several years ago. Now here he was, playing in the Savoy.
‘Miss d’Arányi?’ he said, his fingers still moving through the notes.
His name came back to her. ‘Bernhard Rabinovich! How are you?’
Something in him had unfolded a little since last time. ‘Very well, thank you. It’s a privilege to play for you tonight.’
‘I’m so happy to see you. And you’re here! A wonderful job, congratulations.’
‘Thank you, I’ve been lucky.’
‘Tell me: your family… are they with you now?’
‘Gott sei dank,’ he smiled, ‘they are. You are kind to ask.’
‘How wonderful – and are they all right? Are you all right?’
‘Sometimes,’ he said, playing a flourish, ‘I think there really is somebody up in heaven, taking care of us. Yes, they are well and we have been fortunate with the kindness of people we’ve met here.’
‘It must have been incredible to see them when they arrived.’
‘I met them from the boat train at Victoria.’ Bernhard gave the warmest smile she had yet seen him venture. ‘I think I shall remember that moment when I am dying. They came towards me through the steam, and I knelt and held my arms out to them. And I thought the children would not know me, so long it was we had been apart – but they ran to me… and we make a vow together: nothing will ever, ever separate us again.’
Jelly wiped a tear from her eye. ‘No wonder you’re playing so beautifully. Please, let me buy you a drink when you take a break?’
‘Let me play something for you.’ Bernhard finished the song with a flourish that floated from end to end of the keyboard, then launched without a break into a Brahms Hungarian Dance. Restless syncopation, long phrases in six bars rather than four, intermediary flourishes like flames flickering in a Gypsy fire by night. Jelly’s feet wouldn’t keep still.
Her arms were empty of the one thing she needed. ‘Don’t stop, I’m coming straight back,’ she told Bernhard, leaving her shawl on her chair.
Her violin was under her bed upstairs. It wouldn’t take long to fetch it; and she’d brought a sheaf of music, too, with piano parts, having no intention of going to Chelsea any time soon to pick up more. She grabbed the lot from her room and, on her way back down, ignored the curious glances of the boy who worked the lift and the waiter who controlled the lounge entrance. Switching on her performance self, she seemed to grow to match the size of the rest of the world.
‘May I?’ she said to Bernhard, by the piano. She opened her violin case; glancing around she noticed a few curious gazes from the businessmen over their drinks.
‘An honour, Miss d’Arányi.’ He seemed unfazed, playing with one hand, reaching with the other for the piano parts she offered him.
Jelly didn’t need the music. She knew all the melodies as if they inhabited her body. Bernhard followed her easily and his sense of rhythm soon matched hers. She joined in the first Brahms dance; then another. Onkel Jo and the young Brahms had taken the Hungarian melodies from a hotel café band; now Jelly and her unexpected companion were giving them back.
Surprised heads were turning at the tables across the lounge; rustles of silk sounded as the group of sisters rose to move closer to the music. Others followed suit. Floorboards gave the gentlest of creaks as motion spread, rippling like a mystery signal through a shoal of fish. She heard her name conveyed in a half-whisper. A young man slipped out of the room and returned a few moments later with two companions. Jelly closed her eyes and played on. ‘All right?’ she asked Bernhard; but rarely had any pianist looked back at her with such joy.
She recognised people who’d been eating in the restaurant where the waiter had wanted to hide her away, coming in, drawing closer. Dinner jackets, a curl of cigar smoke, the shimmer of a handkerchief in a breast pocket. Sea-green silk, eau de nil, a bare shoulder. Mouths decked with lipstick, scarlet, floral, open in delight. February and the snow was gathering high above them, ready to fall, but in here Jelly could feel sweat gilding her nose.
‘Could you open a window, please?’ she asked the nearest person with a smile. Word went round. A window opened; then another. Theatregoers returning from the performance of Karel Čapek’s Power and Glory next door glanced through, paused at the sight and sound of the musicians, then came in. Her message was changing as it spread through the room. The violinist wanted to open all the windows. The violinist wanted to open all the doors. Jelly d’Arányi, she of the cathedral concerts, the Pilgrimage of Compassion. She wanted to open the doors of the Savoy Hotel and let in the world.
‘And so we will,’ decreed the night manager.
The doors opened on to the Strand. A free concert by Jelly d’Arányi, happening now! Come in out of the snow. Warm yourself by the fire of her presence.
Jelly sidled towards her pianist.
‘What’s going on?’ he said. More and more people were filing into the lounge, many in boots and overcoats, murmurs of surprise and wonderment rumbling among them.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jelly, ‘but I like it. Can you sight-read this Hubay?’
‘I’ll try.’
Jelly’s old teacher, Jenő Hubay, took Gypsy songs and made them into concert arrangements, following in Brahms and Joachim’s footsteps. Hejre Kati was more than a little bit suggestive, but the audience in the Savoy didn’t need to know that. J
elly invited them all with the sweetness of her sound, then snapped into the fast section, and Bernhard at the piano laughed aloud as he played. For the length of this piece, they could all share the present and rediscover the zest for living that they’d lost, or forgotten, or put on hold. Rushes of cool air betrayed the door opening and reopening; dark figures milling towards them, closer than before as the room surged with listeners, and Jelly wanted to hug them all; she sent her embrace into her music and hoped they could hear it there. They whirled the piece to its end and she whisked her bow up into the air with a shout.
Applause crashed back at her, and she couldn’t see the Savoy any more for the people inside it, some still with snowflakes melting on their lapels, hats cradled under their arms while they clapped. How many? Several hundred, surely? How had the Savoy accepted this? How on earth – ?
‘Jelly, my dear,’ came a familiar tone, and there, elbowing his way forward, was Sir Adrian Boult himself. ‘Whatever are you doing?’
‘I could ask you the same thing, darling,’ Jelly cried, pressing his hand. ‘This is Sir Adrian Boult, the great conductor,’ she shouted to the crowd. ‘We perform together next week, at the Queen’s Hall!’
‘We will all be there to hear you,’ came a reply from somewhere in the throng, and Jelly, remembering Erik reporting a spirit message of those very words before Westminster Abbey, laughed aloud.
‘I was just having a quiet dinner with my wife, Ann,’ Boult told her, ‘when I heard a violin sound that seemed strangely familiar. I’d know your tone anywhere, Jelly. Now, I don’t know what you’re up to, playing here, my dear, but you’re extremely pale. Have you eaten?’
‘No,’ Jelly beamed. ‘I’m far too busy.’
‘You can tell me all about it in a little while. Come and join us for dinner, I beg of you.’
Jelly bent to put the Bergonzi back into its case. As she straightened up, the room began to fill with odd, dancing grey dots. She had just enough consciousness left to wonder how they got there.
Ghost Variations Page 27