by Vikram Seth
Has she been in London these last ten years? No, I would surely have got to know of it. In England then? What is she doing here now? Where is she?
My stomach heaves. I feel sick. What is it? My cold walk after sweating? I have eaten almost nothing all day.
What could I read in her eyes? Puzzlement - alarm pity? Could I read love? In that woman's eyes could I read love?
' : •!'•.'»*. *al , • :
T'T
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Part Two
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2.1
I get through the rehearsal. A day passes, then another. I buy bread and milk. I eat, I drink, I bathe, I shave. Exhausted by wakefulness, I sleep. I teach. I attend rehearsals. I turn on the news and absorb words. I exchange greetings with our porter and the other denizens of our building. As once before, after I fled Vienna, my brain and body direct themselves.
Julia, if she lives in London, does not have a listed number. If she does not live in London, she could be anywhere.
Nor can I trace the lost LP. The taxi-driver, I learn, should have taken it to a police station, and they would have sent it on to the London Carriage Office. I phone them. Do I remember the number of the cab? No. I should call again in a couple of days. I do, to no avail. Two days later I call once more. They are not hopeful. Maybe the next passenger in the taxi picked it up. That sort of thing happens all the time with umbrellas. If they hear anything, they'll get in touch. But I can tell that I will not see that record again. I will not now hear what I came so close to hearing.
I talk to Erica Cowan, our agent. She is surprised to hear my voice. Piers usually deals with her. I ask for her advice in tracing Julia McNicholl.
She asks a few questions, takes down a few details,
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then says: "But why so suddenly, Michael, after so many years?"
"Because I saw her the other day in London, on a bus, and I have to find her. I have to."
Erica pauses, then says, seriously and hesitantly: "Michael, could you have been mistaken?"
"No."
"And you're sure you want to revive your acquaintance after this, well, hiatus?"
"Yes. And, Erica - please keep this under your hat. I mean, I don't want Piers, Helen and Billy to go on about this."
"Well," says Erica, with evident pleasure at our complicity, "I'll ask around in this country and I'll ask Lothar in Salzburg if he can help."
"Would you, Erica, would you really? Thank you very much. I know how busy you are. But - talking of Austria
- there's a cellist, Maria Novotny, who's quite active in the musical world in Vienna, and who was - is, I should think - a friend of Julia's. The three of us were students at the Musikhochschule and played in a trio together. That may be - I don't know, but that may be a lead."
"It may," says Erica. "But wouldn't you rather follow that one up yourself?"
"I'm not sure," I say. "I just feel that an enquiry from an agent - a local agent like Lothar probably - would work better." At the back of my mind there is a sense of unease: that Maria might know where Julia is, but not want to tell me.
"And you think your friend Julia McNicholl still performs?" asks Erica. "She couldn't have given up music?"
"It's unimaginable."
"How old would she be - approximately?"
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"Thirty. No, she'd be thirty-one, I suppose. No, thirtytwo."
"When did you last see her? Before London, I mean."
"Ten years ago."
"Michael, you're sure you want to meet her again?"
"Yes."
"But ten years - isn't that a bit excessive?" f"No."
; There is a pause, and Erica becomes pragmatic. "Any A in the Mac? One L or two?"
"No A, two is. Oh, and an H after the C."
"Is she Scots? Or Irish?"
"Well, I think her father's one quarter Scots, but for all practical purposes she's English. Well, English and Austrian, I suppose."
"I'll give it a try, Michael. This may be the start of a whole new career for me." Erica, as almost always, sounds hugely upbeat.
If Erica, our Big White Chief, with her mixture of matronly and shark-like qualities can't find her, I don't know who can. But again the days pass and, with each of Erica's bulletins of unsuccess, my reserves of hope drain away.
Finally I tell her that Julia's parents live in Oxford.
"Why on earth didn't you tell me before?" asks Erica, taking down the particulars, unable to keep some annoyance out of her voice. "It would have saved time."
"Well, Erica, you're right, but I thought it would be best to try the professional route first. I didn't want to waste your time, but I couldn't bear to hassle her parents."
"Michael, I'm going to have to leave this bit of it to you."
"I can't. I really can't. I tried once, years ago, and was
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frozen in my tracks. You've been so kind, I hate to ask you to consider this. It's just that I can't do it myself."
Erica sighs. "I'm not sure how to put this. I don't feel completely comfortable about this, well, project. But I like you, Michael, and I'll give it one last try. If I do find her, all I can really do is to make sure that she knows how to get in touch with you."
"Yes. That's fair enough. I accept that."
Erica phones me the next weekend. "Guess where I'm calling from."
"I've no idea - no, I can guess. Erica, you needn't have gone to so much trouble."
"Well," says Erica, "Oxford's not much further away than parts of London. A true sleuth goes to the source. Besides, I had to meet someone here anyway," she quickly adds.
"And?"
"Michael, the news isn't good," says Erica in a rush. "The college lodge told me that Dr McNicholl died five or six years ago. They think Mrs McNicholl went back to Austria, but they don't have an address for her any longer. As for Julia, they don't know anything about her at all. The telephone number you gave me still works you've got to add a 'five' in front, by the way - but it's someone completely different. And I visited their house on the Banbury Road. The present owners bought it from someone else, so it's changed hands at least twice."
I can't think of anything to say. Erica continues:
"The trail's run cold. I'm so sorry. I was beginning to enjoy it, and for some reason this morning I was certain I'd succeed. Well, there it is. But I thought I'd call you from Oxford to tell you - and to ask you if you can think of anywhere else in this city that I might try."
"You've tried everything," I say, hoping to disguise my disappointment. "You've been wonderful."
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"&S£,
"You know, Michael," says Erica, suddenly confidential, "someone once disappeared completely out of my life. Just walked out. It took me years to - not to understand, I never did that - I suppose I still can't understand why it happened with so little warning - but to reconcile myself to it. But now, when I look at my husband and my children, I think, thank God."
"Well -"
"We must have you over for supper sometime soon," says Erica. "By yourself. No, with the others. No, by yourself. How about next Thursday?"
"Erica ... I'd rather just lie low for a bit."
"Of course."
"It's really very good of you."
"Not at all. Pure self-interest. Feeding my flock. Grooming my stable. And, as I said, I had an appointment here. It's lovely in Oxford this afternoon, everything's just glistening after the rain. But parking's hell. Always is. Ba-yee."
This is followed by two audible kisses, and Erica rings off.
2.2
Days pass. I cannot bear to be in the company of others, but when I am alone, I am sick with memory.
I cling to routine in a life that, by its nature, consists apart from the lessons, whose times I arrange myself - of arbitrary dates: for performances with the quartet, for rehearsals, for sess
ion work, for playing as an extra with the Camerata Anglica.
I teach Virginie, but find some reason not to stay over. She senses a problem. How could she not? At times she
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looks at me with an expression of pain mixed with angry puzzlement.
The one fixed point in my week is my Saturday morning swim. If 1 lapse here, I will lose all pattern to my days.
Today, however, there is a difference. The Water Serpents are being filmed for TV. All of us are doing our best to appear phlegmatic.
It's not too cold as November mornings go, though since the programme is going to be aired sometime around Christmas it'll appear colder. The three pretty girls hired by the studio introduce the action. They stand on the long diving platform, shivering in their swimsuits, squealing exaggeratedly. Phil and Dave let out strident wolf-whistles, and are shushed by the camera crew. "Oooooh," says one girl, "we'll be back after the break, we're absolutely mad to be doing this, but..." The camera pans to the swans and geese floating on the lake and wandering around the shore. The little Lido looks remarkably tidy. It appears that Phil has swept their filthy droppings, mounds of them, into the water. "Where else?" he says, and shrugs.
A golden retriever appears and swims with his master. The shot is unsatisfactory. Soggy dog and frozen master are directed into the water again.
Then our race begins. Giles assigns us handicaps based on our previous results. We get onto the board, and dive off, the slowest first, then the rest of us one by one as the passing seconds are shouted out on shore. Andy, the young law student, dives off last of all. His handicap is usually so heavy that he doesn't have a chance.
Everyone emerges shivering and virtuous. Back in the clubhouse, the cameras are ejected.
"You can't come in 'ere, it's private." K •-'•"'-; •
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"What, Phil, you got something you're ashamed of?" asks Dave. "Let the totties come in. And their crew."
Andy, suddenly worried, puts his shirt on and pulls his shirt-tails down before taking off his swimsuit.
"Nun joke! Nun joke!" shouts Gordon. "Silence for ^ the nun joke. There were these four nuns and they got to •"" -M' the pearly gates ..."
"Shut up, Gordon. This used to be a nice club," laughs someone.
"Before my time," says Gordon proudly.
The kettle whistles. While Phil makes tea, the lugubrious Ben locks me into conversation. Ben, before he retired, was a meat inspector.
"I'm on a diet. I've been eating pears," he says with gravity. "Pears and water."
"Sounds rather faddish," I say. • ,-
"Six pounds of pears."
"Why?" I ask, wondering - but not enquiring whether this is his daily or weekly quota, and whether this is all he is allowed to eat.
"Prostate."
"Oh," I murmur sympathetically, unenlightened yet not thirsting for light. "Ah, tea. Let me get you a mug."
The golden retriever is barking and begging. Phil dips his oatmeal biscuit in his tea, and gives the dog half.
Dressed again, I wish everyone goodbye.
"So long, Mike." "See you next week." "Don't get into mischief, mate."
Three swans fly low over the water and land. On the far bank, a troop of cavalry clip-clop along, helmets and breastplates flashing in the sun. On the triple-arched bridge to my left the traffic stops and starts. The TV crew is standing on the diving platform, but there is no sign of the three glamorous girls.
I walk back under the bridge, along the lake. By the
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Bayswater Road I stop to have a drink. The waterfountain is topped by a little bronze statue of two bears, hugging each other in affectionate play. I find myself smiling. Having drunk, I pat their heads in thanks, and make my way back home.
' . 2.3 ...-.•:•;-. .'.- : -
In front of Archangel Court there is an area of lawn enclosed by a low box hedge. Some flower-beds, a small goldfish pond, a tallish holly tree covered with a clematis creeper: our part-time gardener, a cousin of Rob's, takes care of this zone. He is usually as taciturn as Rob is chatty.
I am walking across this little field of green when I notice a blazered, trousered woman - gaunt, heavily made-up, I'd guess in her late fifties - walking briskly along the path. I glance at her and she at me, presumably wondering whether, as strangers heading for the same building, we should exchange a friendly greeting.
As I join the path, she looks at me very directly. "I don't think you should be walking across the grass," she says in the kind of disdainfully diphthonged accent, thick with horse-dung, that sets my teeth on edge.
I take a second or two to recover. "Well, I don't usually," I say, "but occasionally I think it's very pleasant to. Thank you for your views on the matter."
There is a pause, and we walk on side by side. I open the outer glass door for her, but - since I've never seen her before and, anyway, am not feeling excessively gallant - not the inner one. I have my black tab in my hand, but wait for her to fumble around in her bag. She looks rather flustered by our proximity, sandwiched as we are between two slices of glass.
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"By the way," I say, "why On earth did you feel it necessary to talk to me if that was a\ you wished to say?"
Rather mutedly but still firmly she says: "I was just thinking of the grass."
Rob, from his desk in the lobby, raises his head from the Daily Mail, notices us and cljcks Open the door. The woman walks down the corridor to the far lift. I wait by my own lift, the near one.
"Making friends with Bee?" Rob as^s me
I tell him about our strange exchange, and he laughs.
"Oh, yes, well, Bee, she can be a little sharp . . . They're new here - come up oilce a week from Sussex. Her husband can't stand it when people walk across the grass. A few days ago he said to me, 'Rob, there are children playing on the grass.' 'f{ow wonderful,' I said. After all, what is grass for?"
A courier in black leather gear buzzes, and is let in.
"Package for number twenty-si*. Wiu you sign for it?» he asks Rob, evidently in a rush to continue his round.
"Number twenty-six - that's Mrs Goetz. She's still in you'd better give it to her yourself. Far lift... Oh, that reminds me, Michael. A taxi-driver ieft this for you.' You were out, so he left it here."
He reaches down to the shelf below his desk, and hands me a white plastic bag. I stare at it
"Are you all right?" Rob ask?.
"Yes - yes," I say, sitting do'Vtl on the sofa.
"Nothing wrong, I hope, Michael," says Rob. His phone rings. He ignores it.
"Nothing wrong at all," I sa7,
"No, just that you'd left it in hjs taxij and that he was glad he'd tracked you down."
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"What did he look like?"
"I didn't pay much attention, you know. White. Spectacles. Fortyish. Short. Clean-shaven. He'll be on the security videotape if you want to check up on him. It was just twenty minutes ago."
"No, no - I think I'll go up now."
"Yes, yes, you do that. Means a lot to you, that record?" says Rob, a little bemused.
I nod, and press the button for the lift.
2.4 ; . v
Without washing the Serpentine off myself, I put the string quintet on. The sound fills the room: so familiar, so well-loved, so disturbingly and enchantingly different. From the moment, a mere ten bars from the beginning, where it is not the piano that answers the violin but the violin itself that provides his own answer, to the last note of the last movement where the cello, instead of playing the third, supports with its lowest, most resonant, most open note the beautifully spare C major chord, I am in a world where I seem to know everything and nothing.
My hands travel the strings of the C minor trio while my ears sing to
the quintet. Here Beethoven robs me of what is mine, giving it to the other violin; there he bequeaths me the upper reaches of what Julia used to play. It is a magical translation. I listen to it again from beginning to end. In the second movement it is the first violin - who else? - who sings what was the piano's theme, and the variations take on a strange, mysterious distance, as being, in a sense, variations one degree removed, orchestral variants of variations, but with changes too that go beyond what could be explained by orchestration alone. I must play this with the Maggiore, I
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must. If we're simply playing it through with a friendly viola, Piers will surely not mind my being first fiddle for once.
I still don't know how the cabbie found me. The only possibility I can think of is that he examined the bag or the receipt - that he went to Harold Moores the very day I left it behind - that someone there recognised the record
- that the old man downstairs remembered I'd just filled out an address card. But was Bayswater out of his way for so many days on end? Was he perhaps on holiday? And what moved him to such effort, to such kindness? I do not know his name or the number of his taxi. I cannot trace him or thank him. But somewhere in this music, interfused in my mind with so many extra-musical memories, this strange action too has found a sort of home.
a-5
I write to Carl Kail: an awkward letter, wishing him well in his retirement and saying little of myself. I do say that I am happy he heard us in Stockholm, and that he was not ashamed of his student. I know I have not built the kind of career he envisaged for me, but I am making music I love. If I think of Vienna at all, it is of the early days. This is hardly true, but why widen a rift between strangers between those estranged? I add that if I am exacting with myself, I owe it to him, and to my admiration of him. In large part this is true.
He was a mocker: "Oh, you English! Finzi! Delius! It would be better to remain in a land without music than to have music like that." And a charmer: when Julia and I played for him once, he took pains to praise her, casually,
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intelligently, extravagantly. She couldn't understand what fault I found in him, either then or later. She loved me, yes, but saw this as a mote in my own eye. Yet when I met him in Manchester, had he not equally charmed me?