An Equal Music

by Vikram Seth

  "Not so stupid." I want to touch her shoulder, but don't. I feel this whole scene is being acted out between strangers.

  "You should go," she says.

  "I am going," I reply. "In fact, we're going there this spring."

  "Who is we?" .,. . ,

  "The quartet." !

  "What's taking you there?"

  "A couple of concerts - and, well, Venice itself. We're flying there from Vienna." /

  "Vienna?" says Julia. "Vienna?"

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  JM if -•

  "Yes," I say. Since she remains silent, I add, "We're playing an all-Schubert concert at the Musikverein."

  After a second she says in an even voice: "I'll tell my mother to watch out for it. She lives there now. And my aunt."

  "And you? Won't you come?"

  "I live in London now."

  My face lights up. "You do live in London. I knew it."

  Suddenly something occurs to her and she becomes white with anxiety. "Michael, I must go. It's after three. I had lost track of the time. I've got to ... to pick someone up."

  "But -"

  "I can't explain now. I must go, I really must. I shall be late. I'll see you tomorrow."

  "But when? Where?"

  "At one?"

  "Yes, but where? Here again?"

  "No - I'll leave a message on your machine."

  "Why not phone me later on?"

  "I can't. I'll be busy. I'll leave you a message by the time you get back." She turns to leave. She seems close to panic.

  "Why don't you phone them to say you'll be a bit late?"

  But she does not turn back or pause to reply.

  3-3

  That was the sum of our meeting. Nor did we touch in parting. We spoke for not even five minutes - and what we said was stilted, bitty. I know nothing of what she now thinks or now is. I find myself empty. A bit of her perfume remains on the air, light with lemon. I wander

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  around the rooms, staring at weaponry: swords, scimitars, daggers, cuirasses, helmets. A horse armoured in black steel bears down on me like a tank. A roomful of children painted by Greuze, fat with false innocence, smile through me or gaze tremulously heavenwards. A black-orbed clock shows two golden figures, a goddess and a young man: a king or prince. She towers over him in size, but her tiny fingers rest incongruously on his huge hand. Upstairs and downstairs I drift along, uneasy, entranced, seeing, unseeing: allegory, myth, landscape, royalty, lapdogs, dead game. The attendant has his hands crossed behind his head, which he is moving to left and right. He flexes his fingers. In this room I hear the voice of my violin. Venice surrounds us - the serene Canaletto of turquoise water, the grubby, visionary mergings of Guardi.

  We did not share these hours. We were sealed in separate absorptions. This is the only room where we talked at all. Yet how can one urge on a reacquaintance such as this? She didn't seem bitter; she even said she wanted to see me again.

  All the portraits where she paused, I now pause at. I see and hear her: her tense shoulders as she stood before the lady with a fan, her laughter as she looked at Fragonard's pink-frilled coquette on the swing.

  I stand in front of the painting and remember her laugh. Is she happy? Why does she want to see me again? Why, of all places, did she ask me here? Was it simply what first came to mind after the concert? Surely it could not have been because of Venice.

  Her laughter held delight. Yet she was suddenly anxious and sad.

  The flushed face looks mischievously at the slipper flying through the air over a froth of leaves. The ropes disappear into a misty tumult of darkness above. The

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  picture has charm. It held her here for a moment. Why look for another reason?

  3-4

  The world enters my head through my answering machine. There are seven messages: a bumper crop. The first is from Julia. She suggests we meet at one tomorrow in the Orangery in Kensington Gardens. This is just a few minutes' walk from where I live, but she couldn't possibly know that.

  There are a couple of calls relating to the Camerata Anglica and various rehearsals that I am, according to their office, to 'pencil in' or 'pencil out'.

  Erica Cowan calls to rave about our concert last night, and to say that Helen has told her that Julia came backstage afterwards. How marvellous. She is so happy for me; everything comes to those who wait. And she has some interesting news to impart to the quartet, but it will have to keep till tomorrow.

  A message from Piers. He feels I was a bit distracted when we discussed the concert on the way home. He'd like us to have a quick review. And Erica has something she wants to share with us. Could we meet at Helen's at two tomorrow afternoon?

  I call Piers. How about five instead of two? Fine with him, he says; he'll check with the others. What is this interesting news of Erica's, I ask him. Piers is cagey. Erica thinks we should all be together to consider it.

  The next message is in a female voice, somewhat irate, wondering why the London Bait Company is not answering her calls in the middle of a working day.

  A message from Virginie, sounding very cheerful. She loved the concert and is interrupting her practice - yes,

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  she promises she is practising - to tell me how inspiringly we played.

  The phone rings, and my heart leaps up. But it is Erica again. She sounds as if she's had much too good a lunch.

  "Michael, darling, it's Erica, I felt I had to call you, I had to, the concert last night was absolutely brilliant."

  "Thanks, Erica. I've just been listening to your message."

  "But that's not why I'm calling. It's just this, Michael, dear, you must be very very careful. Life is never simple. I've just had lunch with an old old friend of mine, and I can't help feeling that things are meant to happen when they happen. You do understand what I mean?"

  "I don't really -"

  "Of course it could be physical or spiritual or, well, anything. Helen told me, of course."

  "But Erica -"

  "Do you know, when you get to forty, you become intensely physical. I'm not interested at all in any men my age, I'm only interested in younger men, who by and large are absolutely gorgeous, but entirely unavailable. Earlier I used to be terribly picky, and all these people were wafting around with endless desire, and you were saying oh no, no, and now it's all changed. But the trouble is that even if you want to be naughty, all these young men want to do is to ask you to introduce them to people to help them get jobs." "Well -"

  "So you've got all this desire, but you're an old bag. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don't recognise myself. Who is she? Where did these wrinkles come from? I used to have a round face, rather moonlike, and I longed to be gaunt, but now of course I'm gaunt, terribly gaunt, and I'm not terribly keen to be an old bag. I could do with that moonface again."

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  "You're not gaunt, Erica, you're attractive and drunk."

  "You're not forty yet, you don't know," says Erica resentfully. "And you're a man."

  "Where did you go for lunch?" I ask.

  "Oh, the Sugar Club, they have all these unpronounceable ingredients in their food like jicama and metaxa - do I,,mean metaxa?" :! "I'm not sure."

  "But they have a brilliant wine list."

  "Apparently."

  "Naughty boy! My husband took me there for our anniversary last year and it was a real discovery. Now I take all my friends there. Try the kangaroo."

  "I will. Erica, what's this interesting news you have for the quartet?"

  "Oh, that? I think that Stratus are going to offer us a recording. "

  I can hardly believe my ears. Stratus! "You're joking, Erica," I say. "You can't be serious."

  "There's gratitude for you."

  "But that's amazing! How did you swing it?"

  "I had a lovely long chat with Ysobel this morning but let's talk about all this tomorrow at two."

&n
bsp; "Not two. Five." "

  "Five?"

  "Five. Write it down." -

  "Oh, I'll remember."

  "Erica, you won't remember a thing. Not after your liquid lunch."

  "All right. But don't tell the others what I've told you. I want it to be a surprise. Remember, mum's the word."

  But I have no doubt that Erica has phoned each of us to swear us to secrecy.

  Before I get off the phone I tell her to drink lots of

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  {fcsater, take a Nurofen, and attempt to pronounce "Ysobel Shingle" ten times in rapid succession.

  ' -•: ': •• 3-5 '• •••-' • -•• ; -

  •V . . V- . ^ : v * . • .

  Thinking of Julia and unable to sleep, I watch a desultory thriller late at night, and drift off at three in the morning.

  At eleven it is fresh and clear, but it darkens, and around noon there is a heavy and continuous downpour. But Julia does not phone to change our place or time of meeting.

  At a quarter to one, umbrella'd, capped, and padded against the weather, I step out into the dark day. The old leaves, long since fallen, are whirled up and around. The rain cuts across and soaks my trousers below the knee. The umbrella with its weak spokes becomes a crazy black sail. The park is almost completely empty, for who would take a stroll in this weather?

  On each of the larger boughs of a plane tree sit about a dozen pigeons, including a few brown ones, facing the wind, ruffled and uncooing, like fat fruit. A crow struts around beneath, calm, cawing, proprietorial. A couple of miserable joggers pass by.

  I get to the Orangery. A few people, presumably trapped by the storm, are sipping cups of tea or reading newspapers. It is a beautiful building from the inside: a very high white rectangle with alcoves, its southern wall made up of tall pillars alternating with huge windows to let in the sunlight - or whatever scene the weather holds. There is no sign of Julia.

  The place echoes at the best of times, but today the howling wind, the rain striking the tall windows at a shallow diagonal, the wail of an unhappy baby and the

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  random clangs from the kitchen create the sort of effect that would doubtless delight Billy.

  Julia comes in a few minutes later. She is utterly bedraggled. Her blonde hair is matted and almost brown, her dress soaked. There is an anxious look in her eyes as she glances quickly around the Orangery.

  I am by the door in a second, f "This umbrella," she says, struggling.

  I laugh and embrace her, and kiss her on the mouth without thinking, like that first time so many years ago.

  She half responds, then draws quickly away. For a few seconds she looks away from me, as if trying to collect herself.

  "What a storm," she says, passing a hand through her hair.

  "Why didn't you phone me to change the place?" I ask. "You're soaked through."

  "Oh - it would have been too confusing."

  "Stand by the radiator."

  She stands by the radiator, shivering, and looks out at the rain. I stand behind her, my hands on her shoulders. She does not shake them off.

  "Julia, I still love you."

  She says nothing. Is it my imagination, or do I feel her shoulders stiffen?

  When she turns around it is to murmur: "Let's have some coffee. Have you been waiting long?"

  "Julia!" I say. It's one thing to ignore my words, but why this deliberate banality?

  She reads the hurt in my eyes. Still she says nothing. We sit down. A waitress comes and we order something: coffee and ginger cake.

  For a minute or so we do not speak, then Julia asks hesitantly: "Do you have any news of Carl Kail?"

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  "I had a letter from him a few months ago."

  "He wrote to you?"

  "Yes. You probably know that he's in Sweden now."

  The waitress brings our order. Julia looks at her plate. "The rumour is that he's very ill," she says.

  "Something in his letter made me think so."

  She senses I don't want to talk about him, and moves to other matters. We touch on subjects carefully, one by one, as if they might suddenly rear up and strike: casual acquaintances, the likelihood of the storm letting up soon, the décor. I learn that Maria, after her string of artsy boyfriends, is now married to a good solid burgher.

  I touch the red mark on the left side of my chin - the violinist's callus. In all this openness and space, something seems to close in on me. Again I think of Carl. His bow went up and down like a little switch while he told me what to do. For him an orchestra was what a pub or a nightclub was to my father. Even chamber music was not what he expected of me. When he played I heard a sound so noble - round, warm, unaffected - that I wanted to emulate it, but when I tried his techniques they did violence to my own style. Why could he not permit me to form myself - with guidance, not constraint?

  Her eyes are on my face - almost warily. Then she says something which I lose in the noise around me. There is a loud clanging somewhere, and the baby three tables down is yowling lungfully.

  "I'm sorry, Julia - this place is impossible. I didn't hear that."

  "For once - " she says, and I can read both tension and a touch of amusement in her expression.

  "For once what?" •••••• -.~. ;-;.< ,f

  "Nothing." , -, :• ( •

  "But what was it you said?" , ; •

  off-.-

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  VIKRAM SET H

  "I'll have to tell you, Michael, sooner or later. It's better sooner."

  "Yes?"

  "I'm married." Softly she repeats it, almost to herself. "I'm married."

  "But you can't be."

  "I am."

  "Are you happy?" I strive to keep the misery out of my voice.

  "I think so. Yes." Her finger is moving in a small quadrant round the edge of her blue-and-white plate. "And you?" she asks.

  "No. No. No. I mean, I'm not married."

  "So you're alone?"

  I sigh and shrug. "No."

  "Is she nice?"

  "She's not you."

  "Oh, Michael - " Julia's finger stops its movement around the edge. "Don't do this."

  "Children?" I ask, my eyes holding hers.

  "One. A boy. Luke."

  "And you all live happily together in London."

  "Michael!"

  "And you still play music, of course." •;

  "Yes."

  "So that's all I need to know. Except - why don't you wear a ring?"

  "I don't know. It distracts me. It distracts me when I play the piano. I look at it and I can't concentrate on the music. Michael, it was you who left Vienna."

  It's true. What can I then say? Only my own unblunted truth will do.

  "I couldn't breathe with Carl around. I didn't know I couldn't do without you. I never thought that I'd lost you

  - that I'd lose you."

  Ill

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  "You could have written after-you left, explaining things."

  "I did write -"

  "Months later. After I'd slowly gone to pieces." She is quiet for a moment, then continues: "I didn't trust myself to open your letters when they finally started coming. I had thought of nothing but you - every hour, every day, when I slept, when I woke. No." She speaks from a surveying distance, almost beyond the memory of hurt or anger.

  "I'm so sorry, my darling."

  "Michael, don't call me that," she says sadly.

  We don't speak for a while, then Julia says, "Well, that was then."

  The rain has stopped. The garden outside is in clear view, with its huge green sand-turrets of topiary. The sky is clear.

  "Listen," I say. "A robin."

  Julia looks at me and nods.

  "You know," I continue, "I often come here - not to the Orangery so much as the sunken garden there. Sometimes in the spring I just come and listen to the blackbirds. And you - are you still in love
with your nightingales?"

  There are tears in Julia's eyes.

  After a while I say: "Look, let's get out of here and take a walk. I live close by."

  She shakes her head, almost as if she was denying what I've just told her.

  "You need to get dried off properly," I say.

  She nods. "I don't live far away either. My car's parked nearby. I'd better go."

  "You don't want me to have your phone number?" I ask.

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  VIKRAM SETH

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  "No," she says, dabbing at her eyes.

  "Well, here's my address," I say, taking a yellow sticker out of my wallet and scribbling it down. "Now write down yours. I'm not going to lose you again."

  "Michael, I'm not here to be gained."

  "You know that's not what I meant. I'm not such a fool."

  ;v "I don't know what you meant," she says. "And I 'don't know what I'm doing here."

  "Well, give me your address," I say.

  She hesitates.

  "In case I want to send you a Christmas card. Or, who knows, even another letter."

  She shakes her head and writes down her address. It's in Elgin Crescent, in Netting Hill, only a mile or so from where I live.

  "And are you still McNicholl? For professional purposes?"

  "No. I took my husband's surname."

  "Which is?"

  "Hansen."

  "Oh, so you're Julia Hansen. I've heard of you."

  Julia smiles despite herself. But, presumably seeing the wretchedness in my eyes, she stops.

  We walk across the park, not saying much, I towards my flat, she to her car.

  3-6

  "No, she's not, Piers darling," says Erica, setting down her Scotch on one of Helen's square table-cum-stools. "Eccentric, yes, neurotic, yes, but not mad."

  "But, Erica," says Billy, "couldn't you dissuade her?

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  Couldn't you? I mean, couldn't you tell her that we can't do it, and that there are dozens of things in our repertoire that we'd love to do? Dozens."

  Erica shakes her head vigorously. "I sat in her office for two hours going round and round the subject, but it was either this or nothing. She's not interested in anything else we can offer. She says the quartet repertoire is over-recorded, and she won't contribute to it."