An Equal Music

by Vikram Seth

  "I don't understand it," says Helen. "She listens to the whole concert and then battens onto the encore."

  Erica smiles maternally. "I told her it isn't the sort of thing you usually play. She said, 'More's the pity: if I offer them this recording they'll have to.' Really, Helen, I have very very rarely seen Ysobel Shingle as enthusiastic about anything as she was about the way you played the Bach. To get an offer from Stratus is a big deal. I don't mean money," adds Erica quickly. "You won't get much. But it'll definitely be noticed."

  "It could go badly wrong," says Billy. "A recording of the 'Art of Fugue' on the Stratus label will be widely reviewed - and if people don't like it, we could be orbiting in outer darkness."

  "Yes," says Erica. "And if they do like it, you could be dazzled by the limelight. Well, there it is. It's for you to decide. But I'm willing to spend two hours trying to persuade you, since I couldn't dissuade her. Or deflect her, rather."

  "It's crazy," says Piers. "It'll distract us from our regular repertoire."

  "It's a challenge," says Erica.

  "That's a glib response," says Piers shortly.

  Erica turns to me, unfazed. "You haven't said much, Michael."

  "He hasn't said anything," says Helen. "What on

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  earth's the matter with you, Michael? You look cornpletely out of it. Are you all right?"

  Billy glances at me. "What do you think?" he asks.

  "I don't know," I say. "I'm still quite stunned." I turn to Erica, trying to concentrate. "Is this why you didn't tell us over the phone what she was offering?"

  "Perhaps," says Erica. "Yes. I wanted to enjoy your reactions. And I didn't want anyone to pre-empt everyone else's opinions."

  Piers grunts.

  "How long is the 'Art of Fugue', Billy?" I ask.

  "An hour and a half - two CDs."

  "And all we've ever played of it is four and a half minutes," says Piers.

  "But we enjoyed it," I say.

  "Yes," says Helen, "more than almost anything I've ever played."

  "You played it superbly, superbly!" cries Erica, lathering on the enthusiasm. "And the audience was silent for five whole seconds before clapping. One, two, three, four, five! I've never seen anything like it."

  "It's a seriously bad idea," says Piers, unimpressed. "It'll deflect us from what we want to do. It'll compete with our performances, not complement them. We can't perform the whole damned thing, only record it. Quartets don't do that sort of thing on stage. Besides, Bach didn't write it for string quartet."

  Billy gives a little pre-disquisitional cough. "Urn, you know, I'm sure if the string quartet existed in his time he'd have written for it."

  "Oh, yes, Billy, your hotline to Bach again?" says Piers.

  "In fact, it's not really clear what he wrote it for," continues Billy calmly. "I'm pretty sure he wrote it for the keyboard, since it falls under the hands, but some

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  people think it wasn't written for any particular instrument. Others think it wasn't even written to be played, just as a sort of offering to God or the spirit of music or something - but I think that's silly, and so does Jango. No, there's no harm in us performing it."

  "And the viola does as much as everyone else, for a change," says Helen meditatively.

  Piers looks upwards at the ceiling.

  "Both violas, actually," says Billy to Helen.

  "What do you mean?" she asks.

  "Well," says Billy with a Buddha-like air, "you remember that Michael had to tune his lowest string down a bit at the Wigmore? If we had been recording it as opposed to performing it, he could just as well have played the whole of that fugue on the viola instead of the violin, and avoided the problem. And there are several other fugues where his part goes so low that he would really have to play on the viola."

  My face lights up at the thought of getting the chance to play the viola again.

  "So?" says Erica, having poured herself a full and rather undiluted glass of whisky. "What's the sense of the meeting? What shall I tell Ysobel?"

  "Yes!" says Helen before anyone else can say anything. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

  Billy gives a funny shrug with shoulder, head and right hand which says, in effect: well it's a risk, but on the other hand, what's life for, and Bach is so fantastic and Helen is so eager, so, well, yes, fine.

  "I wonder whose viola I could borrow," I say.

  Piers is normally our programmer, but if he tries to lay down the law now, he will be faced with rebellion.

  "Let's suggest a different programme and call her bluff," he says.

  Erica shakes her head. "I know Ysobel," she says.

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  ^

  "Well, when would we be expected to record?" asks Piers irritably. "If we were to agree, that is."

  Erica smiles a small smile of anticipated triumph. "Ysobel's surprisingly flexible on that, though she does want an answer from us very soon about whether we'll do it at all. It could become a hole-in-the-catalogue issue for her, and if we delay or refuse she might start looking for someone else to fill it. She suddenly started talking or whispering, in that way of hers - à propos of nothing in particular, or maybe I just missed the connection, which would be typical of me, of course, about how very much she liked the sound of the Vellinger Quartet..."

  "We shouldn't rush into things," says Piers, struggling in the face of Erica's tactics.

  "No, but we shouldn't dawdle out of things, either," says Helen. "We aren't the only decent quartet around. You remember when we delayed getting back to the Ridgebrook Festival and they got the Skampa instead?"

  "You know, Helen," says Piers, rounding on her, "you're a great enthusiast about everything at the beginning, but - do you remember the potter's wheel? You made everyone's life hell until Father got you one, and then you threw one pot on it - not a particularly attractive one, either, if I recall - and gave it up. It's still sitting in the garage."

  "I was sixteen," says Helen, stung. "And what does that have to do with this? If the Vellinger steal a march on us, we'll only have you to blame."

  "Oh, all right," says Piers. "All right, all right, let's tell the crazy Shingle that we're dumb enough to consider her idea. But we need time to think it through. We can't decide immediately. I refuse to. Let's go home and think about it. For a week. For at least a week."

  "Calmly," suggests Helen.

  "Yes, calmly, of course," says Piers, smouldering.

  AN EQUAL MUSIC

  *43

  3-7 '•-•••:. -•--" • - :

  Night comes down on a strange day, so full of change. I need to take a walk around my neighbourhood. Just as I am about to step outside Archangel Court, the silverhaired, immaculate and rather mysterious Mr Lawrence

  - Mr S.Q. Lawrence - accosts me.

  "Um, Mr Holme, could I perhaps have a word with you? About the lift - we've been talking to the management agency, and ... a word with Rob . . . some inconvenience . . . but rather a happy outcome, wouldn't you agree?"

  I hear little of what he is saying. Stray phrases like shooting stars on a horizon enter my mind. But I wonder what the Q in his name stands for.

  "Yes, yes, I agree completely."

  "Well, I must say," says Mr Lawrence, looking surprised and relieved, "I was rather hoping you'd say that. And of course we have the other long leaseholders to take into consideration . . . unsatisfactory performance . . . especially inconvenient for you ... of course one could change to Otis . . . service agreement . . . swings and roundabouts . . . well, there it is."

  "I'm so sorry, Mr Lawrence, I must rush. Etienne's will be closing soon. Croissants, you know." I open the door and step out into the moist night.

  Why did I need to explain that I was going to buy croissants? I ask myself.

  When will I see Julia again?

  The girl at Etienne's has changed; she is fresh-faced, even so late in the day, and looks and sounds Polish. I wa
lk past Greek restaurants, an Australian pub, ranks of telephones with the cards of call-girls attached to the inside with Blu-tack. I need emptier streets. I turn to the white squares to the west.

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  Their hearts are full of inaccessible trees. Their pavements are almost unpeopled. I walk for an hour here and there. The sky is clouded, the air mild for winter. Somewhere, far away, a car alarm starts up, sounds for half a minute, then stops.

  I said I loved her and she did not respond. My hands rested on her shoulders, and I felt them tense. She looked in front of her through the huge windows at the bare, •wind-battered branches of the horse chestnuts.

  When we walked back across the park, she said hardly a word. Twigs lay scattered about the Broad Walk, gulls cried above the Round Pond. A disjointed conversation was what we had, as if she did not want to address what I had to say.

  The dull silver domes of the Stakis Hotel; we parted there.

  Mr and Mrs Hansen and their son Luke. A cat? A dog? Goldfish? The telephone must not ring in their home, their haven.

  If I could talk to her tonight it would ease my heart. If I could hold her again I would be at peace.

  3-8

  I drop off to sleep about midnight, imagining I am with her. I sleep dreamlessly, perhaps because I am so tired.

  At ten in the morning, someone rings from below on the intercom. I look at the miniature blue screen and see her face, a bit distorted. A scarf covers her hair.

  It's astonishing: as if the thought of her had conjured her up.

  "Michael, it's Julia."

  "Hello! Come on up. I'm just shaving. First lift, eighth floor," I say, and press the buzzer.

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  She looks a bit nonplussed by the entrance procedure. She pulls open the inner glass door and smiles. After what seems ages I hear the sound of the lift, then the bell to the front door. I open it.

  "Oh, I'm sorry - you're in the middle of things," she says, looking at me. There is a towel around my shoulders, foam on my chin and neck, and an idiotically broad grin on my face. "I didn't realise you were shaving," she continues.

  "I'm amazed I haven't cut myself," I say. "What brings you here?"

  "I don't know. I happened to be in the area." She pauses. "What a view! It's wonderful. And there's so much light."

  I step towards her, but she quickly says, "Please, Michael."

  "OK, OK, it's fine - foam on my face - I understand. Would you like some music? I'll be out in no time."

  She shakes her head.

  "Don't disappear," I say. "You're not just a shaving reverie?"

  "No."

  In a few minutes I'm out of the bathroom. I follow the smell of coffee to the little leg of my sitting room that acts as my kitchen. Julia is looking out of the window. When I'm just behind her, she turns around, startled.

  "I hope you don't mind," she says. "I've made some coffee."

  "Thank you," I say. "It's been some time since anyone's done that for me here." .

  "Oh? But I thought-" , .*• ,

  "Well, yes - but she never stays here."

  "Why?" ,„ "We don't live together. I visit her sometimes."

  "Tell me about her."

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  "She's a violin student. French: from Nyons. Her name's Virginie."

  "Would I like her?"

  "I don't know. Possibly not. No, I don't mean that you wouldn't dislike her, you just wouldn't have much in common. I like her, though," I add quickly, feeling J*^'! disloyal.

  ***"' "I didn't see any photographs in the living room -

  except of your family," says Julia.

  "Actually I don't have any photographs of her," I say quickly. "Not accessible, anyway. I suppose I could describe her: black hair, black eyes . . . no, I can't. I'm no good at describing people's faces."

  "Well, I like the aftershave she's given you."

  "Hmm."

  "What's it called?"

  "Havana." ..,.- . ; ,,v.

  "Like the capital of Cuba?" ,, . • ;- >••

  "What other Havana is there?"

  "Well, none, I suppose."

  "And I like this lemony thing you've got on. What is it?"

  "Michael, don't pretend you're interested in the name of my perfume."

  "A present from your husband?"

  "No. I bought it myself. Just a month ago. You'd like James," says Julia.

  "Of course," I say meaninglessly.

  "I don't know why I've come. It's stupid of me. I was curious about where you lived," she continues. "Even that day I saw you on Oxford Street I knew you lived near me."

  "How could you have known that?" I ask.

  "The first three digits."

  "I see."

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  "I looked up your name in the phone book, in fact. I couldn't remember the number fully."

  "So you did look it up after all."

  "Yes." •. :; -.

  "And you didn't call me?"

  "I remember thinking, as I was looking at those names

  - Holland, Holliday, Hollis, Holt, and so on - 'These are just names. Just ordinary names.' And of course, in the Vienna phone book, I read Kind, Klimt, Ohlmer, Peters nothing happens in my head, nothing stirs in me."

  "What are you saying, Julia?"

  "Beethoven, Haydn, Mozart, Schubert - don't you see what I mean? They're just names - names out of a phone book, I sometimes think. No, you don't see, I can tell. But it's so high up here - so high above everything."

  "Yes. Well," I say, grabbing onto something that I can at last grasp. "There's lots of light, as you said. And a distant view of St Paul's to compensate for low water pressure." I turn to point out a socket. "If you plug the Hoover in there, .you can vacuum the whole flat. Three small rooms - it's no palace, but it's bigger than in Vienna. Do you like it?"

  "Milk but no sugar, I suppose?" asks Julia, countering the question.

  "Neither, nowadays."

  "I'm sorry?" She sounds flustered, as if this change in my habits signified more than it does.

  I smile at her confusion. "I've gone off milk."

  "Oh? Why?"

  "I keep forgetting to buy it. What's in the fridge is usually past its date. So rather than ruin my coffee, I've just got used to having it black."

  We take our mugs to the other end of the room and sit down. I look at her, she at me. What is all this chatter and all this silence?

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  "Are you glad I've come?" she asks.

  "Yes, but I can't believe it," I say. "It is incredible."

  "I'm not disturbing you?"

  "No. And so what even if you were? But I don't have any lessons this morning. We've got a rehearsal in an hour, though. The strangest thing happened yesterday. Well, the second-strangest." , "What was that?"

  I "We were asked to record the 'Art of Fugue'." ' "The 'Art of Fugue'? All of it?" '.,/"

  "Yes. By Stratus."

  "Michael, that's absolutely amazing." Julia's face lights up with pleasure, with happiness at the thought and surely for me.

  "Yes, isn't it?" I say. "You used to play bits of it. Do you still?"

  "Sometimes. Not often."

  "I've got the music. And there's an upright in the next room."

  "Oh, no, no - I can't, I can't." She protests almost violently, as if warding off some terror.

  "Are you all right?" I touch her shoulder, then cup it with my palm.

  "Yes. Yes," she says. My hand moves to the side of her neck. She gently moves it away.

  "I'm sorry if I upset you. It's just that I'd love to hear you play again. I'd love to play something with you."

  "Oh no!" she says sadly. "I knew you'd want us to play together. I shouldn't have come. I knew I shouldn't. And I've disappointed you."

  "Julia - what are you saying? I'm not disappointed that you're here. How could I be?"

  "Luke's school is just around the corner. I dropped him off, the
n sat in the car wondering what to do." She looks stricken. "Even after I decided to call you I

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  couldn't, because I thought it would be too early. So I sat in a café for an hour and changed my mind every ten minutes."

  "Why didn't you phone me? I've been awake since nine."

  "I had to think things out myself. It wasn't simply that I was in the area. I wanted to see you. I want to see you. You were such a huge part of my life. You are. But I don't want anything from you - anything complicated. Anything at all. Not that it was simple then."

  I feel as if the brunt of the conversation has been forced

  onto me.

  "What does James do?" I ask. I force the name out as casually as I can, but everything in me rebels against it. I'd rather call him "your husband".

  "He's a banker. He's American. From Boston. That's where we've lived since we've been married. Until we came to London."

  "When was that?"

  "More than a year ago . . . Luke misses Boston. He often' asks when we're going back. Not that he's unhappy here. He's a bit of a leader in his group."

  "And how old is he?"

  "Almost seven. Six and ten twelfths, according to him. He's into fractions - but he's not a little nerd, he's a darling. "

  I feel a physical agitation in my heart. "Julia, when did you get married? How soon after I came back to England?"

  "About a year."

  "No. No. I can't believe that. I can't. That's not possible. I spoke to your father around that time. He didn't tell me anything."

  Julia says nothing.

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  V a

  r*-"-'

  &

  "Was James around when I was there?"

  "Of course not." There is a trace almost of disdain in her voice. > • x

  "I can't bear it." ;

  "Michael, I'd better go."

  "No, don't."

  "Your rehearsal."

  f "Yes. I'd forgotten . . . Yes, I suppose you'd better . . . But can't you come tomorrow? Please. I'll be up and about by nine. Earlier, in fact. When does school begin?"

  "Eight thirty. Michael, I can't just drop Luke at school and then come and see you. I can't. It would be too - I don't know - too dismal."

  "Why not? What have we done?"