An Equal Music

by Vikram Seth

  "Yes, of music too, in a way. But at least I can speak about it with you. I've been so hungry to speak of music and to play it with someone who understands me as I was before I - before all these changes in my life. "

  I hold her hand. She shakes her head, but lets it be.

  "What should I say, Julia? What do you want me to say? It's easy enough for me to say love, love, love. I'm not married."

  "And does your friend from Lyon know?" she asks.

  "Nyons. No. She doesn't. . . What were you reading that day when I saw you on the bus?"

  "I can't remember. Isn't it odd - I can't remember at ;*all. And it's the sort of thing one never forgets."

  "I've never really recovered from losing you. You must know that. But now I feel so afraid of talking to you - of putting a foot wrong and never seeing you again. Have things changed so much between us?"

  "I don't know. I don't know. I've just dropped Luke at school. He's not terribly musical, you know. Michael, this is terrible. We really can't."

  She closes her eyes. I kiss them open.

  "Well?"

  "I can see a couple of white hairs," she sa^s.

  "They're unearned," I say.

  "I doubt that."

  She kisses me. I hold her in that soundless room, far from daylight and the traffic of Bayswater and all the

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  m£

  webs of the world. She holds me as if she could never bear to let me desert her again.

  3-1?

  The sun falls on our bodies. She does not want the blinds drawn. I run my hands through her hair, so much longer than it used to be. We make love not with tenderness but with ecstasy born of starvation - yet in her I sense a tension drop away. She does not want me to speak, nor does she speak herself, but her eyes are on my face as if to catch every expression of mine. The scent of her body, mixed with her faint perfume, drives me into a frenzy.

  Afterwards, when I return to bed, she rests her head on my shoulder and drowses off. I cannot look at her face. I lightly place the palm of my free hand first on one eyelid, then the other. She is deep in some other world, far from my domain. Somewhere in the distance a helicopter clatters past, but she does not wake. A little later I get up again, gently disengaging my arm. For a while - it could not be more than half a minute -1 watch her. Perhaps she senses this. Her eyes open; she looks at me as if she were reading my thoughts. In her face, clear first with passion, then with peace, I see ambivalence return.

  "I had better go, hadn't I, Michael?"

  I nod, though I can't agree. I try to smile reassuringly. We hardly ever made love in the daylight when we were together years ago, I don't know why. My thoughts are perplexed by many things: they wander over everything since I first saw her as a student to all the acts - of speech or music or love - of these last few days. I know there are things that disturb me, that I cannot reconcile, but I cannot even put my finger on them. But just the thought

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  of what has happened burns through these light, unsettled mists.

  - 3-18 . ..:

  Though she left hours ago, the room smells of her. A day passes; two. I do not hear from her: neither phone nor fax nor letter nor visit.

  By day, by night, I sink my face into the sheets. I am in all the hours that we have ever spent. I am in all the rooms in which we have ever been.

  ,,:,;..,:;,,;- 3-19 - , -..,...•.',' :

  Three days have passed. I can stand it no longer. I walk in the park to calm my thoughts.

  The plane trees are all bare, but their flaked bark is lit by a slanting -light. The fountains at the end of the Long s* Water, dry and surrounded by mud a couple of weeks ago, are playing again. Snowdrops are coming through, and the odd crocus here and there. The weeping willows have come to life again, all lime-green by the Serpentine.

  It is about three in the afternoon. School will soon be out. Will she pick Luke up from the door? My steps find me at the corner of the square. I watch the street, idle, alert. Was it then to seek her out that I left my building?

  She appears on foot, walking quickly. She climbs the front steps and stands in a queue with the other women. In a few minutes the little boys in little green caps emerge and are hugged and kissed and taken away.

  Julia and Luke walk hand in hand along the square,

  ..- and then along a street just off it. They stop by a Range

  Rover and release a huge brown dog with a black face,

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  r*-'

  who is so delighted to see them that it is difficult to put him on his leash.

  They are on my street now. I view them with the eye of an outsider: a little boy with a cap; a well but casually dressed woman of medium height with a lovely unhurried gait - her hair is more gold than brown, but it is difficult to see her face from where I am, so many yards back, trailing them half-unwittingly; and a huge goldenbrown dog with a funny shambling walk, whose presence makes the family inviolate.

  I see her expression now, for she has passed my building. She glances to the right and upwards, searching, troubled. Then they walk on, towards the park.

  They pause at a zebra crossing. The dog strains at the leash. The boy leans his face against his mother's hand.

  And now I am back where I started: the park. I follow them at a distance as they walk along the avenue of young limes, the boy and the dog making forays onto the grass. A couple of minutes later the dog, whose face resembles that of a grizzly bear, bounds past me, barking, then turns and wheels back towards his owner.

  "Buzby! Buzby! Come back here. Good boy!" shouts Luke's treble voice.

  Julia turns; stands still; and something in her stance tells me she's seen me. I hesitate, she hesitates, then we begin to walk towards each other. The boy and the dog orbit her like irregular, colliding planets.

  "Well, hello," I say.

  "Hello."

  "So this is Luke?" -

  The boy looks enquiringly at his mother.

  "Yes. Luke, this is Michael."

  "Hello," I say.

  "Hello," says Luke, shaking my hand.

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  "Do you come here often?" I ask.

  "Sometimes - after Mom picks me up from school."

  "Our dog likes it," explains Julia. "There's a communal garden - quite a large one - behind our house, but he prefers the park."

  "Buzby!" I say, patting the dog's head. "Nice dog, nice name."

  Julia looks at me in astonishment. "Luke was calling him," I explain.

  "Oh, yes, of course," says Julia.

  Buzby rushes off to bark up a tree.. Luke follows him.

  "It's been three days," I say.

  "Yes," says Julia, smiling at me.

  "I've been so happy. I am so happy. But why've you disappeared?"

  "I haven't. Here I am." ;-•,:-...•: ~ .. e ,-

  "Are you happy?" '"• " -

  "I - how can I answer that? But I'm happy to see you."

  "Do you really come here often? You mean I could

  ,- have met yon here by chance any time this past year?"

  -*=' "Not often exactly. Once a fortnight or so. Less often

  in the winter. And - well - we have met here by chance,

  haven't we?"

  I start to laugh. She joins in. Luke returns. He looks at us quite calmly, with a little frown, until we stop.

  "Mom, let's take Buzby around the Round Pond," suggests Luke, enunciating clearly - and with the residue of what must be a Boston accent. He looks at me with interest. And I look at him. He is a good-looking kid, with much darker hair than Julia - as he might have had if he'd been our son.

  "I think we'd better get back," says Julia. "It'll be dark / in a little while."

  "It was a squirrel," says Luke to me by way of

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  diversion. "He goes wild around squirrels. We won't be five minutes. Promise, Mom."

  "Luke, I said no," s
ays Julia quite firmly. "And I've had enough of a walk."

  "Michael can take us then," says Luke, grabbing my hand. "Buzby likes him." As if to confirm this, Buzby returns and stands, attentive-eared, in front of us.

  Julia looks at me, I at her, Luke at both of us, Buzby at all three.

  "If you're not back in ten minutes, Luke, I shall put an apple in your lunch-box tomorrow."

  "Oh, yuck, I'm so scared," says Luke, grinning. "What's worse than finding a worm in an apple?" he asks me.

  "Now, Luke," says Julia.

  "Well, what?" I say.

  "Finding only half a worm," says Luke, and goes off into fits of delighted laughter.

  His mother, who has probably heard this a hundred times before, makes a wry face. His mother ... his mother . . . What is she thinking as I take charge of her son?

  When Luke and I get to the Round Pond, he says, "No, not clockwise, anti-clockwise. Buzby prefers it."

  "Shouldn't you Americans say counter-clockwise?"

  "Yes, I guess so. My Dad said that once. But I'm English here. How do you know my Mom?"

  "I've known her from Vienna." i,

  "That was before I was born." ' '

  "That's right."

  Luke seems lost in thought. Buzby trots off, then returns to bark, quite good-naturedly, at the swans.

  "My name is Lucius, actually," volunteers Luke. "Lucius Hansen. My grandfather is called Lucius too."

  "But everyone calls you Luke?"

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  "That's right. What's the difference between a dancer and a duck?"

  "A duck, did you say? Or a dog?" Luke has started mumbling.

  "A duck, stupid. Oops. Sorry. A duck."

  "Oh, I don't know. One's fat and flies, the other's thin and dies."

  "A dancer doesn't die."

  "In Swan Lake she does."

  "What's swan lake?" '

  "It's a ballet: you know, where people dance around on a stage. Not very interesting. The music's quite nice, though."

  "Anyway, it's the wrong answer," says Luke, unimpressed.

  "What's the right one, then?"

  "One goes quick on her legs, the other goes quack on her eggs."

  We both laugh, Buzby runs up to us, shaking off water.

  "Did you make that up?" I ask. "It's good."

  "No, I read it in a riddle book. Dad gave me one for Christmas. He gave me three books: a riddle book, an airplane book and a book on stamps."

  "No dinosaur book?"

  "Dinosaurs are dead," pronounces Luke.

  "What sort of dog is he?" I ask. "Some kind of giant labrador?"

  "Labrador?" exclaims Luke contemptuously. "He's a Leonberger. And he's actually only a puppy. He's eleven months old."

  "A puppy?" I exclaim. "But he's as big as a lion."

  "He's quite silly," confides Luke. "He ate grass with snails on it last month and got dyspepsia or something." Luke has a vocabulary beyond his years.

  ! l8o I VIKRAM SETH

  "What's all this about apples in your lunch-box?" I ask him.

  He makes a face. "I don't like apples."

  "All kids like apples."

  "I don't. I prefer peaches. Or oranges. Or anything else."

  When we are halfway around, Luke says, "Did you meet Mom before she met Dad?" He doesn't sound too pleased.

  "What? Oh, yes. Well, we were students together. I'm a musician."

  There is a short pause while Luke considers this. "Mom makes me practise piano," he says at last. "I tell her I'm going to be a pilot so it's a waste of time, but she doesn't listen. At all."

  "Do you like it?"

  "It's all right," says Luke, staring at the water, then adds something inaudible about scales.

  "I didn't get that. You're mumbling."

  "It's the way I speak," says Luke with sudden sullenness.

  "But you spoke so clearly just a little while ago."

  "That's because Mom finds it hard to hear me. She's deaf . . . Oops!" He claps his hands over his mouth.

  I laugh. "Why? Because she makes you practise scales?"

  But Luke, his eyes open wide, looks utterly shocked at what he has just said. "Don't tell her - " he blurts out.

  "Tell her what?"

  Luke's face has gone white. He looks horrified.

  "What I said. It's not true. It's not true."

  "All right, Luke, all right. Take it easy now."

  He says nothing at all for the next few minutes. He looks guilty and alarmed, almost stricken. I put my hand on his head and he does not object. But I am filled with

  AN EQUAL MUSIC | l8l

  unease and desperate concern, and in the face of his words I can think of nothing to say.

  3.20 •' •; .;-• ' . >'

  We return to where we started. Buzby runs up to Julia, barking energetically, and circles around her a few times. Luke seems upset again.

  If it is true, I cannot think it through. The light is fading. I remember how, in the Orangery, when she stood by the radiator, I spoke, and she did not respond, and all her non-responses - those I can remember - now begin to take on a haze of sense. Her avoidance, as I thought, of certain random subjects: can I remember now if my face was averted then - or hers - when I broached them? Am I reading too much into one remark of Luke's, and a few minutes of dismay?

  She has not changed. She laughs, tells us we are almost a minute late. Buzby, after orbiting twice, leaves the solar system, and Luke chases after him.

  "I hope he wasn't too much trouble," says Julia. "He's sometimes quite moody. He looked a bit subdued just now, as if he thought you might complain about his behaviour. Was he good?"

  "Good as gold. But he doesn't know what Swan Lake is."

  "I'm sorry?" Julia looks puzzled.

  "Swan Lake - the ballet," I carefully and too articulately explain.

  She frowns. "Of course, but, Michael, he's not even seven yet. What did you talk about?"

  "Books mainly. And riddles."

  Her face lights up. "Yes, he's into those. Did you get the dancer and the duck?"

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  "Quick and quack. Yes."

  From far off I hear the sound of distant honking, of swans taking flight.

  "Is something the matter? What is the matter?" asks Julia. "What's bothering you?"

  "Nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "Really, it's nothing. Just the swans. Will I see you tomorrow?" I hold her hand.

  "Don't."

  "Sorry. I forgot."

  "I don't think we should meet for a while. I really don't."

  "I must see you. I've got to talk to you."

  "What is it, Michael - are you all right?" she asks, her voice charged with alarm.

  "Yes, I am. Say you'll meet me -"

  "All right, but -"

  "Tomorrow morning?"

  She nods warily.

  The light is going. The boy and the dog are returning. If it is true, it will soon be too dark for her to see what I am saying. I claim I want to continue my walk, and the three of them turn to leave.

  Luke holds her hand. She bends down to kiss his face. The noises around me are all nebulous now. Into the dusk the three forms move, merging with others wandering at this hour. Soon they are lost, and I too turn away.

  >»>*

  #:

  ••*,

 

  Part Four

  .*• **-

  €2-: j*r"

  "f^V

  4.1

  The next day brings a bright and clear dawn. There is a yellow-gold glow on the Round Pond far off beyond the trees. I love this season of wood: the branches going up on one tree in counterpoint to the down-hanging boughs of another. The whitebeams look like hedgehogs against the fresh green grass.

  A huge old leafless chestnut tree, an anomaly beside the youthful avenue of silver limes, offers its down-hanging branches even though they have nothing in this season visibly to yield. But among its uppermost
twigs a bird is singing - a robin, by the sound, though it is so high that even this bare lattice is enough to obscure the small bird.

  I take a few steps backwards, attempting to distinguish it from its surroundings. A heavy pigeon flutters its way to the high branches, and now it is almost as if this absurd bird were singing so beautifully, pleased to accept credit for the performance of its invisible neighbour.

  It was when I mentioned the nightingale that Julia's eyes filled so suddenly - surprisingly, but not unaccountably, as I thought then - with tears. Now I realise I assigned them to the wrong account.

  In the sunken garden, a few yellow primroses are the only inklings of life; and in the ancient lime hedge around, twice my height and many times my age, there is a faint flush of reddish buds and twigs. This we could

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  share, but what of the dawn chorus in full rowdy swing all around? The plane descending west towards Heathrow?

  I walk where Luke and I walked yesterday. The gulls are silent so early in the morning. I count the swans: forty-one, including five young. One grubby black-footed cygnet gives me a canny sideways stare. Five adults take off from the far side of the pond. The wings of the huge ungainly birds make a slow, heavy ruckus as they steer overhead. Geese flee, honking.

  What of this could she hear? How much am I imagining of what she can and cannot?

  The cawing of a crow, the chacking of a magpie in a plane tree near the Bayswater Road, the buses roaring and sneezing - what can she hear?

  .' ..•;. ,•;>,, 4-2 ••••••'..•'.

  She does not tura'up as she promised, and I don't know what to do. I could fax her again, but then, if she had wanted to, she could have faxed me. I understand only too well now why she does not call me on the phone. The one time she did, she must have known she'd get my answering machine. Presumably she heard the bleep. Or did she just wait a few seconds before speaking? Does she have a hearing aid? I never felt any such thing when I touched her hair, her face.

  But we have played together, violin and piano, in key, in time, in this room, and she played with an awareness so simple and clear that she must have heard the music we made.

  In key, I said, but of course the piano, if in tune, would remain in key. And though she responded to my playing, it was as if the intimacy was almost personal to herself.

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  She asked me to stand there, where she could see me. Now I ask myself: was it to see my bow and my fingers move?