An Equal Music

by Vikram Seth

  The young manager on duty nods, and the Maggiore gather at the doors. As the four of us enter, climbing the shallow wooden steps to the podium, the bustle of voices resolves to applause. Through all this I can hear the creak of old wood underfoot. I look beyond me: to my right, buff-sheened curtains drawn against the late daylight, and a chandelier casting its light on the bust of Brahms, not quite directly below; far ahead of me, at the end of the rectangular hall, high caryatids in gold and unresolved faces on the balcony; and to either side of me, on both walls, long thin balconies, all filled except for a few

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  seats in the director's box. The dark stalls are almost all full; and in the second row I see Julia's mother and aunt, an empty seat next to them. If I must partly view the audience now, I will not have to when we play the Trout.

  Silence now. Here too a gash in the ceiling lets in sunlight from above; and at this hour, as much pours down from the sky as radiates from the lamps. We bow; we sit; we tune once more for a few seconds; and Piers, even before I have time to register it, has suddenly begun; and now I have; and now Helen; and now Billy: we are shimmering away like manic bees at the start of the Quartettsatz.

  A quick, full chord; and now, for the most part, Helen and I are calm, while Piers and Billy sizzle and grumble above and below. The author of perfectly unfinished masterpieces presents us with this, a first movement so symmetrical and full it need not long to link itself with any other. And what else lies ahead tonight? A piece almost over-finished at the request of a patron; and then the work that rftarked the close of his own unfinished life. If. only he had lived, most generous Schubert, to be as ancient as Mozart.

  The bees return, buzzing furiously, and with three sharp, sweet stings it is over. Heavenly concision! We stand, we bow gratefully to grateful applause. We go off, we come on, off, on, and with Billy still passing through the stage door to the corridor beyond, the last of the clapping dies.

  "Your mother's in the second row," I tell Julia. "And your aunt."

  "I'm joining them there after the interval."

  "But there's no loop in the hall. How will you manage to hear anything?"

  "I'll watch."

  • "Piers?" I say, turning away from Julia.

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  r

  "Yes?" he replies.

  I tap my bow on his shoulder, leaving two regimental stripes of rosin on his jacket. He does not bother to brush them off but smiles his usual half-smile: "Good luck, then, Michael," he says. "It went well; and it will."

  But I feel a buzz of nerves now that the Trout is directly ahead. The tips of the fingers of my left hand begin to tingle slightly - as if they were touching a lowvoltage wire.

  The feeling goes. I am myself again. Piers steps back. Julia and Petra join us. We enter, we bow, we dispose ourselves about the stage, and from all five of us the first glorious chord of the Trout Quintet sounds out into the hall.

  5-n

  It is still light above; someone is fanning herself with the gold programme there in front; our sounds are all one, as are the faces there; Helen leads now, for she cannot crane her neck backwards to see what Julia is doing; but it all merges and goes forward. The bass is the motor. Whose is this lovely light touch? It is the cello; he has closed his eyes. My ears cut out on me, I cannot hear, but I know these agile fingers have possession of the piece. Their intonation is perfect. The fingers are mine, the board on which they dance is of ebony. This silence I hear, is this what she is confined to? The attendant ghosts press down on me: out of my eye, to my right somewhere, is the statue of Carl Kail, who once reigned in my life; and on the balcony is Mrs Formby sitting next to my old German teacher. Schubert is here, and Julia's mother. They attend because of the beauty of what we are re-making.

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  The herringboned floor of the hall turns to tarmac: black ebony, white ivory; it is a carpark covered with snow, melting into the Serpentine. A slim fish leaps in silver scales from its murky shallows. Each time it emerges it is a variant colour: gold, copper, steel-grey, silver-blue, emerald.

  And now this last movement, which Billy says can only work through frenzy. I never warmed to it, yet if it is the last piece she plays in ensemble, a few minutes more means everything; a repeat is everything; the last phrase must then be imprinted for ever; and the last note. It is a death, a passing; for will she ever? - she will not ever play with anyone again. I glimpse her at the piano, a shimmering vision in green. I am not an agent but a means, impermanent as the gold in her hair, the blue in her eyes, the electrical impulses that once involved the serpentine cochlea, where the body has attacked itself. Is she never to play again with other hands?

  The Member of the Board of Representatives of the Society of Friends of Music in Vienna was cold, then hurigry, then ill; and, for a happy man, full of sorrow and haste. Thank you, then, my fellow citizens, for listening to this here, for your acute attentiveness to what is the mere elaboration of a song; my one concert was also under these auspices, and I am sure there would have been others if there had been time. But do not flee; applaud these players, then drink your Sekt, good burghers and return, for after the interval you will hear what I would myself have been pleased to hear through gut and hair and wood, not merely through the music of my mind. But it was the year I walked to Haydn's grave; it was the year I died; and the earth took my syphilisriddled flesh, my typhoid-ravaged guts, my vainly loving heart many times around the sun before my quintet for

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  strings was heard by human ears.

  Applause rings out for the Trout. Applause and even cheers. This from staid Vienna. Perhaps some students? But where am I now?

  "Michael." -.;. -

  I start at her voice, troubled, urgent.

  They are standing, they have been standing for a while. I am still sitting. I stand.

  Now we are in the corridor. I cannot return.

  Julia's voice: "Piers, would you keep his violin aside? Michael, hold on to my arm. We've got to take another bow."

  The creaking steps, the applause. Everyone is smiling. I cannot stand straight. I turn and make for the corridor, alone.

  Her arm around my shoulders. Piers's voice, frightened, taking charge.

  "I think that's enough. He's ill. Let him sit down. Don't take another bow. Let them clap on, it doesn't matter . . . What is it, Michael? What is it, for heaven's sake? Helen, give him a glass of water. Petra, it was great

  - well done! But look, we need someone from the management quickly. Where has Wilder gone? How long is this damned interval?"

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  I can manage no more than a whisper. "The bathroom -

  Piers - Billy."

  "I'll take you," says Billy. "Here, Michael, hold on to

  me."

  "I'll be fine in a couple of minutes. I'm sorry, Billy." "Don't be. Just breathe deeply. Relax. It'll be a while

  yet. Helen has a bit of whisky."

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  "I can't go on again."

  "You can. You will. Don't be afraid."

  "I just can't."

  The grey walls; grey tiles; on the floor small matt grey tiles. A grey metal square on the waU: I bend down to look at my face. It is like death.

  Billy's voice outside. "Michael, there'-s not much time. You'd better come out."

  "Billy - please."

  "No one will make you do anything." -

  I let him lead me to the green room.

  Piers and Kurt are talking to someone on duty, who is holding a large leather book open for us to sign. He also has a number of envelopes in his hand.

  "Was ist denn los, Hen Weigl, was ist denn los, Herr Tavistock?"

  "If you don't mind, Herr Wilder, can this wait till after the concert? One of our colleagues, Michael Holme, yes, our second violinist - a,nd he is playing in the quintet . . . no, it hasn'
t happened before ..."

  But it has happened, it is happening, it will happen.

  À hubbub: a dozen people. Someone else I do not know: an older woman, kind, used to crises, someone higher up in the hierarchy. So many people. My repeated, floating name.

  I am in a chair. My head is in my hands. Julia is speaking to me: words of comfort, I know, but incomprehensible to me. I look up at her face.

  Herr Wilder is looking at his watch. "Wenn ich die Herrschaften bitten darf. . ."

  Kurt looks panic-stricken. He rests his head against the neck of his cello. Billy, Piers, Helen . . .

  "Bitte, meine Herren ..." Herr Wilder says. "Gentlemen, please, if you would be so good . . . Mr Holme . . . we are already somewhat late ..."

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  Someone is putting my violin into my hands. What should I do with it?

  Julia is staring at the wall, at one of the framed manuscripts. "Look at this, Michael."

  I look at it. I can make out that it is a song by Schubert: "Die Liebe".

  "Let's play it - " I say.

  "Michael, this is no time - " she begins.

  "Do it," says Billy, taking it quickly off the wall and placing it on the music-desk of the piano.

  Julia begins to play both of her lines, then just the bass together with the vocal line. It is short, not sweet: urgent, unlyrical, agitated, uncertain.

  "Tune up, Michael, quick; stand here; it's within your range," says Billy.

  I tune the violin swiftly; I play the line of the voice. No one interrupts us.

  "I thought you'd never play with anyone again," I say to her.

  "Go onto the stage now," she says, pressing my hand.

  I have joined the others in the corridor. The haze drifts apart into a moment of terror. "My music - my music - I don't have my music."

  "It's on the stand already," says Helen, her voice white, drained.

  The doors open. Calmly, unhurriedly, to welcoming applause, we move to the semicircle of five chairs on the stage.

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  It darkens above us during the quintet, as if the cells of life were dying. In the skylight above, the grey grows duller, darker. The last glimmer of the day is extinguished

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  with the slow, grave trio. Noble, brooding, sorrowful, it helps one bear the world, and all fear of what may come in the sunless night.

  These hands move as those hands moved on paper. This heart beats and rests as that heart beat and rested. And these my ears. But did he never hear this played: not once, ever?

  Beloved Schubert, in your city I am adrift. I am consumed by past love; its germs, long embedded, half contained, have grown virulent again. There is no hope for me. I turned away four thousand nights ago, and the path was closed in by trees and brambles.

  I am eaten by futile pity. I make too much of much.

  From one city of shrunken power and lapsing music I travel now to another. Let there be some change in my state. Or let me live in a zone where hope is not a word. How can I long for what I do not grasp? -

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  At eight in the morning I see a fax slipped under my door. It is from Julia's Venetian friend. Rather than asking us to stay with her, she has placed a small apartment she owns at our disposal. I go to the station and buy two tickets. When I return I ring Piers's room, but he is out. Helen, though, is in. Before she can say anything about last night, I tell her that I will not be flying with them to Venice tomorrow but going by train.

  I do not want to talk about, to think about last night. To the audience, to anyone on that side of the stage, it was a success; more than a success. For my part, I survived it: it was not what happened ten - eleven - years ago. But without "Die Liebe", without the help of my friends, how would I have recollected myself ? During the

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  string quintet, as I felt the storm of the second movement pass through me, I stared at the seat in the audience where she should have been sitting, and that dizziness almost undermined me again.

  What must they think of me? What will Julia say when we meet?

  Last night, before anyone else could come backstage, I fled - first to the hotel, then, fearing I might be sought out, into the streets.

  -"You want to be by yourself?" asks Helen now.

  "I just want to go by train."

  "But your plane ticket is paid for. It's non-refundable. Do come with us, Michael. I'll sit next to you."

  "These train tickets won't come from quartet funds."

  "Tickets?"

  "Julia's coming too."

  "And staying at the palazzo with us?"

  "No, in Sant'Elena."

  "But that's - isn't that - that's at the end of the world!"

  "She has a friend who has a spare apartment there; that's where we'll be staying."

  "Michael, you can't stay there. We should stay together, the four of us. We always have. And - well - we can't scorn hospitality we've accepted. I'm sure the Tradonicos could fit in an extra person."

  "Helen, that's not what I have in mind."

  Helen's face colours. She is about to say something, then stops herself. She glances at herself in the mirror, and this seems to increase her annoyance.

  "You were fine before you met her again," she says, not looking at me.

  I consider this for a moment. "No, in fact, I wasn't."

  "Well, I'd better tell the others. They were wondering how you were. We knocked at your door, but you weren't in earlier."

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  I nod. "Thanks, Helen. I don't know what happened. I've got to sort it out in my own mind. I'd rather not make it a quartet issue."

  This last, apparently obtuse remark of mine provokes an angry glance. "And lunch today?" says Helen. "And dinner? Or need I ask?"

  "No. I'll be out."

  She takes a breath. "You have the phone number and details of the palazzo, don't you?"

  "Yes. I'll get in touch tomorrow evening. And here's the address and telephone number of the apartment."

  "A street name and street number! It really is the end of the known universe."

  "Yes, far from tourists like you lot," I say, hoping to lighten the tension with banter.

  "Tourists?" says Helen. "We will be working in Venice, don't forget. Life doesn't end with the Musikverein."

  Whatever I think, I do not contradict this aloud.

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  I walk over to the administrative wing of the Musikverein to apologise for last night and to sign the page of the great guest-book, which contains all the performers' signatures bar mine. Seeing me with one of the staff, the urbane and genial secretary-general, dressed in a fawncoloured suit, ushers me into his office and offers me a chair. He reassures me that this kind of thing happens "even with the greatest of artists"; that he hopes they themselves were not at fault in the arrangements; that the concert was a great success; and that the "Londoner Klang", as exemplified by us, will soon be as famous as the Viennese.

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  A portrait of Monteverdi looks down rather sceptically at us. "So much for Vienna," he murmurs through ancient lips. "You see, I am stuck here among all these charming German-speakers, and never hear a word of Italian spoken for months at a time. At least your Tononi can go back. I hope you enjoy the journey to Venice."

  Considering what a disastrous journey he had when he finally left for Venice himself, this is unkind.

  "Oh, that - " says Signer Monteverdi, reading my thoughts. "No, it wasn't pleasant at the time. But you aren't travelling with all your worldly goods. And I well, I
was glad to get away from Mantua at any cost."

  The secretary-general's attention is distracted by a video-monitor on his desk. He shakes hands and wishes me good luck.

  "Of course, Tononi was long after my time," murmurs Monteverdi. "Now where was he from? Brescia? Bologna? I forget."

  "Bologna," I say.

  "Bitte?" says the secretary-general, turning from the screen.

  "Oh, nothing, nothing. Thank you very much. I'm delighted you enjoyed the concert. And for all your kindness." Refusing to meet Monteverdi's gaze, I leave.

  .:;,' ' "•-." 5.16 .:. •

  After a quick bite at a nearby sausage stand, I am picked up at the hotel by Maria and her husband Markus and their son Peter, who is being a bit difficult. We drive north to Klosterneuburg to collect Julia. Mrs McNicholl, happily, is out. Julia emerges from the house, dressed in jeans and carrying a small hamper. I wordlessly give her

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  her friend's fax and one of the two tickets. She opens her mouth to speak, but says nothing.

  "I read it - I hope you don't mind," I say.

  "No, of course not."

  "And decided to take immediate action."

  "So I see. And, as a result, I have some explaining to do."

  "Well, better that than hesitating. It leaves at seven thirty tomorrow morning."

  "What is this?" asks Maria, who has overheard the last few words.

  When Julia tells her, she is visibly upset, but all she says is, "This is foolish."

  Julia is silent for a while. She probably agrees with Maria and is regretting her sudden consent. Then she says: "Maria, if it's all right with you and Markus, I'll stay over at your place tonight and get a taxi to the station early tomorrow morning. I'll have to tell my mother I'm staying with you over the next few days. But I'll give you my number in Venice - and my friend Jenny's number too - in case there's an emergency."

  "What's the use of that? How could I speak to you anyway?" Maria blurts out.

  "If Michael's on an extension, he can mouth the words he hears, and I can read them off him - at least enough to get the gist of things and to respond."

  "I am glad I'm not deaf," says Maria, by some instinct turning away so that Julia cannot read the brutal words.