Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Don’t be such a shit, Boris,’ said Marcus, putting an arm round Abby’s heaving shoulders.

  ‘Everyone ees against me,’ said Boris and stormed off to The Bordello.

  Abby was livid. What was the point of being the Immortal Beloved if you had to share the honour with a Swedish au pair, and for someone, who delayed for ever when producing music, Boris had proved disappointingly precipitous when it came to making love.

  Twenty minutes later, Boris was back, drenched again. Finding The Bordello locked, he had hammered on the door until Astrid had poured a bucket of water over him. He had then hovered in the bushes until Viking emerged to check he had gone and knocked out one of Viking’s front teeth.

  ‘I hope he suffer.’

  ‘He won’t, it’s always being knocked out, it’s only crowned,’ said Flora.

  Boris proceeded to tear up the horn solo of ‘Rachel’s Lament’.

  ‘Bloody hell, I spent all yesterday copying that out,’ grumbled Flora, shuddering at the increase in maggots as she retrieved the page from the bin.

  Nor was she very pleased herself. Boris had promised to dedicate the Requiem to her, and she’d spent far too much on a pair of new Black-Watch-tartan dungarees for Viking’s return, and now he’d shoved off with Astrid. The astrologers had been absolutely right that Jupiter, bringer of jollity, was about to be rammed by a comet.

  Boris was now looking helplessly at his children, who were trying to coax down Scriabin and Sibelius.

  ‘Vot would you like for supper?’

  ‘Oh, Marcus’ll find them something,’ said Abby.

  ‘Marcus will not,’ said Flora, catching sight of his stricken face. ‘Marcus and I are off to see Four Veddings and a Funeral.’

  Appassionata

  THIRD MOVEMENT

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The first rehearsal of Rachel’s Requiem took place on the afternoon of the RSO’s first day back at work. Expecting to be bored rigid, the musicians trailed in weighed down by sweets, knitting, magazines, even computer games.

  ‘Ay’d take a good book,’ advised Miss Parrott.

  ‘I’d take a library,’ said Viking, who had had his front tooth put back, but was secretly incensed that ‘Rachel’s Lament’ had been given to the cor anglais. Carmine was livid that his wife was going to play it and would be around spying on him his first week back.

  Simon Painshaw and Peter Plumpton were also livid they hadn’t been given the big solo as promised. Eldred had also been promised it, but was too upset to mind. His wife hadn’t come back, and after four and a half weeks’ respite, he would have to endure Hilary’s scorn and sighs once more.

  Francis the Good Loser was also fed up. He had mislaid the cup of coffee and the doughnut he’d bought at the buffet, which in fact had been nicked by the First Bassoon, known as ‘Jerry the Joker’, who was now sitting innocently at his desk.

  ‘Heard the latest viola joke?’ he said to Steve, the union rep, who was his Second Bassoon. ‘If you’re driving down a hill and your brakes fail, who d’you hit, a viola player or a conductor?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Steve.

  ‘The conductor,’ said Jerry. ‘Business before pleasure.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Steve, as Abby marched in looking tight-lipped and embattled.

  Immediately, like a great aviary, the RSO launched into a frenzy of tuning up. Determined to stand no nonsense, Abby asked the eternally good-natured Charlton Handsome to move the horns upstage.

  ‘Excuse me, Maestro,’ drawled Viking, ‘is that a good idea?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Abby irritably.

  ‘If we’re too far away, you won’t be able to follow us.’

  Abby’s explosion was averted by the librarian running in. ‘Here are the parts for the cor anglais and the piccolo, we’ll have the rest of the woodwind parts by the break.’

  ‘Why bother?’ said Hilary nastily.

  Shooting her a withering glance, Abby opened the score. She was relieved that Boris was still too angry with Viking to show up. She could have done with his support, but composers tended to shoot themselves at first rehearsals, because their music, sight-read, sounded so terrible.

  ‘Quiet please.’ Abby looked round at the orchestra, spread out like enemy snipers in the forest. Even Miss Parrott’s harp reared up like a chess-castle waiting to whizz across the board and take her.

  Abby took a deep breath.

  ‘We are about to play the most beautiful piece of music probably of the entire twentieth century. It is a requiem written in memory of Boris’s young, incredibly talented wife, who committed suicide.’

  ‘Lucky Boris – what was his secret?’ sneered Carmine Jones.

  Cathie Jones, who’d gone white as she digested the importance and extreme complexity of her solo, now flushed scarlet with mortification.

  ‘You basstard, Carmine.’ Blue was on his feet – only Cathie’s anguished, terrified glance stopped him hitting Carmine across the stage.

  ‘Whose incredibly talented wife committed suicide in 1991,’ repeated Abby firmly.

  ‘You must have identified with that,’ simpered Hilary.

  ‘Don’t be a bitch,’ called out Flora. ‘This is a masterpiece.’

  Rank-and-file viola players were not supposed to express opinions. Flora was getting much too uppity. Hilary scowled at her.

  ‘Tell us about your famous mother, Flawless,’ said Dixie, putting down his tax returns.

  ‘Why isn’t Boris conducting this?’ grumbled Juno.

  ‘We used to have Schnapps-breaks every half-hour,’ said Nellie wistfully. ‘D’you remember the time he gave us miniatures of brandy before we recorded Mahler One, and we got through it in an hour with no retakes.’

  ‘I loved Boris,’ sighed Juno.

  ‘You’ll have to put up with me,’ snapped Abby. ‘Give us an A, Simon, let’s get started.’

  After a month off, the orchestra were very rusty, fingers and lips couldn’t be trusted. Effing and blinding under their breath they began ploughing through the ‘Dies Irae’. Jerry the Joker played ‘God Save the Queen’ on his bassoon to see if Abby noticed.

  ‘I heard you, get out, Jerry,’ she shouted. ‘As a section leader you’re supposed to set a good example.’

  ‘What a frightful piece of music this is,’ sighed Dixie.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Jerry, going out grinning and licking doughnut sugar off his fingers. ‘You’ll only have to play it once.’

  ‘We’re recording it,’ Abby, who was battling for at least four performances as well, yelled after him. ‘But not till the middle of October to give you the time to digest the complexities.’

  ‘And puke them all up again,’ called out Randy.

  Abby tried another tack.

  ‘You’ve got to familiarize yourself with it to love it,’ she pleaded. ‘In 1915, when they first rehearsed Prokofiev’s Scythian Suite—’

  The orchestra raised their eyes to heaven and started to yawn ostentatiously.

  ‘Scythian Suite,’ persisted Abby, ‘one of the cellists said to the conductor: “Just because I have a wife who is sick and three kids to support, why must I be forced to endure such hell?” Musicians have always resisted innovation, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ said Carmine rudely, ‘none of us know what you do mean.’

  ‘Musicians don’t want to be lectured,’ said Davie Buckle, starting another game of patience on top of his drums. ‘They want to play the concert, then go out, get pissed and have a curry.’

  The orchestra fell about.

  It was time for Cathie to play ‘Rachel’s Lament’ for the first time, initially just as an extended echo in the ‘Lachrymosa’, then leading up to the long final solo in the ‘Libera Me’.

  Surely they must realize how beautiful it is, prayed Abby. But Cathie was so nervous, so exhausted at the end of the school holidays, and so conscious of Carmine’s angry little red brake-light eyes boring into her, that she made a
complete hash of it.

  ‘Gee, you screwed up on that one,’ said Abby in disappointment after the third botched attempt and leapt down to talk to Cathie. If she fluffed the “Lachrymosa” how the hell was she going to cope with the “Libera Me”.

  ‘I thought Boris was giving the big solo to Viking,’ whispered Dixie.

  ‘Boris has changed his total lack of tune,’ whispered back Randy. ‘Evidently Boris is knocking off his au pair and Viking’s nicked her, but only after Viking caught Boris in flagrante with—’ a wicked smile spread over Randy’s face, as he lowered his voice even more.

  ‘You gotta be joking,’ Dixie looked at Abby, his eyes on stalks. Then, immediately turning to his Second Trombone, ‘Did you know that Boris is bonking—’

  Soon the story was whizzing around the orchestra, like starlings alighting on different trees at dusk.

  ‘What are you reading, Flawless?’ asked Viking.

  ‘“Sohrab and Rustram”,’ snapped Flora, who hadn’t forgiven Viking. ‘It’s about much more heroic men than you lot.’

  ‘Someone should write a poem called “So Bad on Rostrum”.’

  ‘That’s not funny, if you hadn’t jumped on Astrid, you’d be playing that solo.’

  As they struggled for another ten minutes, Abby felt utterly superfluous, the orchestra were far too busy sight-reading to look at her.

  ‘Where the fuck are we?’ Viking asked Blue, as resounding crashes, twangs and shrieks rent the air.

  ‘Two bars to go. I’ll bring you in—’

  Abby called a halt. ‘That was terrible.’

  ‘It would help if you beat a little more clearly,’ called out Juno.

  Abby ignored her.

  ‘The next bit is really sad,’ Abby attempted a weak joke. ‘Could you play it, I guess, as Lionel looks?’

  Lionel was furious. Confronted by a series of glissandos and teeth-gritting shrieks achieved by drawing the side of the bow down the strings, he pretended to cry.

  ‘I cannot bear it,’ he said, putting his head carefully in his hands so as not to disturb the lustrous blow-dried waves. ‘My string players have dedicated their lives to producing a beautiful sound—’

  Abby raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And they are forced to make fools of themselves playing this junk.’

  Lionel was acting up because over the page he had discovered the long solo Boris had deliberately made difficult for him, which was only accompanied by the basses. Compelled to tackle it, he pretended to be fooling around and deliberately making the most ghastly cock up.

  ‘You’re not trying,’ raged Abby, beyond any awareness that it was below the belt to bawl out a leader in front of his orchestra.

  The RSO brightened at the prospect of a screaming match.

  ‘It’s unplayable,’ said Lionel flatly.

  ‘Don’t be such a goddamn wimp.’

  ‘You only say that, Maestro,’ furiously Hilary leapt to the defence of her beloved, ‘because there’s no way you could ever play it.’

  Putting down the Selected Poems of Matthew Arnold, Flora said calmly, ‘Boris used to play the violin in an orchestra. He’s perfectly aware of its limitations and capabilities.’

  ‘You hold your tongue, young lady,’ said Hilary furiously.

  ‘It’s impossible, unplayable junk,’ intoned Lionel.

  ‘It is not,’ screamed Abby.

  ‘It fucking well is.’

  ‘Fucking isn’t.’ Jibbering with rage, Abby leapt from the rostrum, snatched Lionel’s fiddle and played the solo absolutely perfectly.

  There was a stunned, stunned silence – long enough to play a Bruckner symphony. The musicians looked at Abby in amazement, but not in nearly as much amazement as Abby looked at Lionel’s violin. As she handed it back, Flora, roused out of her habitual cool, rushed forward, sending a music-stand and its music flying.

  ‘Oh Abby,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘Don’t you realize what this means? It’s come back, you can play again. Oh Abby.’

  And the whole orchestra, except Lionel, Hilary, Juno and Carmine, stood up and cheered.

  Abby looked utterly shell-shocked.

  ‘Thank you, everyone. That’s it for today; we’ll start with the Brahms Violin Concerto first thing after lunch tomorrow,’ she said, ending the rehearsal twenty minutes early and emerging from the dark inferno of Boris Levitsky into the sunshine.

  Flora brought a couple of bottles of Muscadet back to Woodbine Cottage, and she and Abby celebrated with Marcus. Abby was still shell-shocked.

  ‘I cannot believe it, I’m sure it was a fluke. Did it really sound OK?’ she begged Flora over and over again.

  ‘Course it did,’ said Flora. ‘And that miraculous blood-curdling wonderful sound couldn’t have come from anyone else.’

  ‘Play something now,’ pleaded Marcus, picking up Abby’s coat and hanging it up in the hall, ‘just to convince yourself. I want to hear it, too.’

  ‘I daren’t, not yet. I don’t want to tempt providence and I don’t want any more to drink,’ Abby put her hand over her glass. ‘I gotta work.’

  ‘I don’t know why you bother,’ grumbled Flora, topping up her own glass, ‘after the way those pigs treat you. Just walk out and go back to reducing the whole world to orgasm on the violin. Come on, let’s get pissed.’

  But Abby refused. Desperate to be alone, she disappeared to her room to mug up the Brahms concerto. It was the last piece she had done before she had cut her wrist. It would be unendurable not to be playing it tomorrow. Perhaps a miracle had happened and she could return to the violin, but she still hated giving up the RSO without a fight.

  She couldn’t concentrate. Every note remembered was anguish. Throwing open her bedroom window, which looked on to the front garden, she disturbed a swarm of peacock butterflies gorging themselves on the buddleia. Was it proverbial vanity which made them match their rust-and-purple wings so perfectly to the pale purple flowers?

  Thistledown floated through the air; the fields of stubble, platinum-blond in the morning sunshine, were now red-gold after the rain. The white trumpets of the convolvulus rioting along the hedgerow reminded her of her brass section. She could smell frying garlic and onions. Marcus must be cooking supper, banging pans after all that Muscadet. He had been so kind when Boris had humiliated her. She must find him work.

  Then everything was forgotten as through the dusk she heard Viking, the ultimate peacock, practising, idling around with ‘Rachel’s Lament’, the sound carrying across the still lake. Oh God, he should be playing the solo. It would be tragic if Lionel persuaded George to drop the Requiem. Lionel was also poisoning the orchestra against her. How she longed to follow the path of meadowsweet down the stream and ask Viking’s advice.

  Maria Kusak, who was playing the Brahms Violin Concerto, was yet another Shepherd Denston artist booked at 10 per cent less, because the RSO had employed Abby. A contemporary of Abby’s at the Moscow Conservatoire, she was, like Benny, very jealous of Abby’s former success. A charming, curvacious, bottled blonde with high cheek-bones and naughty slanting brown eyes, she had been one of Rodney’s pets and was upset to find such a dear doting old man had been replaced by her greatest rival.

  Lionel, after yesterday’s humiliation, was revving up for a showdown. He had already had a word with George.

  ‘I wept for my musicians,’ he repeated sententiously, ‘and she mocked me. It is an honour to sit in the first chair of a great orchestra, but how can I have any authority as a leader if she constantly undermines me in front of the players.’

  ‘She’d better go back to playing the fiddle,’ said George, and had a sharp word with Abby to soft-pedal the histrionics.

  ‘Maria’s very popular with the Rutminster audience,’ he added brusquely. ‘We’ve nearly sold out this evening – give her her head.’

  Maria was also very popular with the orchestra who gave her a round of applause when she arrived the following afternoon, but, although she dimpled and smiled, she w
as in fact in a furious temper. Having decided that George was as attractively macho as he was rich, she had slipped into Tower Records in Rutminster High Street to buy her own recording of the Saint-Saëns Third Concerto in order to sign it for him. She was not pleased to be told by the assistant, who did not recognize her, that she ought to have bought Abigail Rosen’s version – it was still easily the best.

  On the other hand, Maria had a trump card, which she knew would crucify Abby. She was playing on Abby’s old Strad.

  Simon Painshaw was also uptight and tearing his red dreadlocks because he had to open the second movement of the concerto with one of the most beautiful solos Brahms or anyone had ever written. All the woodwind were busy in that movement, but they were still only the Supremes to First Oboe’s Diana Ross.

  Arriving at the hall, Simon had been accosted by Hilary, bossily ticking him off for not tuning up half an hour earlier so he could play in his quarter-final match in the RSO conker competition. As a result she had rescheduled his match for this evening in the meal-break before the concert.

  Simon had become wildly agitated. He had been making reeds, the thin pipes through which oboists blow, which was a hellishly finickety job, since ten o’clock that morning, he said.

  ‘And I’m not playing any conker match this evening. I’ve got to psych myself up for my solo.’

  ‘Half the orchestra are in the conker competition,’ said Hilary furiously, ‘and they’re not going to wait around at your convenience. All you think about are your silly reeds.’

  Simon had flipped and started screaming about fucking kids’ games. Abby, coming out of the conductor’s room, had backed him up and told Hilary to eff off.

  ‘Love conkers all,’ said a passing Viking in amusement.

  Hilary rushed off to tell Lionel who started the rehearsal in an embattled mood.

  Bill Thackery, Lionel’s co-leader, predictably nicknamed ‘Makepeace’ because he was kind, equable and always defusing squabbles, had heard the shouting in the passage.

  ‘What’s up with L’Appassionata?’ he asked as Lionel took his seat beside him, ‘P.M.T.?’