Brodsky took advantage of the looser form of the second movement to push into ever stranger territories, and I too – accustomed though I was to every sort of angle on Mullery – grew fascinated. He was almost perversely ignoring the outer structure of the music – the composer’s nods towards tonality and melody that decorated the surface of the work – to focus instead on the peculiar life-forms hiding just under the shell. There was a slightly sordid quality about it all, something close to exhibitionism, that suggested Brodsky was himself profoundly embarrassed by the nature of what he was uncovering, but could not resist the compulsion to go yet further. The effect was unnerving, but compelling.
I studied again the crowd below me. There was no doubting this provincial audience had become emotionally gripped by Brodsky, and I now saw the possibility that my question-and-answer session would not prove as tricky as I had feared. Obviously, if Brodsky managed to convince the audience with this display, how I answered the questions became far less critical. My task would become one essentially of endorsing something to which the audience had already been won round – in which case, even with my inadequate level of research, there was no reason I should not acquit myself perfectly adequately with a few diplomatic, occasionally humorous remarks. If on the other hand Brodsky were to leave the audience in turmoil and indecision, I would, regardless of my status and experience, have my work very much cut out for me. The atmosphere in the auditorium was still one of unease and, remembering the perturbed anger of the third movement, I wondered what would happen once Brodsky commenced it.
Just at this point it suddenly occurred to me for the first time to search the audience for my parents. Almost simultaneously, the idea flashed through my head that, since I had not noticed them already on the numerous occasions I had studied the crowd, the likelihood of my now discovering their faces below me was not great. I nevertheless leaned forward, almost recklessly, and scanned the auditorium with my gaze. There were certain parts of the hall I could not see no matter how much I craned forward, and I realised I would sooner or later have to go down into the auditorium itself. Then, even if I were still unable to find my parents, I could at least dig out Hoffman or Miss Stratmann and demand to know of my parents’ whereabouts. Either way, I saw I could ill afford to spend further time watching proceedings from my present vantage point and, turning carefully, began to make my way out of the cupboard.
When I emerged again at the top of the small staircase, I saw the queue below me had greatly lengthened. There were now at least twenty people waiting, and I felt rather guilty to have taken as long as I had. Everyone in the queue was talking excitedly, but fell silent at the sight of me. I mumbled a vague apology as I came down the steps, then hurried off down the corridor just as the person next in line began eagerly to climb towards the cupboard entrance.
The corridor was much calmer than before, owing largely to a lull in the activities of the catering staff. Every several yards along the corridor I would encounter a stationary trolley, fully laden, sometimes with men in overalls leaning against it, smoking and drinking from styrofoam cups. Eventually, when I stopped and asked one such person the quickest route to the auditorium, he simply pointed to a door behind me. Thanking him, I pulled it open and found myself looking down an ill-lit stairwell.
I descended at least five flights. Then I pushed through a pair of heavy swing doors and found myself wandering through some cavernous backstage area. In the gloomy light, I could make out rectangular slabs of painted backdrop – a castle tenement, a moonlit sky, a forest – propped against the wall. Above my head was a criss-cross of steel cables. The orchestra could now be heard quite clearly and I moved towards the music doing my best not to collide into the many box-like objects in my path. Eventually, after wandering up a set of wooden steps, I realised I was standing in the wings. I was about to turn back – I had hoped to emerge discreetly somewhere near the front stalls – but then something about the music now filling my ears, something problematic that had not been there before, caused me to pause.
I stood there listening for a minute or so, and then took a step forward and peered around the edge of the heavy folded drapes before me. I did this of course with considerable caution – naturally I wished to avoid at all costs the crowd’s spotting my face and bursting into applause – only to discover I was looking at Brodsky and the orchestra from a sharp angle and was unlikely to be visible at all to the audience.
I could see much had changed while I had been wandering around the building. Brodsky, I supposed, had taken things too far, for that tentativeness of technique that so often signals a disaffinity between a conductor and his musicians had entered the orchestra’s sound. The musicians – I was now able to see them at close quarters – were wearing expressions of incredulity, distress, even disgust. Then, as my eyes grew more accustomed to the glare of the stagelights, I gazed past the orchestra to the audience. Only the first few rows were visible to me, but it was clear people were now exchanging worried looks, coughing uneasily, shaking their heads. Even as I watched, one woman stood up to leave. Brodsky, however, continued to conduct in an impassioned manner, and if anything seemed eager to push things still further. Then I saw two of the cellists exchange looks and shake their heads. It was a clear sign of mutiny and Brodsky undoubtedly noticed it. His conducting now took on a manic quality and the music veered dangerously towards the realms of perversity.
Up to this point I had not been able to see Brodsky’s expression very well – I had mainly his back view – but as his twisting and turning grew more pronounced, I began to catch fuller glimpses of his face. Only then did it dawn on me that some other factor altogether was influencing Brodsky’s behaviour. I watched him carefully again – the way his body was twisting and clenching to some rhythm of its own dictating – and I realised that Brodsky was in great pain and probably had been for some time. Once I had recognised this, the signs were unmistakable. He was only just managing to keep going at all, and his face was distorted with something more than passion.
I felt an onus to do something, and quickly appraised the situation. Brodsky had still to get through one and a half demanding movements plus the intricate epilogue. The favourable impression he had created earlier was being rapidly eroded. The audience was liable to become unruly again at any moment. The more I thought about it, the more obvious it became that the performance had to be brought to a halt, and I began to wonder if I should not now walk out onto the stage to bring this about. Indeed I was probably the only person in the hall who could do so without the audience sensing a major calamity.
For the next few minutes, however, I made no move, preoccupied with the question of how precisely to execute such an intervention. Would I come on waving about my arms to signal a halt? That might not only appear presumptuous, but suggest a certain disapproval on my part – a disastrous impression. A much better course, perhaps, would be to wait for the andante to commence and then to come on very modestly, smiling courteously to Brodsky and the orchestra, timing my walk to the music as though the whole entrance had been planned long in advance. No doubt the audience would break into applause, at which point I could in turn – all the time smiling – applaud first Brodsky and then the musicians. Hopefully then Brodsky would have the presence of mind to ‘fade out’ the music and take bows. With my presence on the stage, the chances of the crowd giving Brodsky trouble were remote. In fact with my lead – I would continue to applaud and smile as though for all the world Brodsky had delivered something of indisputable beauty – the memories of the earlier part of his performance might return sufficiently to bring the audience back onto his side. Brodsky could take a respectable number of bows, and then, as he turned to leave, I could be seen genially to assist him from the podium, perhaps folding his ironing board and handing it to him to use again as his crutch. I might then guide him towards the wings, frequently glancing back to the audience to encourage further applause and so on. I could just about see the thing being brought off pro
vided I judged everything absolutely correctly.
But just at that moment something else occurred which perhaps had been on the cards for some time. Brodsky swung his baton in a large arc, almost simultaneously punching the air with his other hand. As he did so, he appeared to become unstuck. He ascended a few inches into the air then crashed down across the front of the stage, taking the podium rail, the ironing board, the score, the music stand, all with him.
I expected people to rush to his aid, but the gasp that greeted his fall faded into an embarrassed silence. And then, as Brodsky continued to lie there face down on the floor, not moving, a low hubbub started up again throughout the auditorium. Finally, one of the violinists put aside his instrument and made towards Brodsky. A number of others – stage-hands, musicans – soon followed his lead, but there remained something hesitant about the way they closed in around the prone figure, as though they expected to disapprove thoroughly of what they discovered.
I came to my senses around this point – I had been hesitating, unsure what impact my revealing myself would have – and hurried onto the stage to join Brodsky’s helpers. As I approached, the violinist let out a cry and, dropping down onto his knees, began to examine Brodsky with a new urgency. Then he looked up at us and said in a horrified whisper: ‘My God, he’s lost a leg! It’s a wonder he took this long to pass out!’
There were gasps of surprise and the dozen or so of us who had gathered around exchanged looks. For some reason, there was a distinct feeling that news of the missing leg must not be allowed to get out and we drew closer together to keep out the audience’s gaze. Those nearest to Brodsky were conferring in low voices about whether to carry him off the stage. Then someone signalled and the curtain began to close. It quickly became clear that Brodsky was lying directly in the line of the curtain, and several arms reached out and half dragged him away from the front of the stage just as the curtain came across.
The movement had the effect of reviving Brodsky a little, and when the violinist turned him onto his back he opened his eyes and looked searchingly from face to face. Then he said, in a voice that sounded more sleepy than anything else:
‘Where is she? Why isn’t she holding me?’
There were more looks exchanged. Then someone whispered:
‘Miss Collins. He must mean Miss Collins.’
No sooner had these words been uttered than there was a gentle cough behind us and we turned to find Miss Collins standing just inside the curtain. She still seemed very composed and was gazing towards us with a look of polite concern. Only the way her hands were clasped in front of her, slightly higher on her chest than might be expected, indicated any turmoil within.
‘Where is she?’ Brodsky asked again in his sleepy voice. Then suddenly he began softly to sing to himself.
The violinist looked up at us. ‘Is he drunk? He certainly smells of drink.’
Brodsky ceased singing, then said again, his eyes now closing: ‘Where is she? Why doesn’t she come?’
This time Miss Collins answered, not loudly, but very clearly from the curtain: ‘I’m here, Leo.’
She had spoken in a tone approaching tenderness, but when a gangway immediately formed for her she did not move. The sight of the figure on the floor, however, finally brought signs of distress to her face. Brodsky, his eyes still closed, began to hum again.
Then he opened his eyes and looked about himself carefully. His gaze went first to the curtain – perhaps in search of the audience – then, finding it closed, examined again the faces staring down at him. Finally he looked towards Miss Collins.
‘Let’s embrace,’ he said. ‘Let’s show the world. The curtain …’ With some effort, he raised himself a little and called out: ‘Get ready to open the curtain again!’ Then he said softly to Miss Collins: ‘Come and hold me. Embrace me. Then let them open the curtain. We’ll let the world see.’ He slowly lowered himself again until he was lying flat on his back. ‘Come on,’ he murmured.
Miss Collins seemed on the verge of speaking, but then changed her mind. She glanced towards the curtain, a look of fear coming into her eyes.
‘Let them see it,’ Brodsky said. ‘Let them see we were together at the end. That we loved each other all our lives. Let’s show them. When the curtains open, let them see it.’
Miss Collins went on staring at Brodsky, then finally began to walk towards him. People moved away discreetly, some going so far as to turn their gazes in the other direction. She stopped before she had quite reached him and said in a voice that trembled a little:
‘We can hold hands if you like.’
‘No, no. This is the finish. Let’s embrace properly. Let them see.’
Miss Collins hesitated for a second, then went right up to him and knelt down. Her eyes, I could see, had filled with tears.
‘My love,’ Brodsky said softly. ‘Hold me again. My wound’s so painful now.’
Suddenly Miss Collins withdrew the hand she had started to extend and rose to her feet. She stared down coldly at Brodsky, then walked back briskly towards the curtain.
Brodsky seemed not to notice her retreat. He was now staring up at the ceiling, his arms spread open as though he expected Miss Collins to come descending from above.
‘Where are you?’ he said. ‘Let them see it. When they open the curtain. Let them see we were together at the end. Where are you?’
‘I won’t come, Leo. Wherever you’re going now, you’ll have to go by yourself.’
Brodsky must have registered her new tone, for although he continued to gaze up at the ceiling his arms fell to his sides.
‘Your wound,’ Miss Collins said quietly. ‘Always your wound.’ Then her face contorted into ugliness. ‘Oh, how I hate you! How I hate you for wasting my life! I shall never, never forgive you! Your wound, your silly little wound! That’s your real love, Leo, that wound, the one true love of your life! I know how it will be, even if we tried, even if we managed to build something all over again. The music too, that would be no different. Even if they’d accepted you tonight, even if you became celebrated in this town, you’d destroy it all, you’d destroy everything, pull it all down around you just as you did before. And all because of that wound. Me, the music, we’re neither of us anything more to you than mistresses you seek consolation from. You’ll always go back to your one real love. To that wound! And you know what makes me so angry? Leo, are you listening to me? Your wound, it’s nothing special, nothing special at all. In this town alone, I know there are many people with far worse. And yet they carry on, every one of them, with far greater courage than you ever did. They go on with their lives. They become something worthwhile. But you, Leo, look at you. Always tending your wound. Are you listening? Listen to me, I want you to hear every word of it! That wound’s all you have now. I tried to give you everything once, but you weren’t interested and you shan’t have me a second time. How you wasted my life! How I hate you! Can you hear me, Leo? Look at you! What’s to become of you now? Well, I’ll tell you. You’re going somewhere horrible now. Somewhere dark and lonely, and I won’t come with you. Go on your own! Go on your own with that silly little wound!’
Brodsky had been waving a hand slowly in the air. Now, as she paused, he said:
‘I might be … I might be a conductor again. The music just now, before I fell. It was good. You heard it? I might be a conductor again …’
‘Leo, are you listening to me? You’ll never be a proper conductor. You never were, even back then. You’ll never be able to serve the people of this city, even if they wanted you to. Because you care nothing for their lives. That’s the truth of it. Your music will only ever be about that silly little wound, it will never be anything more than that, it’ll never be anything profound, anything of any value to anyone else. At least I, in my small way, I can say I did what I could. That I did my best to help the unhappy people here. But you, look at you. You’ve only ever cared about that wound. That’s why even back then you were never a real musician. And you’
ll never become one now. Leo, are you listening to me? I want you to hear this. You’ll never be anything more than a charlatan. A cowardly, irresponsible fraud …’
Suddenly a stout man with a red face burst through the curtain.
‘Your ironing board, Mr Brodsky!’ he announced cheerfully, holding the object up before him. Then, sensing the atmosphere, he shrank back.
Miss Collins stared at the newcomer, then, casting a last glance towards Brodsky, ran out through the gap in the curtain.
Brodsky’s face was still turned up to the ceiling but now his eyes had closed again. Pushing myself forward, I knelt down beside him and listened to his heartbeat.
‘Our sailors,’ he murmured. ‘Our sailors. Our drunken sailors. Where are they now? Where are you? Where are you?’
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Ryder. Mr Brodsky, we must get you some help very quickly.’
‘Ryder.’ He opened his eyes and gazed up at me. ‘Ryder. Maybe it’s true. What she says.’
‘Don’t worry yourself, Mr Brodsky. Your music was magnificent. Particularly the first two movements …’
‘No, no, Ryder. I didn’t mean all that. That hardly matters now. I meant the other thing she said. About me going alone. To some dark, lonely place. Maybe that’s true.’ Suddenly he raised his head off the floor and stared into my eyes. ‘I don’t want to go, Ryder,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I don’t want to go.’
‘Mr Brodsky, I’ll try and bring her back. As I say, the first two movements in particular displayed enormous innovation. I’m sure she can be reasoned with. Please excuse me, I won’t be a moment.’
Freeing my arm from his grip, I hurried out through the curtain.
35
I was surprised to find the auditorium quite transformed. The house lights had come back on and to all practical intents there was no longer an audience. As much as two-thirds of the guests had left, and of those remaining most were standing about talking in the aisles. I did not dwell long on this scene, however, having caught sight of Miss Collins making her way up the central aisle towards the exit. Stepping down off the stage, I hurried after her through the crowds and came within calling distance just as she was reaching the exit.
The Unconsoled Page 57