The Concert Pianist

by Conrad Williams

  Heaven was now or never, he had said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The new offices were a mess: unallocated computer screens, BT handsets, half-emptied cartons, technicians on their knees pulling cables, props from the last office shoved against partition walls (potted plants, chrome chairs). The central floor space was an open-plan zone for secretaries. Hogging the window-light on either side were cubicle offices for the agents. Philip sat in reception on a low-slung sofa gazing at a sea of music journals someone had atmospherically flung on the table. Beside him on the floor sat a box of client photographs destined for the lavatory wall. Clipboarded posters were stacked behind the reception desk (promotional stuff that John had collected down the ages), some a little out of date by now: Arturo Moroni in his LSO days, shirt studs glittering, toupee going strong; Yono Hasaki modelling chiselled fingers against a black backdrop; Therese Stimmerman lost in a halo of adoring soft focus, as though she had already died and gone to heaven, which in fact, now Philip came to think of it, she had.

  Or hell.

  The receptionist wore jeans and a fluffy polo-neck sweater and was somewhat thrown by the switchboard, jabbing this button and then that to retrieve a lost caller.

  In his briefcase he had a present for Ursula and champagne for John. Neither had returned his calls and it was not difficult to see why. The place was in chaos. He was apprehensive but he had to impose.

  The receptionist managed her station with some glamour. He heard her speaking discreetly into the phone.

  ‘I’m pretty sure he’s busy,’ she said afterwards, sympathetically.

  ‘Please try again.’

  Philip had spotted John crossing the office and entering his cubicle. His door was still ajar.

  The agency was expanding: new personnel, new computers and offices. Sampson was on the Haymarket at last, his career flourishing. How little difference the fate of an individual musician made to organisations like this! Old clients faded, new ones burst forth. John took strength from the virile talents of people half his age.

  She tried again. Whilst she was speaking he could see John’s door closing from the inside.

  ‘Sorry! He’s a bit tied up at the minute. D’you want to make an appointment?’

  ‘Is Ursula free?’

  The girl was pained. ‘She’s got a meeting, too.’

  ‘I can wait for a bit.’

  ‘We’re all at sixes and sevens.’

  He glimpsed familiar faces in the open-plan area: Phyllis, who ran accounts, Bob Collier the bookings manager, John’s assistant Serena. He had known these people for years.

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  He rose, as if to leave, but instead walked out of the lobby into the open-plan zone, heading for John’s room.

  ‘Can I help?’ somebody said.

  He pretended not to hear and made his way across the space swiftly.

  ‘Hi, Philip,’ said Serena, calling from her desk, a note of alarm in her voice.

  ‘I’ve come to see John.’

  ‘I think he’s . . .’

  ‘Right here.’

  Philip got his hand to the door handle and twisted it sharply. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, as the door swung wide, revealing John on a chair and a girl on the sofa.

  ‘What!’ John jumped to his feet heading Philip off. ‘We’re in a meeting. Francesca!’

  ‘Can . . .’

  ‘No you can’t!’

  The girl started.

  ‘Stay,’ said John, palm out flat.

  ‘I have to see you.’

  ‘I’m not available. Make a time.’

  ‘Shall I come back?’ she asked. She wore a pink blouse and a check skirt.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Philip.

  ‘What the hell!’

  ‘It can’t wait.’

  John went to the door, opened it wide. ‘My work’s equally important and it can’t wait either.’

  His heart was beating unpleasantly hard. He had to go through with this; it was one of the things he had to go through with. ‘I don’t blame you for being angry.’

  ‘I don’t care whether you blame me.’

  ‘This is an emergency.’

  ‘Take your emergency to some other agent. Far as I’m concerned you’re not a client.’ He leaned across to hit the buzzer on his telephone console.

  ‘Francesca!’

  ‘I know you’re busy.’

  ‘Get out!’

  Philip laughed. ‘What I’m about to tell you will make you feel a whole lot better.’

  ‘Am I going to have to chuck you out of here!’

  ‘I’m dying, John. I haven’t much longer. I need your help.’

  John’s frown deepened. He squinted at Philip, tongue running around his underlip. He gasped, indignation arrested, put a forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose.

  Philip glanced at the girl, who was now rising from the sofa.

  John caught the exchange of looks. He waved a hand.

  She smiled painfully, took her notebook and slipped quickly from the room.

  John sniffed as though suddenly congested.

  ‘Liver cancer,’ said Philip.

  His agent stared at him with pained care. His handsome face was thickly creased. He had the abject look of someone who senses he has made a fool of himself and is almost too staggered to dissimulate the shock and embarrassment. He wavered for a moment and then shut the door.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  Philip crossed to the sofa. He noted John’s orderly desk, the intrays and pencil pots, the blue mouse-pad by keyboard and screen. A framed photo of his wife and children leaned against the wall.

  He turned before he sat. ‘That’s why I cancelled.’

  John nodded. He was still breathing hard, mastering the shock of it. He moved across to the chair and sat heavily, massaging his eye-sockets. He looked suddenly drained, the latent tiredness of recent weeks brought to the surface.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I was waiting for results.’

  John shook his head in immediate sorrow. He had no emotional resilience.

  ‘D’you mind if we call in Ursula?’ asked Philip.

  John sniffed, pulled a tissue from his pocket. There was an extension on the side table. He took up the receiver. ‘Ursula. Come in, please. I know. It’s Philip. He’s here, yup. Just tell Ben . . . tell him to wait.’

  Philip reached into his briefcase and pulled out the champagne. ‘For you.’

  John was pained by the label. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

  There was a knock on the door. Francesca tucked her head in. ‘Hiya!’

  She looked vaguely surprised to see Philip on the sofa.

  ‘Do the honours, will you.’ John handed her the bottle. ‘Three glasses. If you can’t find glasses, tea mugs will do.’

  ‘OK, yah.’

  The two men stared at each other for a moment.

  ‘What’s going to happen, Philip?’

  ‘Operation. Chemotherapy.’

  John nodded. ‘Then?’

  ‘Then, after a while, I peg it.’

  The agent flinched. He felt the news openly, immediately. ‘Is there no hope?’

  ‘There’s always hope.’

  ‘You’ve got to fight the damn thing.’

  ‘I don’t think the cancer cares about my attitude.’

  ‘As long as there’s a chance’ - John was roused - ‘you mustn’t give up.’

  ‘Leave that to me. I need to talk about something else.’

  ‘Look, I apologise unreservedly. I behaved like a complete tit. I thought you were jerking me around. I’m ashamed, humiliated, appalled.’

  Philip chuckled. ‘You’ll live.’

  John’s grateful smile faded as the remark sank in.

  ‘That’s all water under the bridge,’ said Philip.

  His agent raised a hand in acknowledgement, wiped a tear from his eye. He inhaled deeply as if to pull himself together. For a momen
t he could think of nothing to say. He subsided against his chair.

  There was a tap on the door and then she came in. Ursula’s gaze acknowledged John before resting on Philip. She had not had the chance to prepare for the awkwardness of eye contact. Her look was vulnerable and challenging at the same time.

  He had forgotten how tall she was.

  ‘Shut the door,’ said John.

  ‘You know I’ve got someone in with me?’

  ‘So you keep saying.’

  She went across to a chair by the sofa and sat down, regarding Philip with a mixture of respect and reserve. She had not expected their next encounter to take place in John’s office. She was at a loss and not able to conceal it.

  Philip had forgotten how incongruous her beauty seemed amidst the nine-to-five. He was warmed by the sight of her. The advent of Ursula in his life was indeed a kind of miracle.

  ‘How are you?’ she said gently.

  ‘Sorry I was short with you on the phone.’

  This seemed to her inadequate but sincere. She looked cautiously at John, who sat back in his chair biting the edge of his finger.

  ‘You two have made up?’

  Philip admired her directness in asking this.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said John. ‘I’ve been a fool and an idiot and Philip has very kindly let me off the hook.’

  She gazed at them both with evident relief. After a while she smiled weakly at Philip.

  ‘Here,’ he said, pulling a box of gift-wrapped scent from his case.

  She took the present uncertainly. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing.’

  She unwrapped it quickly. ‘Oh gosh! Allure.’ She was a little put out by the gesture. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. Thank you.’

  ‘Thanks for putting up with me.’

  The three of them sat for a moment in silence. It was Philip’s turn to speak but he suddenly lacked the resources or impetus to break the news, as if the news were no longer on his mind in quite the same way now that she was in the room. Ursula’s loveliness was restorative.

  She waited a little tensely. She had been summoned after all.

  John sensed Philip’s distraction and was unable to control his unease. ‘Philip has some news, Ursula.’

  She looked at him uncomfortably, wary of ‘news’ that might impinge on her.

  ‘Champagne!’ called Francesca, coming back in with bottle and glasses.

  ‘Excellent,’ said John. ‘Over there, would you.’

  She set the glasses down on John’s coffee table and carefully poured the champagne.

  ‘Enjoy your celebration.’ She left with gusto.

  John passed the glasses to the others. They sipped and nodded their toasts silently.

  Philip turned to address Ursula.

  ‘John,’ she said suddenly. ‘What should I do about Ben Samuelson?’

  He looked at her blankly.

  Philip drew himself up. It was a way to explain things, not the only way, but the simplest way.

  ‘I’m quite ill,’ he said.

  She was alert.

  ‘Don’t let’s go into the details . . . but I mayn’t have very long.’

  She reacted with her whole body as if struck by an electric current. She replaced her champagne glass and leant towards him. He could see the swarming of distress behind her shocked expression. He came towards her and seized the hand that she offered on a reflex, squeezing it tightly.

  ‘I just wanted to say sorry to both of you for the fiasco over my last concert.’

  She shook her head. She was quite distraught. ‘But what . . .’

  ‘John will tell you. It’s boring.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Her eyes were moist. ‘You don’t have to say sorry for anything.’

  ‘Lots of things have fallen into place since then. This sort of development can be clarifying, actually. I honestly needed to stop playing for a while.’ He was firm. He had to stay firm.

  She shook her head, as though denying the credibility of this news. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  He smiled resolutely. ‘Better than before the concert. Once you know, you can begin to deal with it. I’m not saying it hasn’t been grim, but I feel somehow or other back in control. I want to play again.’

  ‘Oh, Philip!’

  ‘You know, for a few weeks not a single bar of music came into my head. I haven’t actually touched the piano yet, but I know it’s going to sound beautiful when I do.’

  There were tears in her eyes.

  He acknowledged her sympathy with the kindest of looks. ‘Ursula’s more of an angel than an agent,’ he said to John, smiling. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m lucky in knowing I’ll leave something of myself. Through all this I’ve realised that in every sense I’m a soloist. I already have all I need or could expect. And I’ve been able to share that. While I’ve still got the chance to make music for people I have a reason to be happy. How much time any of us have left we can never know.’

  John sobbed, pulling his handkerchief from a drawer and blowing his nose with trumpety plangency. He sighed heavily, averting his eyes and scrunching the kerchief in his hand. He levered himself forward in the chair, gazed glassily around.

  ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ Philip dug into his briefcase. ‘I’m all presents today. This is for your boy.’

  John looked tearfully at the toy car.

  ‘Is he OK, John?’

  John nodded with difficulty.

  ‘He’s getting better?’

  He stood up suddenly, lumbered towards Philip, arms opening. Philip rose to meet the hug; the embrace was strangely healing, genuine emotion seemed to pass between agent and client, as if to confirm that the business premise of their relationship was a structure that housed the full range of human feelings. The driving energies and aspirations of their working lives were entwined. The hug was as heartfelt as John could be about anything - and that was heartfelt enough.

  Afterwards John stood back, raised the champagne glass to his lips, and swigged back the remains.

  ‘Your meeting,’ he said to Ursula.

  She sighed, drained by the idea.

  ‘Don’t go,’ pleaded Philip.

  Ursula glanced at John.

  John sat down at his desk, took the phone and dialled reception. He glanced long-sufferingly at Philip. ‘Francesca, hi. Ursula’s tied up in here, and I need to speak to the guy in her office. I’ll ring her extension. Will you pick up and give it to him?’

  He rang off and redialled, preparing his face.

  ‘Ben, hi. John Sampson. Hi. Sorry to cut into your meeting. We’ve got a bit of an emergency here and I need Ursula for a moment or two. Would you forgive her if she rescheduled the meeting? We have ways and means of making it up to you. No, she won’t be out in a hurry. I won’t bore you with the de - Yeah . . . Ben . . . I know, sure, I know. Yup. ‘Preciate that. Yeah, of course. It’s important. I wouldn’t . . . listen . . . Ben! I’m sure she’ll go over that . . . Do me a favour. Please let her reschedule the meeting? Speak to you soon. Thanks. I’ll let you go now . . . OK . . . I’m putting the phone down . . . Bye, Ben . . . Good to speak . . . Byee . . .’

  He set down the receiver and looked up in frazzled incredulity. ‘Christ! What a prat!’

  ‘My fault,’ said Philip.

  Ursula was haggard.

  ‘I don’t understand how some pisswit cellist thinks he can get ahead by wasting my time and trying my patience!’

  Philip almost laughed.

  ‘Another day, another absolute tosser!’

  ‘John, please!’ said Ursula.

  ‘I have an operation in two or three weeks,’ said Philip suddenly. ‘Before then I want to play one concert in as big a venue as possible.’

  John frowned, externalising his uncertainty quickly.

  Ursula responded with interest. She glanced in John’s direction.

  ‘Short notice, Philip.’

  ‘I’ll pay for the venue, the advertising, e
verything.’

  John nodded more times than was necessary. He bit the edge of his finger.

  ‘I want to reprogramme the Great Sonata series into one concert. I’ve had some ideas.’

  ‘Could it wait till after the operation?’

  Philip responded by saying nothing.

  ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ said Ursula. Her hands were unsettled, fidgety.

  ‘Sorry to inflict this on you.’

  John weeded some dust from his eye. He was struggling now. ‘None of the big venues will have a slot.’

  ‘I know.’

  John was trying to grasp what Philip had in mind. ‘Is this . . . what . . . some kind of farewell concert?’

  Philip was momentarily overcast. ‘I haven’t asked him, but I suppose Vadim might stand down.’

  John allowed the irony of this suggestion to colour his expression.

  ‘Bulmanion would forgive me, I’m sure.’

  John nodded slowly in provisional acknowledgement. No point in opposing Philip until he had a better idea. ‘I’m just thinking out loud . . . maybe we could go bigger.’

  ‘Bigger?’

  ‘A venue to fit the occasion.’

  ‘Don’t say what you were going to say.’

  ‘I wasn’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t anyway!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why?’

  John raised a hand, framing a thought with sudden emphasis.

  ‘I don’t want to promote the fact that I’m dying,’ said Philip.

  ‘Swan-song recital. BBC 2. You’ll hit a couple of million people. That’s event scheduling. CD spin-off, Cancer Relief. They can do an obit repeat. Bloody long shot but worth a try. South Bank Show did it for Dennis Potter.’

  Philip stared at him for a moment. ‘I can’t play on my own. I need to play for real people.’

  ‘Studio audience, no problem.’

  Philip sighed heavily.

  ‘Can you tell us,’ said John. ‘Um . . . how long have you been given?’

  Philip’s eyes prickled. It was extraordinary to be asked such a thing. For a moment he could not speak.

  Ursula scowled at John, deflecting him.