The Line of Beauty

by Alan Hollinghurst

  When the Chopin had finished, Nina bowed and rushed out, and Nick saw her on the landing again, waiting in fact like someone about to jump, too young and high-minded to care very much for applause, or to know what to do with it. Gerald was clapping in the loud, steady, hollow way he had. One or two people stood up, the man from the Cabinet Office took in the next item on the agenda, and the lady behind Nick said, "No, sadly we're at Badminton that weekend."

  It was a couple of Schubert Impromptus that followed, the C minor and the stream-like E-flat major, which requires such unfaltering evenness of touch. Nick had heard her play through the very beginning of it a dozen times, until he was screaming at her in his head to go on. Well, now she did, watching her own hands busying up and down the keyboard as if they were astonishing automata that she had wound up and set in motion, in perfect synchrony, to produce this silvery flow of sound. She made it seem a bit like an exercise, but you could tell, if you listened, that the piece was life itself, in its momentum and its evanescence. The modulations in it were like instants of dizziness. Nick felt she played the B minor middle section too abruptly, so that the visionary coherence of the thing was spoiled.

  He found himself staring at Gerald's mother and Wani's father, who made a funny pair. Bertrand was sitting there in the lustrous housing of his suit, very still, in respect for the tedious protocol of the event, with only his thin black moustache to betray his impatience as he pursed and flexed his lips in unconscious little kisses. Beside him Lady Partridge, her head tilted up, her face a mask of blusher and brown powder, like someone just back from a skiing holiday, was also clearly elsewhere. From time to time she glanced sideways at her neighbour, and at his drably dressed wife. Nick knew it was upsetting for her to sit next to what she always called an A-rab, but something seemed to kindle in her too at the closeness of so much money.

  They had decided before the concert that they would do without an interval, so after the Schubert Gerald stood up and said in his genial, penetrating tone, the tone of a commander among friends, that they would go straight into the final item, Beethoven's "Farewell" Sonata, and then they could all have more to drink and some rather good salmon—an idea that was greeted with applause all of its own. Nina came back in looking slighted and doubly determined, Nick clapped her very vigorously, and when she played the first three descending notes, "Le-be-wohl," a shiver ran up his back. The man beside him looked at him suspiciously. But for Nick, to listen to music, to great music, which was all necessity, and here in the house, where the floor trembled to the sudden resolve of the Allegro, and the piano shook on its locked brass wheels—well, it was a startling experience. He felt shaken and reassured all at once—the music expressed life and explained it and left you having to ask again. If he believed anything he believed that. Not everyone here, of course, felt the same: Lady Kimbolton, there, the tireless party fund-raiser, kept a careful frown as she looked discreetly through her appointments diary, then shook the bangles down her arm as she came to attention again—the grey attention, mere good behaviour, of the governing class; she might have been in church, at the memorial service of some unloved colleague, in a world of unmeant expressions, the opposite of Beethoven. Gerald, at the other end of Nick's row, loved music, and was nodding now and then, just off the beat, like someone catching on to an idea, but afterwards Nick knew he would say it had all been either "glorious" or "great fun"—even Parsifal he had described as "great fun," when "glorious" had seemed the more likely option. Others were clearly touched by what they heard: it was Beethoven, after all, and the piece told a story, of departure, absence and return, which no one could fail to follow or to feel.

  It was the absence that was best, and little Nina, whom it was hard to think of without her "little," seemed almost visibly to grow up as she played it. It was a proper andante espressivo, it moved and it moved along, she didn't ham up the emotion, in fact you saw her curbing some keen emotion of her own to the wisdom of Beethoven, so that the numbness of absence, the wistful solitude, the stifled climaxes of longing, came luminously through. Nick searched out Wani again, the sliver of profile, the dark curls crowding behind his ear—and wondered if he was touched, and if so in what way. He was watching his ear but he couldn't tell what he heard. In Wani, it was hard to distinguish complete attention from complete abstraction. Nick focused on him, so that everything else swam and Wani alone, or the bit of him he could see, throbbed minutely against the glossy double curve of the piano lid. He felt he floated forwards into another place, beautiful, speculative, even dangerous, a place created and held open by the music, but separate from it. It had the mood of a troubling dream, where nothing could be known for certain or offer a solid foothold to memory after one had woken. What really was his understanding with Wani? The pursuit of love seemed to need the cultivation of indifference. The deep connection between them was so secret that at times it was hard to believe it existed. He wondered if anyone knew—had even a flicker of a guess, an intuition blinked away by its own absurdity. How could anyone tell? He felt there must always be hints of a secret affair, some involuntary tenderness or respect, a particular way of not noticing each other . . . He wondered if it ever would be known, or if they would take the secret to the grave. For a minute he felt unable to move, as if he were hypnotized by Wani's image. It took a little shudder to break the charm.

  There was a strange rough breath from Norman Kent, who was crying steadily—making rather a thing of it perhaps, pulling off his glasses and swiping his face with his hand. Nick admired the spirit of it, the defiant sensitivity, and also felt put out, since he often cried at music himself but on this occasion hadn't managed to do so. Penny rested her hand on her father's shoulder, and braved this familiar embarrassment. Nick saw she was blushing, which she easily did. Then the music turned on a sixpence, and the light-headed rush of the finale began. The marvellous marking, Vivacissi-mamente, was a red rag to Nina, and the music flashed by in delirious chirrups and stampings. Nick seemed to see Beethoven, or rather Nina herself, striding up and down some sonorous wooden-floored room in frenzied impatience for the joyful return. Norman made a grunt of rueful amusement, and Penny twisted round, as if freed by the optimistic turn of events, and looked gently, and still blushing, at Gerald, who caught her eye, lowered his gaze and coloured slightly also. Well, there was such an old tension between the two men, on stubborn matters of principle; for years it had been only Rachel's stubbornness that could make them forget their principles enough to meet, and nod at each other, and exchange doggish banter. Of course it was painful for Penny, and now perhaps she was making her own plea for reconciliation. Typing up Gerald's diary from the tape each day she must have a useful sense of his feelings.

  The sonata finished and firm applause broke out, given a new edge of enthusiasm by the fact of its being the end—the whole experience was suddenly seen in a brighter light, it was time for a drink, they'd all done rather well. Norman Kent clapped with his hands above his head when Nina came back in, Catherine called out a hectic "Bravo," and Jasper imitated her and grinned as if he'd made a joke in class. For a second or two Nina stood there stiffly, then she sat down without a word and played Rachmaninov's Prelude in C-sharp minor. It was a piece the older members of the audience tended to know well, and though they didn't specially want to hear it, they indulged it and exchanged distracted smiles. After that there was very decisive applause, the piece had gone on for quite a while, one or two people looked round at the drinks table and the exit and started talking, and Nina came back in and played Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor, in the famous Busoni transcription. At this Lady Kimbolton looked at her watch as if she was virtually blind, holding her arm up to the light, and a number of people started fanning themselves with their programme sheets. This caught on as a form of mutiny, with the associated jiggling of bracelets. When Nina came back the next time Gerald had stood up and was saying, "Um . . . aah," as if amiably bringing a meeting to order, but she sat down anyway and played the Sabre D
ance by Khachaturian. It all seemed quite natural to Nick, she must have been told to have three encores ready, but there was still a possibility that she had four, so at a sign from Gerald he went out after her and congratulated her and asked her to stop. She stood on the landing and gazed down the pompous curve of the stairs as the applause pattered quickly to a close and the greedy roar of the party began.

  "Hello, Judy!"

  "My dear." Lady Partridge stood rigid while he kissed her rosy cheek—Nick never knew if she regarded a kiss as a homage or a liberty. He grinned at her, as if she was having as much fun as he was. "You seem very cheerful," she said.

  Nick looked in the mirror where he did appear bright-eyed, sharing a rich secret with himself. "Well, a successful recital, I thought."

  "Did you," said Lady Partridge; and then, merely to be agreeable, "I liked the last piece she played. I think I've heard it before."

  "Oh, the Khachaturian."

  She gave him a very dry look. "Got a swing to it."

  "Mm, it certainly has"—Nick laughed quietly and delightedly, and after a second Lady Partridge smiled slyly too, as if she'd been cleverer than she knew.

  A waitress came past and they both took new glasses of champagne. "Extraordinary people . . . " Lady Partridge was saying. As a rule she was happy and busy in Gerald's political world, she treated his colleagues very graciously, and felt a fierce thrill when, amongst the drab shop talk that alas made up most of their social dealings, they gave her an undiluted fix of policy, the really unanswerable need to reduce manufacturing, curb immigration, rationalize "mental health" (what abuse and waste there were there!), and get public services back into private hands. They were like rehearsals for the telly, and even more inspiring. They liquidated every doubt. Nick said,

  "That's Lord Toft, isn't it . . . the man who builds all the roads."

  "Nothing extraordinary about Bernie Toft," Lady Partridge said. Sir Jack himself of course had been in the construction business. "I don't know why Gerald has to ask that awful artist man."

  "Oh, Norman, you mean? He's not very good, is he?"

  "He's a red-hot socialist," said Lady Partridge.

  They both looked over to where Norman Kent was standing by the piano, holding on to it symbolically, and probably conscious of his portrait of Toby hanging behind him, as if it was an element in his own portrait. Most people dodged him with a preoccupied smile and pretended to be searching for someone else, but Catherine and Jasper were talking to him. His voice rose emotionally as he said, "Of course you must, my dear girl, paint and paint and paint," and shook Catherine by the shoulder.

  "Do you happen to know who that young man is with my granddaughter?" Lady Partridge said.

  "Yes, it's Jasper, he's her new boyfriend."

  "Ah . . . " Lady Partridge gave an illusionless nod or two; but said, "He looks a cut above the last one, anyway."

  "Yes, he's all right . . ."

  "He even appears to own shoes."

  "I know, amazing!" Nick's main feeling about Jasper, very clear to him at the moment, was that he needed to be tied up face down on a bed for an hour or two. "He's an estate agent, actually."

  "Very good-looking," said Lady Partridge, in her own odd lustful way. "I imagine he sells masses of houses."

  Trudi Titchfield came past with a grimace, as if not expecting to be remembered. "Lovely party," she said. "It's such a lovely room for a party. We sadly only have the garden flat. Well, one has the garden, but the rooms are rather low."

  "Yes," said Lady Partridge.

  Trudi lowered her voice. "Not long of course before a very special party. The Silver Wedding . . . ? I hear the PM's coming."

  "I don't think the Queen's coming," said Lady Partridge.

  "No, not the Queen—the PM"—in a radiant whisper. "The Queen! No, no . . ."

  Lady Partridge blinked magnificently. "All rather hush-hush," she said.

  Sam Zeman came past and said, "You're making me a rich man, my dear!" which was charming and funny, but he didn't stop to expand. Perhaps it was just the code of business, but Nick felt they'd used up their store of friendship in the gym and the restaurant, and that they would never be close to each other again.

  In the crowd around the buffet (all chaffing courtesy and furtive ruth-lessness) little Nina was mixing with her audience, who in general were nice enough to say "Well done!" and ask her where on earth she had learnt to play like that. She had simple expressionless English, and the English people talked to her in the same way, but louder. "So your father, is in prison? You poor thingl" Just in front of Nick, Lady Kimbolton was greeting the Tippers. Lady Kimbolton's first name was Dolly, and even her close friends found ways of avoiding the natural salutation.

  "Good evening, Dolly," said Sir Maurice, with a satirical little bow.

  "Hello!" said Sally Tipper. "Well, that was very enjoyable."

  "I know, heartbreaking," said Lady Kimbolton. "I imagine you saw the Telegraph this morning?"

  "I did indeed," said Sir Maurice. "Congratulations!"

  "I do like to hear music in the home," Lady Tipper said, "as in the times of Beethoven and Schubert themselves."

  "I know . . . " said Lady Kimbolton, her square practical face tilting this way and that to see what was on the table.

  "Nigel must be chuffed," Sir Maurice said.

  "Maurice and I have been to a number of concerts at friends' houses lately, it's an excellent move," said Lady Tipper, who was known to be artistic.

  "I know, there seems to be an absolute mania for concerts," Lady Kimbolton said. "This is the second one I've been to this year."

  "I hear Lionel Kessler, you know . . . ? had the Medici Quartet at Hawkeswood for a marvellous evening with Giscard d'Estaing."

  "I think that's really what gave Gerald the idea," said Nick, joshing in between them as they got to the table.

  "Oh, hello . . ."

  "Hello, Dolly," said Nick. He knew he could do quite a funny sketch about Gerald's growing preoccupation with the concert idea, which had come to a peak of competitive angst when Denis Beckwith, a handsome old saurian of the right enjoying fresh acclaim these days, had hired Kiri te Kanawa to sing Mozart and Strauss at his eighty-fifth birthday party. But something made him tread carefully. "You know how competitive he is," he said.

  "We're all for competition!" said Dolly Kimbolton, claiming her plate of salmon from the waiter.

  "Jolly good, jolly good . . . " said Gerald, weaving through behind them. "Clever you to introduce us to a new artiste," said Sally Tipper.

  "I liked that last thing she played," said Sir Maurice.

  Gerald looked round to see where Nina was. "We thought rather than going for a big name . . ."

  The "Badminton" lady was darting in for a bread roll. "You're so right," she said. "I hear Michael's hiring the Royal Philharmonic for their summer party."

  "Michael . . . ?" said Gerald.

  "Oh? . . . Heseltine? Yup . . . yup . . . " She hunched in fake apology as she backed away. "Yup, the whole blinking RPO. What it must be costing.

  But they've had a good year," she added, in a tenderly defiant tone.

  "I thought we'd had a pretty good year," Gerald muttered.

  Nick had been avoiding Bertrand Ouradi, but as he turned from the table with his plate there Bertrand was. "Aha, my friend the aesthete!" he said, and Nick was reminded of an annoying foreign waiter, perhaps, or taxi driver, for whom he was identified by a single joke. But he was able to say excitedly,

  "How are you?"

  Bertrand didn't answer—he seemed to suggest the question was both trivial and impertinent. He looked around the room, where people were grouping on the sofas and at little tables brought in by the staff and swiftly covered with white cloths. He didn't know where to settle, among these braying English snobs; his expression was proud and wary. "Bloody hot, isn't it," he said to Nick. "Come and talk to me"; and he led him, again like a waiter, with half-impatient glances over his shoulder, among the dotted supper
tables—not to the cool of the great rear balcony but to a window seat at the front, looking onto the street. Perching there, knee to knee, partly screened by the roped-back curtains, they had a worrying degree of privacy. "Bloody hot," said Bertrand again. "Thank god that beast has got bloody air conditioning": he nodded at the maroon Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow parked at the kerb below.

  "Ah," said Nick, unable to rise to such a wretched brag. In the back window of the car shiny white cushions were neatly aligned; he couldn't see the number plate but the thought that it must be BO something made him smirk—he pressed the smirk a little harder into a ghastly smile of admiration. One of Catherine's neuroses was a horror of maroon; it outdid her phobia of the au sound, or augmented it perhaps, with some worse intimation. Nick saw what she meant.