by Jilly Cooper
Oh God, like scrubbing off a tattoo, he tried to wipe out the indelible horror of Abby in Alexei’s arms, the après-concert euphoria leading on to something more. He loved Abby and she seemed his only hope of keeping out of the quicksand. As he wandered distracted into the garden he noticed the little stream shaking the ferns hanging over its bank as it hurtled towards the lake. Hart’s tongues, the ferns were called — like the tongues that would frantically wag if he were outed. ‘RUPERT’S SON A POOFTER,’ he could imagine the headlines. The papers would have a field-day. Sweating, he imagined his mother’s horror, Rupert’s lip curling in scorn — what else could any father have expected from such a wimp?
He wished Flora were here. He had so wanted to tell her about Alexei, but each time he’d bottled out. She was so busy playing chamber music with Julian and Old Henry and taking singing lessons that he never saw her.
By the front gate he noticed a white scented branch of philadelphus had been bashed down by last night’s downpour. As he broke it off to give it a few more days of life, he heard the telephone ring. Frantic with excitement, slipping on the mossy flagstones, he raced into the house. But it was only Helen, pumping him about Abby. Wasn’t it fascinating that she was conducting Rannaldini’s old orchestra? Rannaldini was kinda put out, said Helen laughing without amusement, but she thought she’d go along anyway.
Rannaldini was in Rome, she went on, expected back tomorrow. How was Marcus’s asthma? She rattled out the questions. Was he practising too little? Too much? Had he heard whether he’d qualified for the Appleton? She didn’t listen to any of his answers.
She sounded uptight when Marcus said Flora was away, then relieved when he added that she and Trevor were staying with her parents. Was Helen frightened of all Rannaldini’s exes? wondered Marcus, as he studied the Bartók, pencilling in reminders, as he listened to her.
Outside he could see Scriabin stalking a mouse, teetering along the fence, plumy tail aloft, like the sail of The Corsair’s pirate ship. Stealthily she crept towards him, on her velvet paws, thought Marcus.
He could bear it no longer. The moment Helen rang off he dialled the Ritz only to be told that Mr Nemerovsky had checked out, gone straight to Abby, no doubt. Marcus banged his burning forehead against the window-pane.
Work was the only salvation.
‘Always practise as though you were playing in front of an audience, even if it’s only the cat,’ Marcus remembered his old teacher’s words, so now he played for Scriabin, nearly breaking the keys in the fireworks of the last movement, working off his anguish until he was wringing wet. The sun had also appeared round the brow of the hill, blazing into his studio.
As he flung open the window, he could hear shouting and a time bomb tick. He must be hallucinating, for there, getting out of a taxi, smothered in the same grey wolf-coat that he had been wearing at the gala, was Alexei.
As he tore across the lawn into the darkness of the cottage, Marcus realized he had forgotten to put the branch of philadelphus in water. Brandishing it like a white hot, scented sword to defend himself, he opened the door.
‘I ’ave no money,’ said Alexei simply. ‘Can you pay the taxi? He will take cheque.’
‘I’ve got the cash,’ Marcus tried to curb his elation. ‘It’s only a fiver from the station.’
‘I come from the Reeetz.’
By the time Marcus had settled the bill, with a cheque which would probably bounce, Alexei had made himself at home, dipping chunks of brown bread into tara-masalata and pouring Abby’s vodka neat into two ice-filled glasses.
‘For you,’ Alexei chucked a little grey bag at Marcus, which clinked as he caught it. ‘Roubles for when you come to Moscow.’
Alexei tossed back one entire glass of vodka and handed the other to Marcus, who shook his head.
‘I’ve got to work. I’ve got a concert on Saturday. I don’t know the piece yet, anyway,’ he stammered, his blushing crimson cheeks clashing with his dark red hair, ‘Abby isn’t here.’
‘Of course, zat is vy I am here.’
Marcus’s heart was beating so fast, only Alexei’s flying feet could have kept up with it. Grabbing a rolling-pin, he bashed the stem of the philadelphus ferociously, before ramming it into a pale green Wedgwood jug. The heady sweet scent was overpowering.
‘I ought to work,’ he said obstinately.
‘I ought to walk,’ mocked Alexei. ‘I need country air in my lungs.’
He refused to remove his wolf-coat.
‘In Eengland, I am always cold.’
Outside, the sun highlighted his night-owl pallor, the flecks of grey in the thick straight black hair.
Last evening’s eye-liner still ringed eyes that were just slits of amused malice beneath the heavy lids. A half-smile played over the rubber-tyre mouth. A cocksucker’s mouth, his father would call it, thought Marcus, Oh God, help me.
Alexei walked, as he danced, with a springy step leaning backwards, chin raised, head thrown back proudly, idly whistling tunes from Romeo and Juliet as he went. As they reached the wider path along the edge of the lake, he took Marcus’s arm — it was like walking with a bear. Marcus prayed they didn’t bump into any of the Celtic Mafia. He was having great difficulty breathing, and longed to collapse on the bank amid the meadowsweet and watch the dark blue dragonflies dive-bombing the water lilies.
But Alexei was gazing at the mayflies endlessly dancing above the still dark water, making the most of their one day of life.
‘They are like me,’ observed Alexei bitterly, ‘you ’ave sixty, perhaps seventy more years to play the piano. I have ten to dance, eef I’m lucky. I’m not going to drag myself on like a wounded eagle like Rudi.’
‘You could always direct or teach.’
Alexei shrugged. ‘No more bravos, no more centre of attention.’
Reaching the end of the lake, they turned back up a rough track into the wood, going deeper and deeper until only the occasional sunbeam pierced the darkness, throwing ingots of gold light on the carpet of dark moss. It was wonderfully cool after the blazing heat. The birds were silent beneath their green-baize cloth of leaves. Marcus kept his distance.
‘What d’you call this ’ere?’ Alexei was shaking a great acid green shawl slung over the branch of a towering sycamore tree.
‘Old man’s beard,’ muttered Marcus. ‘Some people call it traveller’s joy.’
‘A nicer name, I am a traveller, who will bring you joy,’ announced Alexei, then, when Marcus didn’t respond, asked, ‘How ees anyone as beautiful as you so frightened, leetle Marcus? You should be enjoying your beauty. Brave boys like you should not be afraid of wolves,’ he added mockingly.
Marcus started, opened his mouth and shut it again. They had been joined by Mr Nugent and Mrs Diggory’s spaniel, who often escaped together on illicit hunting sprees.
Now the two dogs were crashing round trampling the last green seed-heads and yellow leaves of the wild garlic. The smell reminded Marcus of Taggie’s cooking and the gentle intimacy of long chats with her in the kitchen, until these had been ruined by the return of disdainful, disruptive Rupert, who was even jealous of a son he despised.
Once again Marcus thought how alike were Rupert and Alexei. Did all gays fall for men like their father?
Alexei walked very fast splashing through the puddles, while the dogs tiptoed round the edge. Marcus was getting breathless — he wished he’d remembered his inhaler.
‘You should take more exercise,’ said Alexei reprovingly.
‘I have asthma. It’s hard to breathe, the pollen and things.’
‘Foo to the pollen! Ees difficult to breathe because I am ’ere, and you know it.’ As Alexei raised his hand to touch Marcus’s cheek, the boy jumped away in panic, his eyes enormous.
Alexei laughed. ‘Just then a beeg grey wolf did come out of the forest.’
‘I can’t, Alexei,’ gabbled Marcus, ‘I can’t do it to Abby, the last time a man cheated on her, she slashed her wrists.’
&nbs
p; ‘Hopefully she do eet proper theese time.’
‘Shut up, I love her; anyway I’ve got to marry and have kids, my father’s got to have an heir. I’ve let him down so much already being a wimp, being shit-scared of horses, being terrified of him, not even succeeding as a pianist.’
‘It would feenish him off altogether eef he knew you were in love with a ballet dancer, hey?’
In terror, Marcus gazed into the still but curiously speculative face.
‘Am I?’ he muttered. ‘I’m supposed to be marrying Abby.’
‘You will make her terribly unhappy.’
‘Oh Christ, are you sure?’
This time when Marcus tried to jump away, Alexei held onto his hand with a boa-constrictor grip, drawing him close.
‘No matter how ‘ard the wolf try to escape, he only pulled the rope round his tail tightair,’ he whispered in Marcus’s ear.
The path ahead was really churned up — like walking on turkey fat. Brambles clawed Marcus’s legs as if trying to hold him back. Twice he slipped, twice Alexei caught him.
Then Alexei halted, idly pulling aside the curtains of ivy hanging from the roots of a massive beech tree to reveal a little cave. Marcus had to duck his head as Alexei pulled him inside, down onto a bed of mossy yellow stone strewn with ancient beech leaves.
‘You’re so beautiful,’ Alexei took the boy’s flushed, freckled face between his hands, gently smoothing his cheek-bones to wipe out the dark brown circles beneath the haunted apprehensive eyes.
‘Ees stupid to fight, it is so strong.’ The hard, haughty face was suddenly miraculously gentle and kindly. ‘First time I see you, I want you. You are the only reason I dance at Rutminster for pittance. You make me believe it would be possible to geeve the ’eart.’
Marcus could hear the manic rustling of the dogs after a rabbit, the gruff drone of a helicopter. Through the ivy curtain, he could see the brilliant blue sky thrusting between soaring grey limbs of a beech tree, then Alexei’s big mouth came down on his and Alexei’s body on top of him was as hard and elemental as the mossy Cotswold stone beneath.
A minute later, unable to breathe, Marcus wriggled away, but Alexei was too strong for him.
‘Look at me, silly boy, you ’ave pretty eyelashes, but it would be nice to see your eyes. Doesn’t this make your ’eart pound like nothing before?’
‘Nothing,’ gasped Marcus. ‘You know I love you. It was the same for me, I was utterly lost from the moment you bounded onto the stage like Nimrod.’
‘Neemrod?’ demanded Alexei in outraged jealousy.
‘My father’s lurcher, he’s got killer eyes,’ Marcus gave a half laugh, that became a sob. ‘You’re a cross between Nimrod and my father. I love you, but I can’t do this to Abby.’
‘’Ush, ’ush, look into my eyes. I am real, you are home where you belong. No more pretending, let eet happen.’
He was mumbling endearments in Russian now, which sounded so marvellous in his husky basso profundo voice. ‘You will always remember thees, because it ees the first time. Anyway,’ he added wickedly, ‘I must get out of these boots, I bought them to eempress you and they kill me.’
Back at the cottage dizzy with exhaustion and happiness, Marcus cooked burnt sausages and lumpy mash for Alexei which was mostly polished off by Mr Nugent and Mrs Diggory’s spaniel. The dogs didn’t stay, however, to hear Marcus play Schumann’s Dreaming in the fading light. He wasn’t nervous any more. Alexei had ironed all the tension out of his body.
At the end, Alexei got up and put his arms round him.
‘You cannot marry Abby.’
‘I must, it would destroy her.’
‘Not so much as eet would destroy her eef you do. Break it off now. She would be devastated, but only for a month or two. Far better an end with horror, than horror without end. You cannot afford to be tied. You and I are artists, like stars een the sky, we seem close in the night, but we are light year apart. We are pellegrino — eet means orphan and wanderer. We belong to the world, not each other. We are married to Art. Art is far more important than love.’
Not any more, thought Marcus, as Alexei slid two hands deep down inside his shirt.
He wanted to drive Alexei to Birmingham Airport to catch a late flight to Berlin, but Alexei insisted on taking a taxi.
‘Eef you are feet to drive, you should not be. My agent weel pay the other end.’
Alexei wouldn’t leave until Marcus had promised to join him wherever he was in the world, the moment he’d dispatched the Bartók. He also insisted they swapped watches. Strapping his Rolex, which reeked of Givenchy for Men round Marcus’s wrist, he proudly carried off Marcus’s schoolboy Swatch, as though it were made of diamonds.
Marcus was only too happy to be left alone in the dusk, stunned by the enormity of the afternoon’s events. A thrush was singing in the garden, repeating each exquisite phrase.
As he wandered down to the lake, it started to pour, huge raindrops dive-bombing unwary moths, clattering on the leaves, thrashing the lake, creating rings which spread and ran into each other. Marcus thought, watching them, how everyone’s actions affected everyone else’s in life.
‘Nemerovsky loves me,’ he shouted over and over again to the blue-black sky, his belly churning and caving in to meet his backbone as he shivered at the memory.
Waltzing home in the deluge, he was running a scalding bath, about to dream of Alexei before crashing out, when the front door flew open, and in burst Abby and Helen in a state of euphoria. Abby had had a wonderful success with the London Met.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ she told Marcus earnestly. ‘After four years, they still retain Rannaldini’s precision and special timbre.’
I don’t give a shit, thought Marcus as they rabbited on. Why are they telling me this?
Now Helen was explaining how she had gone backstage after the concert, and while she and Abby had supper together, Abby had confided that she and Marcus were getting married. Helen had been delirious with joy, not only was Abby a great and respected artist, but an American like herself.
‘She’ll help you in your career, and Rupert is bound to come round when he hears you’re getting married, and then you and he and Rannaldini can all be reconciled at the wedding.’
Helen, like Rupert, had always suppressed a deep-rooted dread that Marcus might be gay.
Marcus listened incredulously, watching their mouths moving like rapacious baby birds, as they planned his future. He must give up ‘all the horrible pupils with their awful mothers that drained him so dreadfully,’ and Rupert must give him a decent allowance. But they agreed that Rupert would only rate Marcus when he won a big piano competition, so all his sights must be set on the Appleton.
I’m on the wrong train hurtling towards a cliff and I can’t find the communication cord, thought Marcus in panic.
‘And what is more,’ crowed Abby, ‘I saw Lady Appleton, who runs the Appleton this evening, and she said you’ve qualified, but we’re not to tell anyone. You walked it. We must have a drink to celebrate.’
Neither she nor Helen realized that Marcus hadn’t moved, still on the bottom step of the stairs slumped against the wall, watching them.
Rootling around in the cupboard, Abby swore she had had some vodka. Flora must have drunk it, they’d have to make do with brandy.
‘And best of all,’ she said happily, filling up three glasses, ‘Lady Appleton is so fed up with the orchestra who normally play at the finals overcharging, that she’s chucked them, and she wants me and the RSO to accompany the finalists instead, which means two days of prime-time TV. Wow, what a day.’
Marcus’s mind was racing like a cornered rat.
‘I can’t go in for the Appleton if you’re conducting the orchestra,’ he stammered.
‘Only in the finals,’ said Abby soothingly. ‘There are two preliminary rounds before that. Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’
Then suddenly she had a feeling of déjà vu, as water started dripping
on her head reminiscent of the H.P. Hall, only this time it was hot.
‘Christ, Marcus, you’ve left the bath running.’
Racing upstairs, Marcus found it a relief to plunge his hand into the scalding water to find the plug. Anything to offset the agony of not seeing Alexei again.
When he came down, noticing how shivering and pale he was, except for one bright red arm, Helen and Abby decided he’d been overworking and packed him off to bed.
‘We’ll have to get your morning-coat out of mothballs,’ teased Helen, as she kissed him good night. ‘I’m so happy for you darling.’
A mourning-coat, thought Marcus, as he tossed and turned all night in agony.
The next day, as a gesture of defiance, he sold Rupert’s Munnings and bought Abby the ruby heart as an engagement ring. Abby, however, decided to wear it on her right hand until after the Appleton, in case she was accused of favouring Marcus.
Later in the day, while she was out shopping, Marcus wrote a brief letter of renunciation to Alexei, quoting Coventry Patmore:
Love wakes men, once in a lifetime each;
They lift their heavy lids, and look;
And lo, what one sweet page can teach,
They read with joy, then shut the book.
Then he thanked Alexei for the most wonderful few hours of his life, past, present and future, but insisted that they must never see each other again.
Alexei’s only reply was a white feather in an airmail envelope.