“But you must understand, she was never my girlfriend,” he would tell her. “We were never like that.”
“You mean you never became physically intimate? That doesn’t mean you weren’t in love with her.”
“No, Miss Eloise, that is incorrect. I was fond of her, certainly. But we were not in love.”
“But when you played me the Rachmaninov yesterday, you were remembering an emotion. It was love, romantic love.”
“No, that is absurd. She was a good friend, but we did not love.”
“But you play that passage like it’s the memory of love. You’re so young, and yet you know desertion, abandonment. That’s why you play that third movement the way you do. Most cellists, they play it with joy. But for you, it’s not about joy, it’s about the memory of a joyful time that’s gone for ever.”
They had conversations like this, and he was often tempted to question her in return. But just as he’d never dared ask Petrovic a personal question in the whole time he’d studied under him, he now felt unable to ask anything of substance about her. Instead, he dwelt on the little things she let fall-how she now lived in Portland, Oregon, how she’d moved there from Boston three years ago, how she disliked Paris “because of its sad associations”-but drew back from asking her to expand.
She would laugh much more easily now than in the first days of their friendship, and she developed the habit, when they stepped out of the Excelsior and crossed the piazza, of linking her arm through his. This was the point at which we first started noticing them, a curious couple, he looking so much younger than he actually was, she looking in some ways motherly, in other ways “like a flirty actress,” as Ernesto put it. In the days before we got to talking with Tibor, we used to waste a lot of idle chat on them, the way men in a band do. If they strolled past us, arm in arm, we’d look at each other and say: “What do you think? They’ve been at it, yes?” But having enjoyed the speculation, we’d then shrug and admit it was unlikely: they just didn’t have the atmosphere of lovers. And once we came to know Tibor, and he began telling us about those afternoons in her suite, none of us thought to tease him or make any funny suggestions.
Then one afternoon when they were sitting in the square with coffee and cakes, she began to talk about a man who wanted to marry her. His name was Peter Henderson and he ran a successful business in Oregon selling golfing equipment. He was smart, kind, well respected in the community. He was six years older than Eloise, but that was hardly old. There were two young children from his first marriage, but things had been settled amicably.
“So now you know what I’m doing here,” she said with a nervous laugh he’d never heard from her before. “I’m hiding out. Peter has no idea where I am. I guess it’s cruel of me. I called him last Tuesday, told him I was in Italy, but I didn’t say which city. He was mad at me and I guess he’s entitled to be.”
“So,” said Tibor. “You are spending the summer contemplating your future.”
“Not really. I’m just hiding.”
“You do not love this Peter?”
She shrugged. “He’s a nice man. And I don’t have a lot of other offers on the table.”
“This Peter. He is a music lover?”
“Oh… Where I live now, he would certainly count as one. After all, he goes to concerts. And afterwards, in the restaurant, he says a lot of nice things about what we just heard. So I guess he’s a music lover.”
“But he… appreciates you?”
“He knows it won’t always be easy, living with a virtuoso.” She gave a sigh. “That’s been the problem for me all my life. It won’t be easy for you either. But you and me, we don’t really have a choice. We have our paths to follow.”
She didn’t bring Peter up again, but now, after that exchange, a new dimension had opened in their relationship. When she had those quiet moments of thought after he’d finished playing, or when, sitting together in the piazza, she became distant, staring off past the neighbouring parasols, there was nothing uncomfortable about it, and far from feeling ignored, he knew his presence there beside her was appreciated.
ONE AFTERNOON when he’d finished playing a piece, she asked him to play again one short passage-just eight bars-from near the close. He did as asked and saw the little furrow remain on her forehead.
“That doesn’t sound like us,” she said, shaking her head. As usual, she was sitting in profile to him in front of the big windows. “The rest of what you played was good. All the rest of it, that was us. But that passage there…” She did a little shudder.
He played it again, differently, though not at all sure what he was aiming for, and wasn’t surprised to see her shake her head again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You must express yourself more clearly. I do not understand this ‘not us.’”
“You mean you want me to play it myself? Is that what you’re saying?”
She’d spoken calmly, but as she now turned to face him, he was aware of a tension descending on them. She was looking at him steadily, almost challengingly, waiting for his answer.
Eventually he said: “No, I’ll try again.”
“But you’re wondering why I don’t just play it myself, aren’t you? Borrow your instrument and demonstrate what I mean.”
“No…” He shook his head with what he hoped looked like nonchalance. “No. I think it works well, what we’ve always done. You suggest verbally, then I play. That way, it’s not like I copy, copy, copy. Your words open windows for me. If you played yourself, the windows would not open. I’d only copy.”
She considered this, then said: “You’re probably right. Okay, I’ll try and express myself a little better.”
And for the next few minutes she talked-about the distinction between epilogues and bridging passages. Then when he played those bars once more, she smiled and nodded approvingly.
But from that little exchange on, something shadowy had entered their afternoons. Perhaps it had been there all along, but now it was out of the bottle and hovered between them. Another time, when they were sitting in the piazza, he’d been telling her the story of how the previous owner of his cello had come by it in the Soviet Union days by bartering several pairs of American jeans. When he’d finished the story, she looked at him with a curious half-smile and said:
“It’s a good instrument. It has a fine voice. But since I’ve never so much as touched it, I can’t really judge it.”
He knew then she was again moving towards that territory, and he quickly looked away, saying:
“For someone of your stature, it would not be an adequate instrument. Even for me, now, it is barely adequate.”
He found he could no longer relax during a conversation with her for fear she would hijack it and bring it back onto this territory. Even during their most enjoyable exchanges, a part of his mind would have to remain on guard, ready to shut her off if she found yet another opening. Even so, he couldn’t divert her every time, and he’d simply pretend not to hear when she said things like: “Oh, it would be so much easier if I could just play it for you!”
TOWARDS THE END OF SEPTEMBER-there was now a chill in the breeze-Giancarlo received a phone call from Mr. Kaufmann in Amsterdam; there was a vacancy for a cellist in a small chamber group at a five-star hotel in the centre of the city. The group played in a minstrels’ gallery overlooking the dining room four evenings a week, and the musicians also had other “light, non-musical duties” elsewhere in the hotel. Board and accommodation terms were available. Mr. Kaufmann had immediately remembered Tibor and the post was being held open for him. We gave Tibor the news straight away-in the cafe the very evening of Mr. Kaufmann’s call-and I think we were all taken aback by the coolness of Tibor’s response. It was certainly a contrast to his attitude earlier in the summer, when we’d fixed up his “audition” with Mr. Kaufmann. Giancarlo, in particular, became very angry.
“So what is it you have to think over so carefully?” he demanded of the boy. “What were you expecting? Carn
egie Hall?”
“I’m not ungrateful. Nevertheless, I must give this matter some thought. To play for people while they chat and eat. And these other hotel duties. Is this really suitable for someone like me?”
Giancarlo always lost his temper too quickly, and now the rest of us had to stop him from grabbing Tibor by his jacket and shouting into his face. Some of us even felt obliged to take the boy’s side, pointing out it was his life, after all, and that he was under no obligation to take any job he was uncomfortable with. Things eventually calmed down, and Tibor then began to agree the job had some good points if viewed as a temporary measure. And our city, he pointed out rather insensitively, would become a backwater once the tourist season was over. Amsterdam at least was a cultural centre.
“I’ll give this matter careful thought,” he said in the end. “Perhaps you will kindly tell Mr. Kaufmann I will give him my decision within three days.”
Giancarlo was hardly satisfied by this-he’d expected fawning gratitude, after all-but he went off all the same to call back Mr. Kaufmann. During the whole of this discussion that evening, Eloise McCormack had not been mentioned, but it was clear to us all her influence was behind everything Tibor had been saying.
“That woman’s turned him into an arrogant little shit,” Ernesto said after Tibor had left. “Let him take that attitude with him to Amsterdam. He’ll soon get a few corners knocked off him.”
TIBOR HAD NEVER TOLD Eloise about his audition with Mr. Kaufmann. He’d been on the verge of doing so many times, but had always drawn back, and the deeper their friendship had grown, the more it seemed a betrayal that he’d ever agreed to such a thing. So naturally Tibor felt no inclination to consult Eloise about these latest developments, or even allow her any inkling of them. But he’d never been good at concealment, and this decision to keep a secret from her had unexpected results.
It was unusually warm that afternoon. He’d come to the hotel as usual, and begun to play for her some new pieces he’d been preparing. But after barely three minutes, she made him stop, saying:
“There’s something wrong. I thought it when you first came in. I know you so well now, Tibor, I could tell, almost from the way you knocked on the door. Now I’ve heard you play, I know for certain. It’s useless, you can’t hide it from me.”
He was in some dismay, and lowering his bow, was about to make a clean breast of everything, when she put up her hand and said:
“This is something we can’t keep running away from. You always try to avoid it, but it’s no use. I want to discuss it. The whole of this past week, I’ve been wanting to discuss it.”
“Really?” He looked at her in astonishment.
“Yes,” she said, and moved her chair so that for the first time she was directly facing him. “I never intended to deceive you, Tibor. These last few weeks, they haven’t been the easiest for me, and you’ve been such a dear friend. I’d so hate it if you thought I ever meant to play some cheap trick on you. No, please, don’t try and stop me this time. I want to say this. If you gave me that cello right now and asked me to play, I’d have to say no, I can’t do it. Not because the instrument isn’t good enough, nothing like that. But if you’re now thinking I’m a fake, that I’ve somehow pretended to be something I’m not, then I want to tell you you’re mistaken. Look at everything we’ve achieved together. Isn’t that proof enough I’m no fake anything? Yes, I told you I was a virtuoso. Well, let me explain what I meant by that. What I meant was that I was born with a very special gift, just as you were. You and me, we have something most other cellists will never have, no matter how hard they practise. I was able to recognise it in you, the moment I first heard you in that church. And in some way, you must have recognised it in me too. That’s why you decided to come to this hotel that first time.
“There aren’t many like us, Tibor, and we recognise each other. The fact that I’ve not yet learned to play the cello doesn’t really change anything. You have to understand, I am a virtuoso. But I’m one who’s yet to be unwrapped. You too, you’re still not entirely unwrapped, and that’s what I’ve been doing these past few weeks. I’ve been trying to help you shed those layers. But I never tried to deceive you. Ninety-nine per cent of cellists, there’s nothing there under those layers, there’s nothing to unwrap. So people like us, we have to help each other. When we see each other in a crowded square, wherever, we have to reach out for one another, because there are so few of us.”
He noticed that tears had appeared in her eyes, but her voice had remained steady. She now fell silent and turned away from him again.
“So you believe yourself to be a special cellist,” he said after a moment. “A virtuoso. The rest of us, Miss Eloise, we have to take our courage in our hands and we unwrap ourselves, as you put it, all the time unsure what we will find underneath. Yet you, you do not care for this unwrapping. You do nothing. But you are so sure you are this virtuoso…”
“Please don’t be angry. I know it sounds a little crazy. But that’s how it is, it’s the truth. My mother, she recognised my gift straight away, when I was tiny. I’m grateful to her for that at least. But the teachers she found for me, when I was four, when I was seven, when I was eleven, they were no good. Mom didn’t know that, but I did. Even as a small girl, I had this instinct. I knew I had to protect my gift against people who, however well-intentioned they were, could completely destroy it. So I shut them out. You’ve got to do the same, Tibor. Your gift is precious.”
“Forgive me,” Tibor interrupted, now more gently. “You say you played the cello as a child. But today…”
“I haven’t touched the instrument since I was eleven. Not since the day I explained to Mom I couldn’t continue with Mr. Roth. And she understood. She agreed it was much better to do nothing and wait. The crucial thing was not to damage my gift. My day may still come though. Okay, sometimes I think I’ve left it too late. I’m forty-one years old now. But at least I haven’t damaged what I was born with. I’ve met so many teachers over the years who’ve said they’d help me, but I saw through them. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell, Tibor, even for us. These teachers, they’re so… professional, they talk so well, you listen and at first you’re fooled. You think, yes, at last, someone to help me, he’s one of us. Then you realise he’s nothing of the kind. And that’s when you have to be tough and shut yourself off. Remember that, Tibor, it’s always better to wait. Sometimes I feel bad about it, that I still haven’t unveiled my gift. But I haven’t damaged it, and that’s what counts.”
He eventually played for her a couple of the pieces he’d prepared, but they couldn’t retrieve their usual mood and they ended the session early. Down in the piazza, they drank their coffee, speaking little, until he told her of his plans to leave the city for a few days. He’d always wanted to explore the surrounding countryside, he said, so now he’d arranged a short holiday for himself.
“It’ll do you good,” she said quietly. “But don’t stay away too long. We still have a lot to do.”
He reassured her he’d be back within a week at the most. Nevertheless, there was still something uneasy in her manner as they parted.
He’d not been entirely truthful about his going away: he hadn’t yet made any arrangements. But after leaving Eloise that afternoon, he went home and made several phone calls, eventually reserving a bed at a youth hostel in the mountains near the Umbrian border. He came to see us at the cafe that night, and as well as telling us about his trip-we gave him all kinds of conflicting advice about where to go and what to see-he rather sheepishly asked Giancarlo to let Mr. Kaufmann know he’d like to take up the job offer.
“What else can I do?” he said to us. “By the time I get back, I’ll have no money left at all.”
TIBOR HAD A PLEASANT enough break in our countryside. He didn’t tell us much about it, other than that he’d made friends with some German hikers, and that he’d spent more than he could afford in the hillside trattorias. He came back after a week, looking visibly refr
eshed, but anxious to establish that Eloise McCormack had not left the city during his absence.
The tourist crowds were beginning to thin by then, and the cafe waiters were bringing out terrace heaters to place among the outdoor tables. On the afternoon of his return, at their usual time, Tibor took his cello to the Excelsior again, and was pleased to discover not only that Eloise was there waiting for him, but that she’d obviously missed him. She welcomed him with emotion, and just as someone else, in a surfeit of affection, might have plied him with food or drink, she pushed him into his usual chair and began impatiently unpacking the cello, saying: “Play for me! Come on! Just play!”
They had a wonderful afternoon together. He’d worried beforehand how things would be, after her “confession” and the way they’d last parted, but all the tension seemed simply to have evaporated, and the atmosphere between them felt better than ever. Even when, after he’d finished a piece, she closed her eyes and embarked on a long, stringent critique of his performance, he felt no resentment, only a hunger to understand her as fully as possible. The next day and the day after, it was the same: relaxed, at times even jokey, and he felt sure he’d never played better in his life. They didn’t allude at all to that conversation before he’d gone away, nor did she ask about his break in the countryside. They only talked about the music.
Then on the fourth day after his return, a series of small mishaps-including a leaking toilet cistern in his room-prevented him going to the Excelsior at the usual hour. By the time he came past the cafe, the light was fading, the waiters had lit the candles inside the little glass bowls, and we were a couple of numbers into our dinner set. He waved to us, then went on across the square towards the hotel, his cello making him look like he was limping.
Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall Page 17