Time Will Tell

by Donald Greig

  When he was sure that the librarian had gone for lunch and he was entirely alone, he took the records for the year 1501 and prepared to unpick the spine. He didn’t have to force anything. The glue was old and cracked and had lost its adhesive properties, so his task was like unwrapping a Christmas present. He simply opened the fold at the top and grasped the filling between thumb and forefinger to remove it. But it wouldn’t budge; the glue might no longer hold the leather binding in place, but it still held the padding to the leather.

  He thought no more of it and returned to his research. The next day, however, after two hours of reading the records for 1502, he tried the same thing with a different volume and managed to extract a folded piece of vellum from one of the bindings. It was disappointing. He’d seen it, or something like it, before. It was simply one of the pages from the chapter records sullied by the scribe, a large blob of ink and a hastily scribbled ‘Merde. Merde!’ over a half-completed page. Nevertheless, it was an encouraging human engagement with the past, and considerably more personal than anything he’d read thus far. Subsequently he went back over all the books he’d studied to see if he could find anything similar, and an hour later he’d discovered four similar folded sheets, further examples of nothing more exciting than scribal ineptitude.

  Eventually he became almost as bored with his search as he was with the investigation into the records themselves. There wasn’t even the satisfaction of developing a methodology. His early attempts had sometimes resulted in torn vellum, but, in a relatively short space of time, he’d become quite an expert. He had a feel for it now. He knew the right amount of pressure he could exert before the vellum would rip and had found that a small amount of saliva could sometimes loosen the glue. Thus his developing skills as an historical pickpocket became his real pursuit, rather than the quest for historical discovery, so much so that he found he’d extracted three folded pieces of vellum from three different books and, suddenly worried that he might put them back in the wrong places, almost forgot to consider their content. The first and second were the usual spoiled entries. The third was different: a letter. The writing was obviously not of the same hand as that of any of the scribes he’d viewed thus far, though it shared with it the same preference for loops on ‘g’s’ and ‘y’s’ in particular. He suspected that it was of the same era, a thought that was immediately confirmed by the careful dating at the top right hand of the page: Tours, Martius 19, 1524. Tours: Ockeghem’s city, though Ockeghem had died twenty-seven years before the letter was written. It was addressed to mon fils – my son – and the author was a Geoffroy Chiron, a name that, at the time, meant nothing to Andrew. In floral, formal language, the father explained his poor state of health and expressed the hope that the son would be able to visit soon ‘by the grace of the Lord, and of the Duke’. Some of the words were unclear and some smudged, quite different in style from the limited, recondite vocabulary of the chapter records, but one word stood out: ung motect – a motet.

  The letter was smaller than the other pieces of vellum used for bindings, and two accompanying sheets, larger still, provided further padding and had ensured the letter’s survival. These supplementary sheets had been folded over themselves, widthwise and several times, to fit into the spine and thus they revealed their secret to Andrew slowly and, in retrospect, almost teasingly. The first thing he did was to unfold the extra pages, which resembled a fan. When he had smoothed out the creases, it became apparent that he was dealing with only one piece of paper. The final fold was not quite in the middle of the page so that the overlap, which had made it appear from a cursory glance like two pages, actually consisted of the top and bottom of the same sheet. This single piece of paper was stuck together but two centimetres of handwritten Latin text were visible, and above that, two parallel horizontal lines.

  He recognised them straightaway, the dimensions as familiar to him as a fragment of a ledger would be to an accountant or the symbols of a wiring diagram would be to an electrician: it was the bottom of a musical stave, and two fat, square breves confirmed it as fifteenth-century music notation. He looked up to check there was no one around then slowly placed the document flat on the desk, smoothing out the folds as best he could by running his hand gently from top to bottom and side to side. He knew that he had to be careful now. The ink itself might be sticking the page together and may well have bled from one side to the other. He peeled off his white gloves and laid them to one side; this would require a delicacy of touch that could only be achieved with bare fingertips. He wiped his hands on his trousers to remove any sweat, and then looked around him once more. He was alone.

  He placed the folded sheet flat on the desk and pressed down with splayed fingers and thumbs to anchor it. Then he lifted his index fingers, brought their tips together and, with the lightest of pressure, gently inserted them between the folds. It was warm to the touch and much smoother than he’d expected, as though its resting place had kept it alive. Slowly, evenly, he separated his index fingers, moving them in opposite directions, caressing the stave beneath them. The top fold loosened from the bottom and, after about a minute of this insinuating movement, he had cleared about three millimetres to reveal almost a complete new line on which were traced two new note heads. As tempting as it was to examine them, he stuck to his immediate task and, with the same tender insistence, repeated the process. After ten minutes, he had succeeded in exposing three centimetres of writing. He dropped his head so that his eyes were level with the document and congratulated himself; none of the ink had bled through and he could clearly see a bass part in fifteenth-century white notation. He was tempted to push forward now with more urgency but, fearing that the vellum might tear, he endured the beautiful torment of his calculated probing.

  He repeated the same movement several times, delicately easing apart the folds of the paper to ensure that no damage came to his treasure and, after twenty minutes, he had revealed a single sheet on which three musical parts were notated. The text was Miserere mei – Psalm 51 – the same words that had been set countless times by other composers, most famously by Allegri in the seventeenth century. It was immediately obvious that this manuscript was not a performing edition. It was tiny and whereas, in fifteenth-century choirbooks traditionally the voice-parts were separated, here the three, named parts were ranged on top of each other, like a modern score.

  It was no forgery – why would a forger hide it here, after all? – and his faith in its authenticity grew with each small discovery. Here and there he found faint ficta markings, which seemed to have been added afterwards. It was a living document of compositional practice and, according to the letter that accompanied it, must have been in some way linked to Tours. It was clearly what music historians called an autograph: a working copy made by – or for – a composer; and as such, it was extremely rare.

  Andrew stood up, crossed the room quietly and locked the door. He was about to slide the manuscript surreptitiously into his bag and then fill the spine with another piece of paper when it occurred to him that it was not only safer to leave it here, but wiser. Provenance would have to be shown, something that could only be done with a witness, and this was far too precious to share with anyone else. He would leave it here. Back home, in America, he would gather all the necessary corroboration and consider the perfect circumstances in which to reveal it. Now, though, he had to make a copy so that if someone else discovered it – he shuddered at the thought – he could claim to have found it first.

  By then it was late afternoon. He had only one day left; the day after that he would fly home from Paris. And so he returned the motet carefully to its resting place and the following day, with more confidence, he retrieved his precious find. There was less time than he would have liked; the archivist had promised to visit him that afternoon to answer any remaining questions and collect the keys.

  Geoffroy Chiron’s accompanying letter, whatever its relevance, could wait; the music was the thing. Suppressing his desire to study the mo
tet itself, he yielded to immediate needs, proceeding methodically and with a detachment that belied his excitement. Firstly, he measured the document. Although it was clearly not for inclusion in any collection, perhaps its dimensions and other identifying features would allow him to tie it to a time and a place. Just because Chiron had sent it from Tours didn’t mean it had been composed there. Then he traced some of the handwriting and a few of the notes and their shapes; such details might match other fifteenth-century French sources.

  Finally he began to make a copy of the document itself, being careful to maintain exactly the same layout as the original scribe. He discovered almost straightaway that it was not a three-part-piece. The Latin instruction in the bass part indicated a contratenor part; it was a four-part motet. On further investigation of the text he saw reference to a canon and realised just how much he’d underestimated the ambition of the composition: it was, unbelievably, a piece for thirty-four separate voices.

  It was difficult to concentrate now, copying a cruel necessity when all he really wanted to do was yield to the seduction of the music. There should have been choirs of angels singing, not the dull task of reproduction, and he should be running in the streets shouting ‘Eureka’, spraying strangers with champagne. Instead he had to labour against the urgent ticking of the clock. It was like the nightmares he once had of sitting exams and being the only one in the examination room, looking down at a blank page, realising too late that he’d written nothing at all.

  He checked and re-checked his transcription, stowed it safely in his bag and then placed the original manuscript back in the spine. The only task that remained was to present his research findings to the librarian, who arrived punctually at five o’clock. What he had to show was unimpressive – a few anecdotes about singers misbehaving, records of payments to Mouton for instruction of the choirboys, a half-completed chart of references to other known composers. He struggled to think of interesting questions to ask, if only to ensure future access to the archives, and the old man showed his disappointment all too clearly, muttering something under his breath about Americans with too much money. Andrew’s breath caught in his throat. The archivist, after all, could stop him returning to the library and thus bar access to the manuscript. Charm was needed. Sweating, his heart thumping, he fulsomely thanked the old man for his patience and offered exaggerated assurances that he would make more progress the next time; although he had little to show on paper, he was now much more familiar with the archaic formal language as well as the handwriting of the scribes, and he was sure that any future trip would be a success. The archivist did not, at least, argue the point, and Andrew was sure that he would yet be allowed to return to claim his treasure.

  Thinking he had been left alone, Andrew began gathering his things together and was surprised to see the old man still standing there. Had he, asked the archivist, taken a look at the South Transept? Andrew hadn’t. He casually glossed over his omission by saying that he intended to do so now. The old man nodded and waited for him to leave.

  Outside the sun was low in the sky. Shadows rested on the complex carvings of the portal and, above it, the tracery that surrounded the Rose Window. Andrew struggled to remember what the librarian had said, but all he could recall was something about Fortune. He looked up and picked out a parade of figures from pagan religions, most of them Egyptian. Here, next to the King, sat Anubis, the Egyptian God of the Dead, a jackal, and around the window danced figures of the zodiac. The images were certainly strange. The design seemed to suggest that within the church one was safe from secular influences, but outside darker forces were to be found. Casting his mind back to a course he’d taken on Shakespeare, Andrew remembered the wheel of fortune. What went up must come down was the essential lesson, here manifest in four stages of fortune represented in the quarters of the hour: Sum sine regno; regnabo; regno; regnavi – I am without a kingdom; I will reign; I reign; I have reigned. The archivist had been right, and how fitting it all was. Andrew had been without a Kingdom and now things were changing. I will reign, he thought.

  He rang Karen to tell her of the discovery of the manuscript, cupping the mouthpiece close to his lips so that no one could hear him through the thin hotel walls. John was crying in the background and, rather than raise his voice, Andrew remained vague about the manuscript, merely telling Karen that he’d found something very important.

  He got drunk that night, as deliberately and methodically as he had copied the manuscript. He didn’t order a bottle of champagne as a French musicologist would have done, but began the evening with a Kir Royale and silently toasted his good fortune. A carafe of white wine accompanied his meal and he stopped off at a bar on the way home where the locals were watching a soccer match, and ordered a Rémy Martin.

  ‘Santé, Andrew,’ he mimed to the Ricard mirror over the bar, then stumbled to his hotel and slept solidly.

  The following night saw him back home. John was delighted to see him, or at least delighted to see the cuddly toy he bore; Karen likewise gave him a surprisingly warm welcome, perhaps because the present of Duty Free scent was not only the one she liked, but also the perfume rather than the less expensive eau de toilette he’d intended to buy.

  When John was asleep, he told his wife about the motet and proudly showed her the copy that he’d had laminated at a stationers in Amiens. This was the first time he’d been able to talk to anyone about it, and the release was exquisite. He outlined the future: the acclaim, the rewards, the recognition, the adulation. He couldn’t get the words out quickly enough, each thought overlapping the previous one, a hectic succession of scenarios at the centre of which he stood, the modest, unassuming but deserving recipient of endowments and encomia. He described the material prospects that lay in store for him and Karen, the potential for promotion and self-promotion that the discovery afforded, and the impact it might have in his field of research. His body no longer realised that it was two in the morning back in Amiens where he’d started the day, the effects of latent jetlag manifest only in thirst and volubility, and, as he talked, he downed glass after glass of water.

  As a psychology graduate, Karen was practised in the art of listening, yet she had to fight her instinct to instil in him a sense of proportion; even if he was exaggerating the manuscript’s importance, it was their first night together in nearly two weeks and she didn’t want to be negative.

  Later, in bed, Andrew should have fallen straight to sleep, for he had now been awake nearly twenty-four hours. Instead he tossed and turned, made two trips to the bathroom to rid himself of the water that had seemed to act as fuel for his discourse earlier that evening, and found it impossible to discover a place in the bed that was cool enough. After an hour or so, Karen, who had been woken three times, mistook his restlessness for sexual frustration and asked if he wanted to make love.

  ‘No,’ he said quickly, and immediately regretted his response. He wasn’t aware that he’d casually rejected his wife, distracted as he was by the thought of sex, which he now realised was something that he would have liked. What he’d meant was that his fidgeting had nothing to do with sexual frustration, not that he was disinterested. And it was a rare offer on Karen’s part, for the injuries she sustained in childbirth and the sheer exhaustion of looking after a baby had cruelly combined to render their sex life all but non-existent.

  Karen turned away from him angrily. Rather than try to explain himself and precipitate an argument that he knew he could never win, he lay in silence until he deduced from her breathing that she’d fallen asleep. Finally he turned onto his stomach and pressed his useless erection into the mattress, his thoughts firmly fixed on the motet.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘Who’s Radar?’ asked Ollie, gesturing with his head to the back of the plane.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Radar O’Reilly. From M*A*S*H?’

  Ollie seemed to have spent most of his formative years watching television and reading comics, in contrast to Emma, who had learned t
he clarinet and sung in a madrigal group. Despite the fact she was poorly versed in popular culture, Ollie made few concessions to her ignorance, constantly comparing events and people to mythical counterparts, a prism of allusion that excluded others. Part of the reason that Ollie and Allie got on so well was that they shared a common frame of reference. The basses frequently talked of Marvel comic-book superheroes (Ollie even had a Spiderman duvet, though Emma had refused ever to sleep under it) and discussed films of which Emma had never heard, posters of which adorned Ollie’s cramped flat. She felt jealous at times – his life seemed the richer for it, a magical, hyper-real world layered with significance and association – and when he had to spell out his similes there was frustration for both of them, as if he had to explain a joke to her.

  The reference to Radar O’Reilly needed clarification if only because the immediate prospect of sharing a van with Andrew Eiger, even working with him, meant there was every possibility that Ollie’s comparison to a fictional character might well be taken up by the group; he rarely stopped repeating a new nickname until others had adopted it.

  ‘He was the geek in M*A*S*H,’ said Ollie, raising an eyebrow in the way that he knew made her laugh. ‘Henry Blake’s secretary. You must know M*A*S*H?’