by Donald Greig
We talked for a while on the subject of memory – of the writings on the subject by Aquinas and Tully, St Augustine and Albertus Magnus – and it was apparent to me that Jehan’s intellect was as sound as it had ever been. Yet his fear was that without memory he would lack prudence: a cardinal virtue. I could not argue with that for, as Cicero tells us, memory, together with intellect and foresight, are essential to morality. Instead I tried to encourage his waning spirit by telling him of his fame and renown; whatever happened to his memory, his reputation would prevail.
‘I don’t want to be remembered,’ he said. ‘I just want to remember.’
Only one year later, not only could he not remember the importance of memory, he could not remember us having the conversation. It was as if his memory had been destroyed, wiped clean like the cartella he now carried with him upon which he would write things in case he forgot.
In choir his voice was still acceptable, though he could no longer remember the order of the service so he would look surprised when someone began singing the Pater Noster or the Alleluia. I would angle myself towards him and mouth the opening words, but even if he began to sing the psalm (and he would never forget the words once he started), he would be unaware that it was being sung antiphonally, so when we were meant to remain silent, he would still be singing.
The last service he sang at St Martin was a sad occasion. The Mass was in honour of St Martin himself and the polyphonic setting was Jehan’s own: the Missa De plus en plus. It is, of all of his masses, the most difficult for the basses, demanding great vocal agility across a wide compass. But that morning he sang it as if he was a young man once again. The low notes were firm and secure, the high notes clear and loud, and his face shone as the disciples’ when they were filled with the Holy Spirit. My own voice was not so secure but, like the angels, Jehan guided me until, as we processed out of the church, it was my turn to lead him. When we reached the vestry, he turned to me.
‘That mass was a marvellous composition,’ he said. ‘Who wrote it?’
He was never aware that he had been retired from the choir; I simply stopped coming to his house to take him to St Martin. Instead Christine, his housekeeper, would bring him to mass where we could occasionally hear him singing in his stallum, a distracting, strong voice to those who did not know him, but a joyful sound to those of us who did.
I would still visit him and he would recognise me, though he never knew why I was there. I would entertain him by reading from any of the books on his shelf and, if I looked up, I could see him speaking the words quietly to himself, perfectly in time with my delivery. A tall man, he developed a stoop like a hunchback and his hair began to thin. Yet during those sorrowful times I still maintained my hope that the Miserere mei might yet be performed. In fact, I felt that it might restore him to health, that hearing this music for the first time might somehow reach into his brain and his heart and repair his damaged memory. To that end I wrote to Compère and asked him to help, but there was nothing he could do. His service to Charles VIII left him far away in Italy and, when he visited us in the last year of Jehan’s life, I had to warn him of the deterioration. When Compère entered Jehan looked at him as he would upon a stranger. Compère sat with Jehan a long time, talking about music in the hope that something would rouse the ailing man from his waking sleep, until he left the room in tears. And then, only then, did I accept that Johannes Ockeghem’s Miserere mei would never be performed.
And as that year passed, so Jehan’s memory failed to the point where he was unable to clothe himself and eat; now Christine had to care for him through the day and the night. Finally his mind forgot how to make the heart beat and the lungs breathe and, on a cold February day in 1497, he was taken by angels to heaven, there to meet with Dufay, Binchois, Busnois, and the Valois Kings whom he had served so loyally.
The Miserere mei was never performed and thus the true portrait of Jehan’s talent was never painted. It would be some time before Jehan Molinet would write his lament on the death of Johannes Ockeghem, and even longer before Desprez would set it to music, but the great poet Guillaume Crétin was swift to honour him in his Déploration, the long poem in which he acknowledged my friendship with the great composer.
Twenty-nine years have since passed and during that time I have frequently gazed upon the motet, possibly Jehan’s greatest achievement. His will dictated that all his wealth and possessions be given to the church, and thus all that remains are his compositions and the example he set by the manner in which he lived his life. His music lives on, but for how long I do not know.
Domine labia mea aperies et os meum adnuntiabit laudem tuam. Non enim vis ut victimam feriam nec holocaustum tibi placet. [O Lord, thou wilt open my lips: and my mouth shall declare thy praise. For if thou hadst desired sacrifice, I would indeed have given it: with burnt offerings thou wilt not be delighted.]
I will leave this humble account here in Tours. I am sure that the only reader it will ever have is its writer. I have, though, enjoyed honouring my dear friend and it is clear that this memoir has no purpose beyond that. My will is in order and rests here with my papers of tenure. As legal documents they will be respected, but I cannot be sure of the fate of anything else. Thus I will send Jehan’s Miserere mei to my son in Amiens for safekeeping. These past thirty years, it has served as a constant reminder of true friendship. It is my most treasured possession and a part of history and it is my hope that it might yet have some purpose after my death. It was to remain a secret until its presentation before the singers and thus no one has seen it. As I look upon it now, I can only hope that somehow it will yet be heard. I fear, though, that new compositions are more attractive to younger men, and that the works of Johannes Ockeghem will not see service other than in Tours in the coming years.
Any achievements I may count are in the field of my labour for the Church and for God, as a singer and a clerk. All life has a purpose, all creation a design, and all our days upon this earth are but as nought when we are faced with death. The ways of men are understood only by God, and it is into His hand that I commend my spirit.
Miserere mei, Deus, secundum misericordiam tuam, iuxta multitudinem miserationum tuarum dele iniquitates meas. Amen. [Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy great mercy. And according to the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my iniquity. Amen.]
CHAPTER 21
Tallahassee, Florida, April 12th 2015
Andrew hears Emma’s arrival before he sees her. At first he thinks that the hesitant applause is the patter of thick raindrops on foliage, the herald of another intense tropical downpour, but plastic glasses and plates of oozing finger foods are guiltily abandoned, an incongruous reaction to something so familiar, and the sound focuses and crescendos to greet the international conductor and singers of Beyond Compère. They have entered through the wide double-doors of The Modesty Room, the usual venue for post-concert receptions like this, and they acknowledge the whispers and nods of those nervously trying to be noticed by the honoured guests.
Emma Mitchell and her singers look out of place here in the Floridian setting, their clothes redolently English against the backdrop of white wood, pastel shades and louver-windows. It’s a long-standing joke on campus that the room had been appropriately named, that rather than commemorating Rose Modesty, the charity-inclined wife of the local property developer whose flamboyant appearance belied her husband’s parsimony, it more accurately described an exercise of cut-rate educational charity in the form of knock-off surplus from golf-course condos. Andrew had initially shared the opinion when, some years previously, he himself had been welcomed to the Music Faculty in this very same space, and had been disappointed that the university did not echo the educational traditions of the Ivy League. Those older American institutions, modelled on Oxbridge colleges, favoured manicured lawns and fussily tended gardens, soft stone that spoke in quiet tones of tradition, an idiom suggestive of history, more appropriate décor than that of the mail-order design of The
Modesty Room. But over the years, as climate and age have tempered his aspirations, Andrew has come to enjoy the appropriateness of the mise-en-scène to an air-conditioned lifestyle that protects them from the eighty-degree heat, and now he deems naive his youthful preference for dense curtaining, dark wood and oil paintings whose encrusted patina celebrate time itself.
Beneath the ceiling fans, the staff and students mingle with sponsors of the concert series – older men wearing sports-jacket-and-tie combos, their wives in long dresses and diamanté in deference to the seriousness of the concert they have just attended. Emma looks much as she did then, Andrew thinks, perhaps less animated, her hair worn long rather than the short bob he remembers, assured and seemingly confident amidst the enthusiastic assault of concertgoers. Tonight’s performance has been impressively polished, not surprising given that the group has been together for the better part of twenty years, and, when the head of the department had disingenuously delivered, as if ad lib, a line he had prepared just for the occasion – that Beyond Compère really were beyond compare – Andrew had readily agreed without mentioning that he had seen the group once before, many years ago in France.
He isn’t sure if Emma will recognise or even remember him, and knows that, if they speak, she is bound to ask him about the motet. Yet, even after all these years, he isn’t entirely sure how he will respond. He wonders, not for the first time, if he might leave and thus spare them both the embarrassment. It is, after all, only his professional responsibilities that have forced him here in the first place; as a senior member of the music faculty it’s politic to attend all the events in their short concert series whether or not the music is of interest, and, though he has left the fifteenth century behind, he understands that, because of his former life as an early-music specialist, his absence might wrongly be read as a snub. It had not been his idea to invite Beyond Compère to Tallahassee but the brainchild of one of his younger, more ambitious, tenure-tracked colleagues who, even now, is steering Emma proprietorially around the room, nodding to colleagues as he goes.
Andrew watches as one of his students approaches Emma. There’s something gauche about the enquiry, an air of presumption that suggests the student believes himself interesting enough to warrant her attention, combined with a nervy impatience at her response. Whatever it is that Emma’s saying, it’s not enough. The student is a singer himself who has recently submitted an excellent essay to Andrew marred only slightly by his tendency to elevate personal opinion to the level of fact. The essay’s faults notwithstanding, it had prompted Andrew to ask the student if he was considering graduate studies? Yes, came the confident reply, but in England, where he could sing. Doubtless the student’s earnest conversation with Emma is designed to elicit advice and garner likely contacts, an ardent exercise in social networking disguised as flattering enquiry, an approach which Andrew can tell isn’t going particularly well. Emma is clicking a fingernail against her empty plastic glass and her eyes flick impatiently over the post-concert buffet. Someone less intense than the student would pick up on the signs and graciously invite her not to be detained. Andrew smiles at the scene, remembering his own restless desire for advancement which must have been so obvious to Emma even then. Clearly the student isn’t doing much to help his own cause, and Andrew knows he can both moderate the young man’s edgy aspiration and testify to the student’s more genuine abilities. Thus it’s out of altruism, and to spare Emma from any more social awkwardness, that he finally decides to intervene and re-introduce himself.
He pauses at the punch bowl to pour fresh glasses, both a pretext for his interruption and to deny her a reason for abandoning the conversation too quickly. As he approaches her, he realises that the student has already left.
‘Not very exciting, I’m afraid,’ Andrew says, indicating the brittle raw vegetables, carved cubes of cheese, and lemon curd pastries. From the guilty look on Emma’s face he can tell she has been thinking the same thing.
‘And the punch has no alcohol in it and tastes weird,’ he adds. ‘Your glass was empty.’
He hands her the fresh glass and Emma smiles, a smaller, more relaxed and genuine expression than the exaggerated, formal stage smile she’d been wearing all evening.
‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. I’m sorry we can’t offer you something more appropriate at the end of the concert – beer and wine – but it’s like many campuses: dry, by order of the university charter. I expect you get that a lot in America. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
Rather than the clear tink of glass there’s a disappointing tap of plastic, an ironic confirmation of the lustreless hospitality. Neither acknowledges it at first but, when they taste the pink punch, a strange blend of unidentifiable tropical fruits overlaid with a sweet soapiness, they catch each other’s eye and simultaneously register its synthetic awfulness. Emma tries to restrain her laugh, which only makes it worse, and she has to dribble the liquid back into the glass rather than choke. Fortunately Andrew has swallowed his but, in keeping with the secrecy of their shared disdain, he tries to stifle his amusement and snorts instead. They both look around them quickly to see if their adolescent ill grace has been noticed by anyone, then laugh again out of relief.
‘It’s worse than I thought,’ says Andrew. ‘I really shouldn’t have brought you an extra glass of it. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. We haven’t been introduced. I’m Emma Mitchell.’ She holds out a slim hand.
‘Andrew. Andrew Eiger.’
‘Andrew … Andrew Eiger!’
She remembers him and he’s grateful that he won’t have to spend the next five minutes trying unsuccessfully to revive faded memories.
‘Of course. Andrew Eiger. I’m so sorry. I should have recognised you. ‘Ninety-seven: Ockeghem year. The concert in St Gatien. The conference in Tours. How silly of me. You look well.’
‘You too.’
He had thought so earlier, viewing her from across the room, but now he discerns the effects of age: the face slightly fuller, facial lines, perhaps a few extra pounds around the waist – but she still manifests a sense of contained energy possessed by some short people, the suggestion that a lot has been put into a small space. Andrew knows he hasn’t changed much and that, in some ways, he looks younger. He’s always had a boyish face, and over the years it’s become leaner, his haircut no longer so obviously of his parents’ generation. He still looks like his fifteen-year-old photo on the music faculty website and the only recent change is a smattering of grey hairs at the temples which, he is assured, makes him look distinguished.
‘So…’ Emma raises her eyebrows. ‘What have you been up to? I didn’t even know you’d moved to Florida. Should I thank you for organising the concert?’
‘No, no. That was my colleague whom you were talking to earlier. I moved here about ten years ago, from Ohio, and got tenure about eight years ago, so they can’t sack me. I’m fairly settled. Now.’
He feels no embarrassment as once he might have done. He has deliberately hinted that his personal life has had its complications, an invitation for Emma to enquire further if she chooses. He notes a slight softening around her eyes, which makes him wonder if her understanding derives from similar experience.
‘How about you? Everything going well?’
‘Oh, yes, things are going fine,’ she says brightly, a programmed response. Then, slightly less upbeat, ‘On the road again which is “The Touring Life” as we call it.’
He isn’t clear to whom the ‘we’ refers. The group presumably, but is she referencing her partner? Andrew can’t remember his name and, from his reading of the concert programme, he’d guessed that Emma’s boyfriend is now her ex.
‘You sound like you’ve had enough of touring?’
Emma looks up quickly and, to hide her sudden movement, takes a sip from her glass. ‘God, that really is awful.’ She puts the glass on the table and pushes it away. For a moment Andrew wonders if her ou
tburst is directed at the drink or if she’s affronted by his assumption of familiarity. Whatever happened all those years ago, they really only spent twelve hours together – almost a one-night stand, he thinks suddenly – not enough time to warrant such intimate interrogation only five minutes after meeting again.
‘Sorry,’ she continues, as if she might have read his mind. ‘The touring life? It’s tough: on to Memphis tomorrow, New York the next day. A lot of travel and, yes, it’s tiring.’
Andrew nods sympathetically. There was no defence in her answer and revealing her immediate plans accords with his feeling that, despite the debacle of the Ockeghem motet, the past is nonetheless meaningful to them both.
He can understand the disappointments of travel. Even from the little of it that he observed, it wasn’t a lifestyle he envied. Once he had seen it as glamorous, an index of success and recognition, but he’s come to realise that soon it would become a wearing and repetitive necessity, a false promise like that of glossy advertisements.
Emma leans closer towards him, an intimacy that surprises him but which nevertheless feels appropriate. ‘I’m actually giving it up. This is our last American tour. My singers know and my agent, but it’s not official, so don’t tell anyone.’