Madame Sousatzka

by Bernice Rubens

  Outside the door, she fumbled in her purse for pennies and clutching them in her hand she climbed the stairs to the telephone box on the first landing. She realized she couldn’t go up to Jenny’s. Manders was probably still there and she didn’t want to meet him again. In any case, she had never interfered with Jenny’s business, because she wasn’t curious about it.

  She put in her pennies before dialling the number, and she held her thumb on Button A on the ready. The fact that she was right this time was purely accidental. From the landing she could hear the telephone ringing in Jenny’s room. She listened for a long time. She visualised the room, and was sure that had Jenny been in, the ‘phone could have been reached by now from the most distant part of the room. Yet she let it ring. Jenny never went out on Fridays. She heard Mr Cordle breathing heavily behind his door. He was probably painting one of his charts. Suddenly the ringing from upstairs stopped. Madame Sousatzka heard a very drowsy ‘hullo’ through the receiver. She pressed Button A. ‘Jenny?’ she whispered. Jenny whispered back. ‘It’s me, Sousatzka. I wondered, tonight, if the glass is at home?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes. Is very important. Did he tell you? I must know what to do. Uncle will come, and I go now to Cordle. Please Jenny. I know I have to make an appointment. But I make appointment now. Emergency case,’ she spluttered, suddenly inspired by the instructions for dialling Police, Fire and Ambulance on the board above the telephone.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jenny laughed. ‘At ten o’clock. I’ll have it ready.’

  Jenny put the ‘phone down, and Madame Sousatzka heard her walking about her room upstairs. Then she too placed the receiver, and out of habit pressed Button B. ‘Cordle,’ she called from the landing, ‘I come to see you.’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ he shouted in panic. ‘I’m painting on the door.’

  Madame Sousatzka waited outside until Cordle let her in. He had on a gold smock with paintbrushes sticking out of the large front pockets. The chart on the door had been newly painted. For some reason or other, Mr Cordle had embarked on oils. Normally, he covered his charts with poster paints. He was obviously more serious about this new one.

  ‘You discover a new colour?’ Madame Sousatzka asked conversationally.

  Cordle rubbed his hands together. ‘Sousatzka,’ he whispered, ‘I think I’ve got it.’ But Sousatzka was too worried with her own problem to show any enthusiasm over Cordle’s new discovery. ‘I’ve got it,’ Cordle said again, thinking she hadn’t heard him. ‘It will change my whole method. And it was Marcus who first gave me the idea.’

  At the sound of his name, Sousatzka showed a sudden interest. ‘It is because of him I come to you,’ she said.

  ‘Are you changing your method, too?’ Mr Cordle asked, frightened. He felt that since his profession was more or less dependent on hers there ought to be some kind of liaison between their two methods.

  ‘No.’ Sousatzka was adamant. ‘The method is the same.’ And she told Mr Cordle all about Mr Manders. ‘Uncle says we must ask the glass. Jenny is making it for tonight. You can come, Mr Cordle?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Of course I’ll come. I’m a great believer in the glass, especially as in my case when it was impossible to make a decision. But Sousatzka,’ he warned, ‘what the glass says, you must obey.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Madame Sousatzka, almost breaking down. ‘That is the trouble.’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘I want what’s right for my boy.’ There was a silence. Cordle didn’t know how to advise her, and like the Countess, he preferred to pass on the responsibility.

  ‘The glass will help you,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be upstairs at ten o’clock.’

  He drew the chart gently away from the door to let Madame Sousatzka through, and she walked slowly down the stairs to her room. Marcus was practising a study and the brilliance of his playing sickened her. She waited outside the door until he’d finished, correcting him in whispers as he proceeded. When he had finished, she heard the rustle of music sheets. He was singing to himself. She recognised it as a Beethoven Piano Concerto and she felt defeat and a terrible despair. He had at last found the music and she heard him playing the opening bars. She didn’t want to listen but her tired defeat glued her to the door. She heard footsteps on the landing and she realised that it must be Manders coming down. She didn’t want to see him again, neither did she want at that moment to join Marcus in the studio. She ran into an alcove at the bottom of the hall and watched him come down the stairs. When he reached the studio door he stopped and listened. He was smiling. Sousatzka could have killed him. He had no right to trespass on her bond with Marcus like a cheap adulterer. He had no right to listen to him outside her door. He had even less right to smile.

  It seemed hours before he turned away and left the house. Marcus was still playing, singing the orchestral score as he went along. Then he stopped in the middle of a difficult passage. He tried it again but still without success. Madame Sousatzka began to smile. She listened as Marcus repeated the phrase, slowing the speed, testing new fingering, and each time entangling himself more. She started to laugh as she heard him set the metronome and try it again. But the machine had ticked away the whole passage before Marcus was half-way through. Then she heard him bang his fists again and again on the piano in his annoyance, and she drowned the pedalled din with loud laughter. She went on laughing long after the noise from the piano had ceased. Uncle, Cordle and Jenny heard it echo through the house, like the muffled shriek of a ghost-train.

  Through the windows of the studio Marcus saw his mother coming up the front steps. None of the bells worked and she didn’t know how to get in by just pushing the door. No-one was expecting her, so if he didn’t open the door she would have to go away. He let some time elapse. He knew she was pressing the dead bells and waiting. He saw her out there, with her brown hat and her shopping bag and her impatience. He was determined not to let her in, and he knew at the same time that he would regret it. If he were to shut her out from his private world, not a lifetime of hand-holding and kissing would make up for it.

  He gripped the sides of the piano stool, chaining himself to his seat. She would go away and tomorrow he would explain to her that the bells didn’t work, so nobody had heard her.

  But Madame Sousatzka was still outside in the hall. She had seen a shadow behind the glass door, and Marcus heard her opening it. He felt himself blushing. He got up quickly, looking around for evidence to remove. He felt there should be something to hide, a letter, a photograph or a diary. But there was nothing. All the evidence was inside him, and he knew that that way it was far harder to conceal. He started to play again, very loudly, to give himself an excuse for not hearing her come into the room. When he heard his mother’s voice he stopped playing abruptly, and pretended astonishment. But he felt that neither his mother nor Madame Sousatzka believed him, and he overdid his surprise to convince them.

  ‘You said nothing to me that your mother comes, Marcus,’ Madame Sousatzka said, slightly angry.

  ‘I forgot to tell you. I was too excited about Mr Manders and I forgot.’

  ‘Marcus,’ Madame Sousatzka said. ‘This Manders. He is not right for you. First thing. Second thing, I hear you play Beethoven fourth. Is too difficult. You are not ready.’

  ‘Of course it’s not ready yet. I couldn’t play it tomorrow. But with lessons and practice I could play it easily.’ He was suddenly glad that his mother was there.

  Mrs Crominski realised with some relief that at least she would have Marcus on her side. She could afford to give way a little. ‘Now Marcus,’ she said, ‘Is important Madame Sousatzka says what she thinks. After all, Madame Sousatzka is the teacher.’

  Marcus was horrified at what he took to be a change of side. ‘But Momma, I know I can play it. I know I’m ready.’

  ‘Oh, is a problem,’ Mrs Crominski said happily, looking forward to the discussion. Having opposed Marcus to Madame Sousatzka she had put herself in the
happy position of arbitrator. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘so that piece isn’t ready. Suppose we agree, Madame Sousatzka. Is plenty other pieces. And even for this piece’ – she didn’t want to risk naming it in case she got it wrong – ‘is time to be ready. Not tomorrow is the concert.’

  Both of them looked at Madame Sousatzka. It was undeniably her turn.

  ‘For me, is even bigger problem than is for Marcus,’ she said. ‘If Marcus plays bad, is bad for Marcus. But for Sousatzka, is much worse. For Sousatzka’s reputation, is bad. For Sousatzka’s living.’

  The discussion had taken quite an unexpected turn. To pursue the question of the concert, now, seemed like depriving Madame Sousatzka of her livelihood.

  ‘But why should Marcus play bad?’ Mrs Crominski asked.

  ‘For me, he is not ready.’

  ‘So no concert?’ Mrs Crominski said, and her tone was threatening.

  ‘That I do not say. Perhaps when he is ready. We see.’ The glass was going to decide for her, but she didn’t want to tell them about it.

  ‘When shall we see?’ Mrs Crominski pressed on.

  ‘Tomorrow, perhaps.’

  Mrs Crominski had the good sense not to press her further. She knew that the tone of threat in her voice had not been lost on Madame Sousatzka. She knew that Madame Sousatzka had made her decision, and she was prepared to give her more time to announce it so that it wouldn’t look as if forced on her. ‘Next week is plenty time, Madame Sousatzka,’ she said. ‘I understand for you is a big decision. Take time. Overnight you do not decide these big matters. Take a week. A fortnight, perhaps.’ Mrs Crominski was handing out allowances with easy charity, the sort of generosity a victorious wife can afford to mete out to a discarded mistress, and Madame Sousatzka hated her for it.

  She tried to smile. She didn’t want Mrs Crominski to know that the decision had been forced on her. She would ask the glass anyway, and if the glass decided there was to be no concert, she would listen to the glass, whatever the consequences. She wanted Mrs Crominski to go. She wanted to be alone with Marcus for a while.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Crominski, standing up, ‘we have talked what is necessary. Now I go. Perhaps you want to talk to Marcus.’ She went over to Marcus to kiss him, and Marcus tried to turn his face away. His mother had won, and though she’d fought on his behalf, all his feelings went out to Madame Sousatzka. He too wanted to be alone with her. Mrs Crominski left the room practically unnoticed, while Marcus and Madame Sousatzka stared at each other helplessly.

  She walked over to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. ‘Sousatzka is losing her Marcus,’ she said.

  If only she hadn’t said it, Marcus thought, we could have gone on with the lie together. He turned away from her. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why can’t I give concerts and still have lessons with you?’

  He suddenly thought of Peter Goldstein and his stuttering brother. What would they be doing now? Probably practising in the garden for the school match tomorrow. He wished he could be with them, with all the others, getting filthy on the football pitch, getting detentions, or staying in after school to help with the Christmas decorations. He looked sadly at his bitten fingers. There was never any nail-stock when he really wanted it. Why didn’t Peter Goldstein bite his nails? Why didn’t his mother wear a brown hat? How could he eat his spinach? Did he have a Madame Sousatzka who came to him almost every night and left him exhausted? He’d ask him, he’d ask him on Monday during prep. Then perhaps he’d be accepted as one of them. They wouldn’t keep thinking he was someone special. ‘But you are special, Marcus,’ he said to himself. ‘You’re chosen.’

  9

  At a quarter to ten that evening the dirty Countess set out on her journey. She wanted to be the first to arrive, to have a word about the session with Jenny beforehand. She reckoned if she took two minutes for every stairway, she would reach Jenny’s room with five minutes to spare, and not unduly exhausted. But Mr Cordle had similar ideas. He too wanted a word with Jenny before the session started, and as the Countess climbed the stairs that led to Cordle’s apartment, he came out of his door. ‘You’re early,’ they said to each other simultaneously, and, both thwarted, there was nothing to do but to go up together. But Madame Sousatzka had beaten them to it. She was already in Jenny’s room.

  She had dressed for the occasion. She wore a long red velvet dress that reached down to her ankles. A black nondescript fur curled around the hem, and drooped into a tired train at the back. She was obviously very nervous and paced the floor clutching her hands, stopping very often and looking at the door like a prima donna whose partner has overlooked his cue.

  Jenny, too, wore her seance uniform; a long black sheath dress that wound itself tightly around her ankles so that it looked like a rolled umbrella. Cordle was still in his white coat, and Uncle’s exhausting afternoon had left her with little strength to change her clothes, but they shuffled in trying hard to look as if their carriage was waiting at the door. Madame Sousatzka looked at them long enough to show that there were no hard feelings, though they reasonably deserved some.

  Jenny had rearranged the room to suit the severity of the occasion. The black curtains were drawn and two green lamps at each end of the room threw the shadows of the four participants on to the walls. In the middle of the room was a green baize table and four identical chairs were symmetrically placed on each side. Around the rim of the table, evenly spaced, lay the letters of the alphabet. And in the middle, turned upsidedown, stood an ordinary tumbler. Beside it was a small bowl of French chalk. There were four extra chairs around the gasfire. They grouped around it, taking their seats for the initial stage of the session.

  ‘Are we ready?’ Jenny asked.

  Cordle fidgeted in his chair to find a comfortable position, and Madame Sousatzka draped the folds of her fur-lined hem around her feet. A strong smell of mint pervaded the room. The ceremony of mint-tea drinking preceded every session and was intended to relax the participants and to induce concentration. No-one was allowed to speak after being handed their glass of tea. Each glass was marked with the owner’s name on a piece of adhesive tape. While drinking, they were supposed to concentrate on the problem they would put to the glass that evening. Although Uncle didn’t publicly admit it, the mint tea didn’t work with her. It made her relax all right, but into a reverie that had absolutely nothing to do with the problem in hand.

  She invariably had the same day-dream, which she would consciously induce with the first sip. She was sitting in a street cafe in Paris and Paul was by her side. He was fingering the red feathers of the boa around her neck. ‘Are you glad we’re married, Louise?’ She remembered trying to say ‘yes’ but her happiness choked her. She put her hand over his and he kissed it, and when he looked up at her, two single red feathers sprouted from his moustache. She laughed at him and he smiled and she was sitting in a street cafe in Paris with Paul by her side. He was fingering the red feathers of her boa … As she looked at him she grew aware of Mr Cordle, staring at her accusingly, as if conscious of her illegal thoughts.

  But in fact Cordle was no more concentrating on the problem than she was. All Mr Cordle was doing was making a speech, between sips of tea, to the community who had erected his statue in the park to honour his discoveries. Cordle’s past life was best left buried, and his day-dreams concentrated on what might yet be. ‘I am grateful, very grateful,’ he said, ‘for the way in which you have shown your appreciation. And I am honoured, deeply honoured. I have spent a lifetime working on my theories, and when at last I made the great discovery that the essence of Mankind is … is … I am grateful, very grateful, for the way in which you have shown your appreciation, and I am honoured, deeply honoured,’ he caught sight of a tear in Madame Sousatzka’s eye and marvelled that his oration had so moved her.

  But of them all, only Madame Sousatzka was thinking of the glass. Supposing, as she inwardly feared, that the glass advised her to allow Marcus the concert? She would have to obey. It was
bad luck to go against the glass. And then what? The concert and a great success, and offers from all over the world. New teachers, new methods and new investigations. Marcus would be lost to her and every so often she would get a letter of gratitude and a card at Christmas. She didn’t even feel the hot tear that slid down her cheek, only a vast hole in her stomach, the sad and stubborn pain of rejection.

  Jenny was looking at her and hoped, for her sake, that tonight the glass would make a misjudgment. She knew what Marcus meant to Madame Sousatzka, and so much of it had nothing to do with the piano. But Felix was right. It was wrong for the boy to hibernate, and Marcus would never thank her for it. Somebody would have to be hurt and Jenny tried hard to decide which one. She loved them both. She began to wish that she had never met Manders. She remembered the old days, when she used to wait outside nearby, on the whore-road that skirted the park, and how Manders had pulled up his car and asked her the way to Oxford. Did she look as if she needed to know the way to Oxford, with her tight skirt, her peep-toe shoes, and the fox-fur cape that Beatie had bequeathed her when her own cat-days were over? Anyhow, she’d offered to keep him company. He wasn’t going to Oxford anyway, but they drove around for a bit and they talked. She was grateful to him that he hadn’t immediately got down to business, that he had treated her as if she were a respectable girl who was just a bit lonely. That’s why she liked him, and why perhaps it had lasted for so many years. She looked at her watch, a gift from another client, also a regular, a businessman from the North whose wife didn’t understand him.

  She usually allotted ten minutes for thought-acclimatization, as she called it. To give more was dangerous. Thought becomes idle and wanders. She tapped her finger on her glass, which was her signal for them to come to. Both Cordle and Uncle jumped at the noise and their first realization of the matter at hand.