Sometimes she wondered if he would prefer to abandon the flesh and live the life of a monk.
CHAPTER 28
It was winter. Alessandra had several songs to prepare for the prestigious Christmas recital being organized by her singing tutor. Tosca required frequent exercising in preparation for the county cross country event taking place at the riding centre in the same week. The latter was taking up far more of her time and effort than the former and her father was not pleased.
Driving Alessandra across to Rachel’s cottage to ride Tosca, Tara wondered how to tell her daughter about Xavier’s recent suggestion of a family skiing holiday to be taken in the mountains above Salzburg in the New Year. She knew how important if was for him that Alessandra should be there.
Diplomatically she broached the subject.
‘When?’ Alessandra snapped angrily.
‘February – half term.’
‘The riding school have got some terrific open competition fixtures for then. I can’t possibly miss those.’
‘It would only be for ten days,’ Tara said encouragingly.
Alessandra rounded on her. ‘That’s a bloody lifetime!’ After a prickly silence she said, ‘I’m sorry.’
Tara sighed.
‘You go Mummy. You know how I hate trekking round the world.’
‘It’s only Europe.’
‘You and Daddy will enjoy it just as well without me.’ She was trying desperately to be reasonable. Tara could see the expression on her face shrieking out, ‘don’t make me do this’.
‘I think Daddy really wants you to go,’ Tara said quietly. ‘He sees so little of you.’
‘And whose fault is that? He’s never at home.’
‘Neither are you,’ Tara shot back.
Alessandra jerked her head away from her mother and stared out of the window. ‘He doesn’t really want me there. He just likes the idea that I’ll be around. He won’t spend any time with me. He’ll get bored of sticking to the novice runs and go off on his own. Anyway I loathe skiing; it’s a waste of time when I could be riding.’
Tara heard the truth in her words.
‘Oh God!’ she groaned to Rachel, having deposited a stormy, pink-faced Alessandra at the entrance to the paddock. ‘How long does it take them to get through adolescence?’
‘With you it went on from around eight to twenty-one,’ Rachel said drily. So I should prepare for a long siege.’
Tara stirred milk into the coffee Rachel had put in front of her. She wondered if she and Alessandra would eventually find the harmony she herself had discovered with Rachel.
‘I feel so helpless!’ she burst out suddenly, thumping a clenched fist on the table. ‘I know what he’s doing to her. And yet I don’t seem to find a way to do anything about it. Maybe I’m just as bad as he is.’
‘You are both good parents,’ Rachel said, which she considered to be broadly the truth, taking into account the impossibility of the general task of parenthood. ‘And he feels a real bond with her, he really adores her.’
‘Is that the problem?’ Tara wondered.
‘Too much love, too much need? Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Probably.’
‘History repeating itself,’ Tara mused.
Rachel had often considered this very issue. ‘Maybe some similarities.’ But Richard had been nothing like Xavier, she thought privately. Richard had been a fine instrumentalist and a committed musician, but he had never been driven. And he had at least tried to look at things from the other person’s point of view, even if he had not always succeeded.
Rachel had been truly shocked when Tara presented her with her own version of the relationship between her and Richard. She had never suspected the young Tara’s feelings of inadequacy in comparison with her dead brother. The realization that she and Richard might unwittingly have been a party to Tara’s lost opportunities, both musical and personal, had been a bitter pill to swallow.
But there had been a huge compensation. She had been emotionally reunited with the daughter who had seemed determined to cast her off for ever.
‘It will sort itself out,’ Rachel said practically.
‘I suppose something will turn up to push her decision one way or the other. It usually does,’ Tara said with faint resignation.
‘I’m surprised you agreed to go. Since when did you like skiing? ‘
Tara shrugged and laughed. ‘Oh, well – maybe this time I’ll manage to keep upright.’
Rachel shuddered inwardly. How pliant and pragmatic Tara had become, using all her skills and energies in negotiating the dangerous swirls and eddies of her relationship with Saul and her daughter. ‘What have you got planned for the coming six months?’ she asked Tara.
‘The usual – charming huge amounts of money out of the Arts Council for the Tudor Phil and working on the local council to contribute something as well.’
‘You’ve been the best ambassador for that orchestra that Saul could have hoped to find anywhere.’
‘Yes, I have done a good job on his behalf, that’s true. But then if it hadn’t been for Saul I’d never have had the opportunity. We are good for each other, you know,’ Tara told her mother, well aware of her view that Saul called all the tunes and thought of no career except his own.
‘Then what? Are you teaching at the Allegro Academy again?’
‘Yes - regular slots through the spring coaching the orchestra. And we’ll be giving a special concert for the children’s charity even in March.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘It’s enough,’ Tara told her mother calmly. ‘Enough in terms of my time and my level of abilities. I was a good player and I lost that – and now I’m a good teacher.’
Yes, but if you weren’t chained to Saul Xavier you’d be thinking about other things than teaching, thought Rachel. It grieved her to see Tara like this, so outwardly brave and cheerful but in truth fettered and isolated, her creativity stifled. Humouring a moody tyrant couldn’t really be much fun. Her friends were all his, her time was all his. And he was the one who had caused the loss of her fierce talent. She had given him everything.
‘Don’t be worried about me,’ Tara said gently. ‘Truly, there’s no need.’
She placed her hand over Rachel’s; her left hand where the fingertips were still numb, the middle three digits slightly wooden looking.
They sat for a time in silence.
‘I’ll have to persuade Alessandra to go on this holiday,’ Tara decided. ‘He’ll be so hurt otherwise. Anyway it’s not good for any kid to have all their own way.
‘Hah!’ said Rachel, bursting into sudden laughter.
CHAPTER 29
Saul was in the basement which had been turned into a vast work space where he could carry out editing work on his film project.
Projection machines, cutting racks and all the paraphernalia of film editing were ranged around the walls. Saul perched on a high stool at the centre of the cutting table in front of the controls of the cutting machine which could be activated in three ways – forward, fast forward and reverse. Tara, acting as his assistant on his secretary’s night off, carefully loaded up the raw takes through a maze of rollers, ensuring that each was in perfect synchronization with the other.
When all was prepared Saul set the projection machine rolling.
Three images came up on three small screens positioned side by side just behind the table. They each showed Saul conducting, filmed from three different angles. Two cameras had picked up a hazy chequerboard of black and white clothed orchestra members, whilst the other carried an arresting image of Saul starkly outlined against a backcloth of slender waving bows.
It struck Tara how completely he dominated the frame on all the screens, how he was the continual and vital focal point of the shot. He watched the film intently, his eyes narrowed in assessing slits. Around every forty seconds he switched the machine into pause mode and then decided on the cuts he would make. Usin
g a thick grease pencil he sketched marks on the film accordingly.
After they had been working for half an hour a considerable length of film had been loaded and assessed. Looking up at the screen Tara saw the images on the screen had not changed much. Saul was still there in triplicate from three different angles.
Sitting behind the table he monitored the images of himself conducting. One hand glided with the music – Beethoven’s fourth symphony – whilst the other made random stabs at the air in front of the screens.
‘We don’t want any gimmicks,’ he muttered. ‘The viewers mustn’t be distracted from the music by pretty pictures. It’s got to be the music which counts.’
Tara looked at the dominant, arresting images of Saul’s granite features and wondered. Nevertheless there was no denying that the sound was fantastic. The new digital video disc, with its vivid visual image, carried advanced fidelity laser tracking which produced an uncannily brilliant and sparkling sound light years away from the old tapes.
Xavier had always been fascinated with musical technology, and his life-long love affair with recording – begun years before she met him – had persisted and was now something of an obsession.
The products of his years of work and effort were stacked around the walls of his ground floor study: an army of LPs, firstly in mono and then in stereo sound. After that the compact laser disc had come along and he had started all over again.
Tara would sometimes take down one of the old vinyl records and place it on the turntable of Xavier’s cherished 1960s hi-fi equipment. Whilst listening she would survey the huge collection, marvelling at the sheer volume of work Xavier had undertaken so as to constantly update his repertoire, re-recording as many of the great works as possible each time a new technological advance was made. The cycles of the great symphonies; Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Schuman, Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Mahler were all there and countless others besides.
His interest in DVD recording was the newest development. He planned to begin yet again and put his entire core repertoire on film. ‘The medium of the future,’ he had told Tara decisively.
Wanting to have entire control of the operation, artistically and financially, he had formed his own film company and set about the task without delay. He had started with the cycle of the nine Beethoven symphonies. ‘Beethoven has been my bread and butter,’ he liked to joke. ‘But on video disc he will be the jam.’
Now, after three hours of editing work, Tara stretched her stiff limbs and gave a small groan of fatigue.
‘When is Alessandra coming home?’ Saul asked suddenly, surprising her. She had been convinced that he was totally immersed in the music.
‘In the next day or two.’
‘You said that the last time I asked.’
‘You’ve been away yourself since then.’
‘That is because of my work. She should be here. This is her home.’
Tara felt a lurch of unease.
‘She must bring the horse back here,’ he said. ‘I shall be interested to see how she is progressing with it.’
‘In the past it suited us for Alessandra to stay with Rachel and Donald when we went away together,’ she said. ‘If she chooses to stay there of her own accord I think we have to respect her wishes.’
‘She virtually lives there. She must come home. And the animal also.’
Tara agreed that he had a point. She wanted her daughter back too. But she knew that this was basically an issue between Saul and Alessandra. She decided to point this out to him. Rather sharply. He listened attentively.
‘So! It is all my fault. Very well, I shall take the responsibility to change things.’
Years ago she would have given him a playful squeeze and said something jokey, like, ‘Use a little tact, darling. She’s not an orchestra.’
Watching the film reel relentlessly on she said, ‘Are you sure people will want to buy films of nothing but symphonies being played?’
‘I am convinced. They will be a resounding success. But if not, well, they are there. If in a hundred years people want to know about Saul Xavier, the films will tell them.’
Tara stared at him, a cold hand gripping her innards. He was talking about a memorial. For the first time she felt the music had somehow slipped down the priority list of his mind. This was Saul Xavier the great maestro driven by a new motive – the terrible fear of dissolving into obscurity.
She stepped up to him and put her arms around him. It was time to go to bed. At least she could give him some moments of comfort there. He dropped a kiss on her hair. ‘Will you stay with me and look at a new set of reels?’
She breathed in deeply and began loading again.
Her weariness was swept away by the unfamiliar and arresting images which swam onto the screen. This was the first of Xavier’s new projects on the filming of opera. The one on the screen was Mozart’s The Magic Flute. Tara had not seen this production which had been filmed in Munich only days before.
She watched in fascinated anticipation. At first. Then with a creeping sense of cold dismay she saw that the film was seriously flawed – over literal and lack-lustre. The pace was slow. The images of the singers were ugly and disturbing. There were too many close-ups of contorted mouths singing and veins on necks swollen and grotesque. Operatic singing had always struck Tara as a hugely physical activity. Singers needed to be seen from the distance of the auditorium, not at point blank range.
The outdoor scenes were no better, containing too many lingering views of inky skies populated only by a grossly artificial moon. As for the dramatic scenes with dragons and monsters they were ludicrous to the point of ridicule.
She glanced at Saul but he seemed perfectly satisfied. Maybe he even enjoyed seeing the singers portrayed as ridiculous. A chill ran through her. Was he losing his touch? That couldn’t be. He was still comparatively young. In his full mature prime in fact. She had seen him irate, arrogant, tetchy, despotic. But never weak or inept. That was unthinkable.
‘Darling I’m absolutely whacked. I’ve just got to get some sleep,’ she told him.
He turned abstractedly, gave a distracted wave. ‘You go up. I won’t be long.’
She almost ran from the room. At the top of the basement steps she paused, leaning against the door and breathing heavily whilst her heart thumped in her chest. She recalled his telling her he wanted to do a whole series: Carmen, Rosenkavalier, all four operas in Wagner’s cycle The Ring of Nibelung.
Dear God!
Two weeks later Xavier was directing a special rehearsal of Wagner’s The Flying Dutchman prior to the filming of the live performance that evening.
The idea of putting all the great opera masterpieces on film had taken a grip on him with a vengeance, bringing out a ferocity of purpose even she had not seen him display before.
Anxious about his well being she had attempted to accompany him on all his work assignments where possible, acting as his personal assistant, confidante and unequivocal ally. They were constantly together, the inseparable couple. They made a handsome pair and the newspapers frequently carried photographs of them; the saturnine Xavier and his faithful consort Tara Silk, her dark eyes gazing up at him, her long hair swinging back from her face in a thick luxurious sweep.
Sitting in the front stalls half listening to Saul unleashing his most bitter sarcasm on the hapless wind section of the orchestra, Tara was distracted by thoughts of their daughter, wondering what she was doing at this moment. Alessandra had evaded the issue about bringing Tosca home with the usual protests about events at the prestigious riding centre just down the road from her grandmother’s cottage.
‘Darling, have you given up on us?’ Tara had asked playfully when she last telephoned.
‘Of course I haven’t. The current series of shows will be over after this weekend. And anyway Tosca needs a rest. Daddy can come and get us.’
‘Yes. Right. Or I’ll come if he’s busy.’
‘He never comes!’
Tara
laughed. ‘Well…’
‘Why can’t he have days off like other people? Or maybe turn his brain down a few notches so he’s on the wavelength of lowly earth creatures like me.’
‘Alessandra!’
‘He’s like someone possessed. Sometimes I think the music will kill him.’
‘Alessandra, stop it!’
‘Oh – bloody hell!’
‘Bloody hell back!’
The phone had crashed down.
Tara knew she was digging herself into a dangerous hole, lavishing time and care on the father at the expense of the daughter. And deep in her heart she knew the reason; it was necessary to be more and more with Saul in order that the gap of outlook and philosophy yawning between them did not widen into an unbridgeable gulf.
She pulled her attention back to the rehearsal. The atmosphere was becoming ever more tense. Saul seemed unable to stand back and allow the players and singers the free rein they deserved. After all they had been performing the opera regularly twice weekly for some time now. All that was going to happen tonight was that the cameras would run. It was a technical exercise surely, not an interpretative one.
She pressed her fingers on the bridge of her nose as Xavier took issue with the young soprano singing Senta, the girl who falls for the Dutchman. It was some minor artistic point. The singer, unnerved and edgy flashed retorts back at him. Anger crackled from the stage.
Saul laid down his baton and vaulted up onto the boards. The cast watched him with wary and hostile eyes: the great Xavier, ambassador of music, a priest of his profession – a dictator with an ego the size of Tower Bridge and a heart of stone.
Sweat prickled in Tara’s palms. She watched Saul cradle the girl’s neck in his fingers, cringed as he gave her a playful yet vicious pinch. Catching her breath she waited for the inevitable exit of the victim in tears.
And then, astonishingly, Saul had leapt down from the stage, picked up his jacket and with an unmistakable gesture of farewell was striding away down the auditorium and through the rear exit doors.
The Maestro's Mistress Page 22