The Novel in the Viola

by Natasha Solomons

  I am young in my dreams. The face in the mirror always surprises me. I observe the smart grey hair, nicely set of course, and the tiredness beneath the eyes that never goes away. I know that it is my face, and yet the next time I glance in the mirror I am surprised all over again. Oh, I think, I forgot that this is me. In those blissful days living in the bel-étage, I was the baby of the family. They all indulged me, Margot, Julian and Anna most of all. I was their pet, their liebling, to be cosseted and adored. I didn’t have remarkable gifts like the rest of them. I couldn’t sing. I could play the piano and viola a little but nothing like Margot, who had inherited all our mother’s talent. Her husband Robert had fallen in love before he had even spoken to her, when he listened to her perform viola in Schumann’s Fairytale Pictures. He said that her music painted lightning storms, wheat fields rippling in the rain and girls with sea-blue hair. He said he’d never seen through someone else’s eyes before. Margot decided to love him back and they were married within six weeks. It was all quite sickening and I should have been unbearably jealous if it hadn’t been for the fact that Robert had no sense of humour. He never once laughed at any of my jokes – not even the one about the rabbi and the dining room chair and the walnut – so clearly he was deficient. The possibility of a man ever being besotted with my musical gifts was highly improbable but I did need him to laugh.

  I entertained the idea of becoming a writer like Julian, but unlike him I’d never written anything other than a list of boys I fancied. Once, watching Hildegard stuff seasoned sausage meat into cabbage leaves with her thick red fingers, I’d decided that this would be a fine subject for a poem. But I’d not progressed any further than this insight. I was plump while the others were slender. I had thick ankles and they were fine boned and high cheeked, and the only beauty I’d inherited was Julian’s black hair, which hung in a python plait all the way down to my knickers. But they loved me anyway. Anna indulged my babyish ways and I was allowed to sulk and storm off to my room and sob over fairy-stories that I was far too old for. My never-ending childhood made Anna feel young. With a girl-child like me she did not admit her forty-five years, even to herself.

  All that changed with the letter. I must go off into the world alone, and I must finally grow up. The others treated me just as before, but there was self-consciousness in their actions, as if they knew I was sick but were being meticulous in giving nothing away in their behaviour. Anna continued to smile benevolently upon my sullen moods, and slip me the fattest slice of cake and run my bath with her best lavender-scented salts. Margot picked fights and borrowed books without asking but I knew it was just for show. Her heart wasn’t in the rowing, and she took books she knew I’d already read. Only Hildegard was different. She stopped chiding me, and even when it was probably most urgent, she no longer pressed Mrs Beeton upon me. She called me ‘Fraulein Elise’, when I’d been simple ‘Elise’ or ‘pain of my existence’ since I was two. This sudden formality was not out of respect at some newfound dignity on my part. It was pity. I suspected Hildegard wanted to give me every mark of rank and social status during those last weeks, knowing how I must feel the humiliation in the months to come, but I wished she would call me Elise, box my ears and threaten to pour salt on my supper once more. I left biscuit crumbs on my nightstand in clear contravention of her no-biscuits-in-the-bedroom policy, but she said nothing, only gave me a tiny curtsy (how I crawled inside) and retired into her kitchen with a wounded expression.

  The days slid by. I felt them pass faster and faster like painted horses on a carousel. I willed time to slow, concentrating on the tick-tick of the hall clock, trying to draw out the silence between the relentless beats of the second hand. Of course it did not work. My visa arrived in the post. The clock ticked. Anna took me to receive my passport. Tick. Julian went to another office to pay my departure tax and on his return disappeared into his study without a word and with the burgundy decanter. Tick. I packed my travel-trunks with wads of silk stockings, while Hildegard stitched hidden pockets into all of my dresses to secrete forbidden valuables, sewing fine gold chains along the seams. Anna and Margot accompanied me on coffee-drinking excursions to the aunts, so we could eat honey-cakes and say goodbye and we’ll meet again soon when-all-this-is-over-whenever-that-will-be. Tick. I tried to stay awake all night so that morning would come slower and I would have more precious moments in Vienna. I fell asleep. Tick-tick-tick and another day gone. I took the pictures down from my bedroom wall and slid a knife under the mounting paper, slipping into the lid of my trunk the print of the Belvedere Palace, the signed programmes from the Opera Ball and my photographs of Margot’s wedding; me in my muslin dress with the leaf embroidery, Julian in white tie and tails, and Anna in shapeless black so she wouldn’t upstage the bride and still looking prettier than any of us. Tick. My bags lay in the hall. Tick-tick. My last night in Vienna. The hall clock chimed: six o’clock and time to dress for the party.

  Rather than going to my bedroom, I drifted into Julian’s study. He was at his desk scribbling away, pen clasped in his left hand. I didn’t know what he was writing; no one in Austria would publish his novels anymore. I wondered if he would write his next novel in American.

  ‘Papa?’

  ‘Yes, Bean.’

  ‘Promise you will send for me the minute you arrive.’

  Julian stopped writing and drew back his chair. He pulled me onto his lap, as though I was nine rather than nineteen, and clutched me to him, burying his face in my hair. I could smell the clean scent of his shaving soap and the cigar smoke that always lingered on his skin. As I rested my chin on his shoulder, I saw that the burgundy decanter was on the desk, empty once again.

  ‘I won’t forget you, Bean,’ he said, his voice muffled by the tangle of my hair. He clutched me so tightly that my ribs creaked and then with a small sigh, he released me. ‘I need you to do something for me, my darling.’

  I slid off his lap and watched as he crossed to the corner of the room where a viola case rested, propped against the far wall. He picked it up and set it down on the desk, opening it with a click.

  ‘You remember this viola?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  I had taken my first music lessons upon this rosewood viola, learning to play before Margot. She took lessons upon the grand piano in the drawing room while I stood in this room (a treat to encourage me to practise) and the viola squealed and scraped. I even enjoyed playing, until the day Margot stole into Julian’s study and picked it up. She drew the bow across the strings and it trembled into life. The rosewood sang for the first time, music rippling from the strings as effortless as the wind skimming the Danube. We all drew in to listen, hearing the viola like a siren’s song; Anna clutching Julian’s arm, eyes wet and bright, Hildegard dabbing her eyes with her duster and me lurking in the doorway, awed by my sister and so jealous I felt sick. In a month all the best music masters in Vienna were summoned to teach my sister. I never played again.

  ‘I want you take it to England with you,’ said Julian.

  ‘But I don’t play anymore. And anyway, it’s Margot’s.’

  Julian shook his head. ‘Margot hasn’t used this old thing for years. And besides, it can’t be played.’ He smiled at me. ‘Try.’

  I was about to refuse, but there was something odd in his expression, so I picked up the instrument. It felt heavy in my hands, a curious weight in the body. Watching my father, I placed it under my chin and picking up the bow drew it slowly across the strings. The sound was muffled and strange, as though I had attached a mute beneath the bridge. I lowered the viola and stared at Julian; a smile twitched upon his lips.

  ‘What’s inside it, Papa?’

  ‘A novel. Well, my novel.’

  I peered inside the f-holes carved into the body of the instrument and realised that it was stuffed full of yellow paper.

  ‘How did you manage to get all those pages in there?’

  Julian’s smile spread into a grin. ‘I went to a string maker. He
steamed off the front, I placed the novel inside and he glued it shut.’

  He spoke with pride, pleased to confide his secret, and then his face became serious once again.

  ‘I want you to take it to England, for safekeeping.’

  Julian always wrote in duplicate, writing out his work on carbon paper in his tiny curling hand, so that a shadow novel appeared upon the pages underneath. The top layer on watermarked white paper was sent to his publisher, while the carbon copy on flimsy yellow tissue remained locked in his desk drawer. Julian was terrified of losing work and the mahogany desk held a word-hoard. He’d never permitted a copy to leave his study before.

  ‘I’ll take the manuscript with me to New York. But I want you to keep this copy in England. Just in case.’

  ‘All right. But I’ll give it back to you in New York and you can lock it inside your desk again.’

  The hall clock chimed the half hour.

  ‘You must go and dress, little one,’ said Julian, planting a kiss on my forehead. ‘The guests will be arriving soon.’

  It was the first night of Passover and Anna had dictated that it was to be a celebration, a party with champagne and dancing like there used to be before the bad times. Crying was absolutely forbidden. Margot came round early to dress and we sat in our dressing gowns in Anna’s large bathroom, faces flushed with steam. Anna filled the tub with rose petals and propped the dining room candlesticks beside the washbasin mirror, like she did on the evening of the Opera Ball. She lay back in the tub, her hair knotted on the top of her head, fingers trailing patterns in the water. ‘Ring the bell, Margot. Ask Hilde to bring a bottle of the Laurent-Perrier and three glasses.’

  Margot did as she was bidden, and soon we sat sipping champagne, each pretending to be cheerful for the benefit of the others. I took a gulp and felt the tears burn in my throat. No crying, I told myself and swallowed, the bubbles making me choke.

  ‘Be careful there,’ said Anna with a giggle, too high pitched, striking a note of false gaiety.

  I wondered how many bottles of wine or champagne were left. I knew Julian had sold the good ones. Anything expensive or valuable was liable to be confiscated; better to sell it first. Margot fanned herself with a magazine and casting it aside, marched to the window, opening the sash to let in a cool breath of night air. I watched the steam trickle outside and the gauze curtain flutter.

  ‘So, tell me about the department in California,’ said Anna, lying back and closing her eyes.

  Margot flopped into a wicker rocking chair and unfastened her robe to reveal a white lace corset and matching knickers. I wondered what Robert thought of such exciting underwear and was instantly filled with envy. No one had ever shown the slightest interest in seeing me in my underthings. Robert could be quite dashing in the right sort of lighting, although he always got rather too animated when talking about his star projects at the University. I had once grievously offended him when I’d introduced him at a party as ‘my brother-in-law the astrologer’ rather than ‘the astronomer’. He’d turned to me with a haughty glare, asking, ‘Do I wear a blue headscarf and dangling earrings or ask you to cross my palm with silver before I tell you that with Venus in retrograde, I see a handsome stranger in your future?’ ‘Oh no, but I wish you would!’ I replied, and as a consequence he’d never really forgiven me, which was a pity, because before that he used to let me take puffs on his cigar. ‘The university at Berkeley is supposed to be very good,’ Margot was saying. ‘They’re full of kind things about Robert. They’re so pleased he’s joining them and so on.’

  ‘And you? Will you play?’ said Anna.

  Margot and Anna were the same; they were caged birds if they couldn’t have music. Margot lit a cigarette and I saw her hand tremble, ever such a little.

  ‘I shall look for a quartet.’

  ‘Gut. Gut.’ Anna nodded, satisfied.

  I took another gulp of champagne and stared at my mother and sister. They would make friends wherever they ended up. In any city in the world they could arrive, seek out the nearest cluster of musicians and for as long as the sonata, symphony or minuet lasted, they were at home.

  I watched my sister, long-limbed and with golden hair, like Anna, falling in damp curls on her bare shoulders. She sprawled in the wicker chair, robe dishevelled, sipping champagne and puffing on her cigarette with an air of studied decadence. A film of perspiration clung to her skin and she smiled at me with dreamy eyes.

  ‘Here, Elsie, have a puff.’ She held the cigarette out to me, letting it dangle between her fingers.

  I knocked her hand away. ‘Don’t call me that.’

  I hated being called Elsie. It was an old woman’s name. Margot laughed, a rich tinkling sound, and at that moment I hated her too and was glad I was going far, far away. I didn’t care if I never saw her again. I retreated to the window, unable to breathe through all the mist. Despite the heat I clutched my robe around me, not wanting to take it off in front of them and display my big white knickers and schoolgirl brassiere or the small roll of baby-fat oozing around my middle.

  Sensing a round of bickering about to start between Margot and me, Anna did the one thing she could to make us stop. She began to sing. Later that night Anna performed before all the assembled guests, while the garnet choker around her neck trembled like drops of blood, but it is this moment I remember. When I think of Anna, I see her lying naked in the bathtub, singing. The sound filled the small room, thicker than the steam, and the water in the bath began to vibrate. I felt her voice rather than heard it. Anna’s rich mezzo tones were inside me. Instead of an aria, she sang the melody to Für Elise; a song without words, a song for me.

  I leant against the window frame, feeling the cool air against my back, the notes falling on my skin like rain. Margot’s glass sagged to the ground unheeded, the champagne trickling onto the floor. I saw that the door was ajar and Julian lingered in the doorway, watching the three of us and listening. He disobeyed Anna’s rule for the night. He was crying.

  CHAPTER THREE

  An eggcup of saltwater

  The guests arrived for the party. A manservant had been hired for the evening, and he stood in the hallway, collecting coats from the gentlemen and assisting the ladies with their hats and furs. Robert was the first to arrive; he came before eight and I fixed him with a stare to display my disapproval. According to Anna, extreme punctuality was a terrible habit in a guest, although to my irritation, when I complained about Robert, she said that it was acceptable in family or lovers. Some guests didn’t arrive at all. Anna issued thirty invitations the week before. But people had started to disappear, and those who remained decided it was best not to draw attention to oneself, to live quietly and not make eye contact in the street. We understood that some would prefer not to come to a Passover soirée at the home of a famous Jewish singer and her avant-garde novelist husband. Anna and Julian said nothing about the missing guests. The table was silently re-set.

  We all gathered in the drawing room. Those who had chosen to attend the party had apparently decided by unspoken accord to dazzle in their finest. If coming to the Landau party was dangerous, then they may as well be resplendent. The men were dashing in their white tie and tails. The ladies wore dark furs or dull raincoats down to the floor, but when they removed their chrysalis-coats we saw that beneath them they sparkled like tropical butterflies. Margot’s dress was shot silk, indigo blue as a summer’s night and studded with silver embroidered stars, which twinkled as she moved. Even fat Frau Finkelstein wore a plum-coloured gown, her white, doughy arms puckered by tight gauze sleeves, grey hair plaited into a crown and studded with cherry blossom. Lily Roth conjured a feathered fascinator from her bag like a magician, and fastened it in her hair, so she resembled a bird of paradise. Every lady wore her jewels, and all of them at once. If in the past seeming garish or extravagant or petty bourgeois had troubled us, now, as we felt everything sliding away into blackness, we wondered how we could have worried about such things. Tonight was fo
r pleasure. Tomorrow we would have to sell our jewels – grandmama’s spider-web diamond brooch, the gold bracelet studded with rubies and sapphires that the children had teethed upon, the platinum cufflinks given to Herman when he made partner at the bank – so tonight we would wear them all and shine beneath the moon.

  Julian sipped burgundy and listened to Herr Finkelstein’s stories, smiling easily in all the right places. I’d heard them all – the time he met Baron Rothschild at a concert, and the Baron, mistaking him for someone else, had tipped his head and the Baroness her sherry glass, ‘and who on earth would have dreamt there was a smart fellow as bald and round as me? I must find my double and shake his hand.’ I rolled my eyes, bored from a distance. Julian saw me and gestured for me to join them; I shook my head and edged away. Julian stifled a laugh. Margot exchanged pleasantries with Frau Roth, Robert hovering beside her, awkward and incapable of small talk. He could discuss only his passions: astronomy, music and Margot, while Frau Roth’s sole topic of conversation was her seventeen grandchildren. I hoped they were not sitting next to one another at dinner.

  I knew this was my last party as a guest. I studied the manservant in his black tie, and impassive face, and tried to imagine myself as one of them, refreshing glasses and pretending not to hear conversation. Pity I’d never said anything worth eavesdropping upon when I’d had the chance. I tried to think of something now – some profound insight upon the state of the nation. No. Nothing. I smiled at the servant, attempting to convey some sense of solidarity. He caught my glance, but instead of smiling back, glided over.