The Seven Trials of Cameron-Strange

by James Calum Campbell

  MacKenzie came back on stage, bowed briefly, and without preamble embarked on the great five movement edifice that is the ‘Partita in D minor for solo violin’ by J. S. Bach, transposed down a fifth for the rich alto voice of the viola. It was an unapologetically romantic performance with full-bodied tone and vibrato extending through the semiquavers of the Allemande and the triplets of the Courante. She played all the repeats. I realised that apart from anything else this was going to be a remarkable feat of sheer stamina on the viola. During the Sarabande there was perhaps a nod to the authentic school, a more distilled sound and only an occasional trace of vibrato. The intonation was perfect and the instrument remained sonorous. MacKenzie took a brief pause before launching into the Gigue, which she played presto. Her viola, with all these implied falling harmonies sounded like a symphony orchestra. The mighty Chaconne followed immediately.

  And she embarked on a journey. It was even a physical journey as she moved about the stage, lost in the music. Of course I’m biased, but I do believe the audience was spellbound. And during that extraordinary extended passage of split chords across the four strings, it was as if the entire resonant building had become the instrument. A restatement, transmogrified, of the opening theme, and then a more serene passage, sulla testiera, offering a kind of respite in the major key. But again rising to great heights.

  Back into the minor, another period of calm and respite, before the final stage of the journey, culminating in the reiteration of the Chaconne’s theme. The last dotted minim died into silence. MacKenzie held her posture, the tip of the bow never leaving the string, and there was prolonged, utter silence. Then it was if she were slowly emerging from a trance.

  The applause was intense. At the third recall, Fox was on his feet. Standing ovation. His entourage dutifully followed. Pain in the neck.

  I’d thought to go backstage during the interval but decided not to. MacKenzie must be occupying some sort of zone I can only guess at. Leave her to it. I’ll see her afterwards. The audience about me dispersed to the bars and I was happy to stay where I was and let the Chaconne echo on in my memory.

  But as it turned out MacKenzie came looking for me. She must have gone round to front of house and come up to the rear of the balcony because she suddenly and unobtrusively slipped into the seat beside me. I say unobtrusively; but I was aware of the awe of those still seated nearby, staring at the apparition in black and gold.

  ‘MacKenzie, that was absolutely wond–’

  She laid a hand on my sleeve. ‘Need your help. Emily’s got the bott.’

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘La Tourneuse des pages. She’s throwing up out the back. Can you turn for Alexei?’

  ‘Oh, Lord. Well, I suppose so. OK.’

  She looked rather dubiously at my attire. ‘It’ll have to do.’

  ‘Oh, thanks very much.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  So I had the best seat in the house for the second half. It was a vertiginous experience, one moment being an anonymous audience member, next moment a part of the show. Well, a stage hand anyway. It was a bit like treating a patient on board a 747. I tried to make myself as invisible as possible.

  There were two works. English music. They played the posthumous Vaughan Williams Romance in E Flat. At least I didn’t screw up and knock the music all over Alexei’s hands. He gave me a wink as the piece closed. I stole a glance up at Fox. He had a look of theatrical rapture. I wondered if he was falling in love with my sister. Directly behind him sat bullet-head the bodyguard. I wondered if he ever let Fox out of his sight. Then Alexei and MacKenzie left the stage, leaving me stranded and feeling like a prat.

  When they came back on and were tuning up for the final piece, MacKenzie flashed me a grin and whispered, ‘Oh my godfathers!’ We closed (‘we’ – ha! I’m getting delusions of grandeur) with the Arnold Bax viola sonata. Beyond a vague acquaintance with the tone poem Tintagel, I knew next to nothing of the eponymous hero of my sister’s group. It was a privilege for me to hear the Bax sonata at such close quarters and indeed to be able to follow the music from Alexei’s copy. I realised I would need to keep my wits about me. Lots of notes in both the viola and piano parts.

  I thought it was the most beautiful thing. It didn’t sound particularly English to me. It was more Celtic. It had a wild, pagan feel to it. Maybe it was the Irish connection. Bax was knighted, and was Master of the King’s Musick and all that. Yet I had a feeling he was something of an outsider.

  I got lost in the last movement, an elegiac threnody. MacKenzie’s viola was so soulful that I nearly forgot to turn the page. It was only when the last echoes of the viola and the piano died away that I realised that a kind of music phobia that had gripped me for upwards of a year had finally vanished.

  Fox was on his feet again.

  He came backstage to the green room afterwards. He would. He and his entourage, duly waiting in line to pay homage. The green room had been turned into a flower shop. Literally. I think Fox had made a call on his mobile during the interval and had the entire contents of a local florist’s transported across to Auckland town hall. I tried to make myself scarce but MacKenzie plonked me down on a chair and told me not to move. So I had another ringside seat and could watch Fox having his audience with her.

  ‘My dear. Phineas Fox.’ He took her right hand in his own and raised it to his lips. The left hand was back in the pocket, firmly under control. ‘Enchanted. Astonishing. Quite astonishing. The Bach. I was transported. We must have you out to Xanadu for a recital. Who is your agent? I’ll have my people talk to your people.’

  He was a different man. He had dropped the Midwest, macho, gunlobby persona and had become Phi Beta Kappa, Ivy League, Eastern Seaboard. Could he just switch personalities like this?

  He caught sight of me.

  ‘The hired help nearly neglected his duties. My friend, you really must learn the art of concentration. It pays, in all walks of life, to stay on-message.’

  MacKenzie said, ‘This is my brother, Dr Cameron-Strange.’

  ‘I know.’ We didn’t shake hands. He must have studied me, just as I had studied him. I could see him eyeing me, wondering how he could keep me in my place while staying on-side with my ravishing sister. ‘You took my daughter diving. Quite the buccaneer! It may interest you to know that Devonport Naval Base have dived her in the compression chamber a further three times. She doesn’t seem to have come to any lasting harm. They intend to dive her once more and let her go tomorrow morning. I wonder if you would do me the honour of accompanying her on the final leg of her trip. Dinner chez moi? By way of thanks. I will provide transport as usual. Shall we say 1pm? That will give you a chance to see Xanadu before it gets dark, and perhaps undertake a task in Who Dares Wins. Bring the charming Captain Hodgson. This time we’ll keep the paparazzi at bay for you. To dine and sleep. And you my dear …’ – he turned to MacKenzie – ‘… must also come. I must hear that ravishing sound once more.’

  MacKenzie said, in measured tones, ‘That’s a very kind invitation, Mr Fox, but I don’t think my schedule …’

  ‘I understand the Starship’s latest fundraiser just fell short of target. It would be my pleasure to reverse that, with suitable augmentation.’

  ‘Well …’

  The Starship Hospital, Auckland’s paediatric hospital, is MacKenzie’s private passion. Very astute guy, Phineas Fox. He knew how to buy my sister. He probably knew how to buy me. I must be on my guard.

  ‘I shall look forward to entertaining you,’ beamed Fox. ‘Excellent!’

  * * *

  The following morning I dropped in on MacKenzie at her suite in the Langham. It, too, had been converted into a flower shop. She glanced at the latest bouquet and its accompanying greeting card.

  ‘Dominique was bad enough. This is intolerable. Ally, I’m out of here.’

  I teased her. ‘Play your cards right, you could be the sixth Mrs Fox. And who knows, next year, the White House. First Lady!’

&nb
sp; ‘Bugger off.’

  Then the phone rang. Apparently it was a call from Paris.

  ‘Bonjour, Claude.

  ‘Oui …

  ‘Oui …

  ‘Non!!!

  ‘Sûr? Certain?

  ‘Mais ce n’est pas possible! Il était perdu. Absolument perdu!’

  MacKenzie had turned pale. I couldn’t make out whether it was good news or bad news. But it was one or the other.

  ‘C’est incroyable.

  ‘Très heureuse. Bien entendu. Je vais téléphoner. Demain. Oui.

  ‘Moi aussi. Je t’embrasse. Au revoir.’

  She hung up. She stared at the phone. I said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mozart played the Kegelstatt on it. It’s turned up. After two hundred years.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘The eleventh viola. The Phoenix. Cremona. Faciebat 1699.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are six-hundred-odd fiddles extant, but I thought only ten violas. The Archinto’s worth a fortune. The Macdonald’s the most valuable musical instrument in the world. It’s literally priceless. But the Phoenix …’

  ‘What’s the Phoenix?’

  ‘It’s a Strad.’

  III

  It was a surreal experience to share a Sikorsky with three beautiful women. There was a moment of social awkwardness when we foregathered outside the medical unit at Devonport Naval Base. I emerged with Nikki and with Saskia – her usual moody self – just as MacKenzie turned up by taxi. She got out and gave me a warm embrace. Nikki looked daggers at me. I effected the introductions. ‘Nikki, this is my sister MacKenzie.’ Nikki blushed, bit her lip, and gave a giggle. ‘Oh. Oh, I see. Pleased to meet you!’

  We blasted off. Give me fixed-wing any time. If my engine fails, I want options. But this machine was so powerful that we were in the air for barely fifteen minutes. I closed my mind to my misgivings and enjoyed the sun-kissed view over Rangitoto, Rakino, and The Noises. Abeam Cape Colville at the north end of the Coromandel Peninsula I turned my attention to the dragon-like mountainous contour of Great Barrier Island. We headed for the northern tip.

  There it was. Xanadu. I had a brief glimpse of a huge pile, some sort of ramparted baronial folly stuck in the middle of about a hundred hectares of parkland hastily made out of cleared bush. I didn’t care for it. It was entirely bogus. It was a rich man’s idea of an English country park, transplanted to the bottom of the world. We approached from the south. The driveway from the gate house, running across manicured lawns up towards the ramparted pile, was so long and straight that you could land an aircraft on it. I made a note of that. At its northern end we descended to hover at tree-top level in the middle of another mini-tornado. We sank down on to the helipad with a gentle forward lurch and the engine was immediately cut back to idle but not shut-down. The pilot turned in his seat and told us to exit from the left and keep our heads down.

  Fox was there to meet us, casually dressed in his usual faux-masculine ranch attire of pale jeans and checked shirt. Even his hat was a Stetson. If he’d packed a six-shooter with an extra-long barrel in a low-slung holster hanging from his belt and secured to his thigh by a thong, it would not have surprised me. He even had a horse with him. He was restraining a beautifully groomed grey by the reins. An adolescent girl was mounted. This must be Tamsin, Saskia’s younger sister. She was formally dressed as if for a dressage competition, in a riding hat, smart pink tunic, with a white cravat, beige jodhpurs, and perfectly polished riding boots. As we approached I saw him hand the reins up to his daughter. ‘Don’t break your neck, darling.’ She turned the grey away from the direction of the helicopter with evident facility and trotted towards a north-east break in the perimeter wall. Fox watched her go and turned his attention to us.

  I was taken aback by his civility. ‘Captain Hodgson. Ms and Dr Cameron-Strange.’ The broad smile was switched on like an electric light. Teeth, perfectly aligned like the keys of a Steinway, flashed in the afternoon sun. ‘So glad you could make it.’ It was as if our first meeting had never taken place. The proffered hand was held unnaturally high and palm downwards, the handshake of a control freak. He could assume an air of courtesy as if he were putting on a natty waistcoat. Or a ‘vest’ as they say, on his side of the Pond. He fancied my sister. So he’d better at least be on speaking terms with her twin brother. But was he really the same man as the bruiser who had harangued me at the airport? I don’t really believe in the clinical entity of ‘split personality’ but surely this was as close as it got. Which one was the real Fox?

  ‘Welcome to Xanadu. I’m afraid you will think me terribly rude, but …’ – he nodded towards the Sikorsky – ‘… here’s my ride. Business, I’m afraid. But I hope to join you for dinner. Meantime, Cadbury, please take our guests to the house.’

  ‘Sir.’

  A cadaverous retainer dressed in the style of an English butler in a morning coat gave me an impersonal glance.

  ‘My housekeeper Miss Duckmanton will show you to your quarters. Hemi, will you carry our guests’ bags? Perhaps Abel could clear up this detritus.’ He made a vague gesture at the foliage scattered across the lawn by the chopper.

  An enormous Polynesian man in a black suit stepped forward. He was six foot three and I guess weighed about three hundred pounds.

  ‘Doctor, you will doubtless be aware of the tradition of Polynesian peoples who give their children outlandish names. This is Hemidemisemiquaver.’

  I said, ‘Te lofa.’ The big man nodded and stepped towards the chopper to retrieve our luggage. He had the broad-based lurching gait of an Emperor penguin and he made no attempt to duck under the chopper blades. I thought that if one of them struck this giant of a man it would simply disintegrate. I said to Fox, ‘Seems rather a diminutive name for one so big.’ Fox thought about this for a moment and then he grinned.

  ‘Ha! Droll. Now, you must really have an attempt at one of the Who Dares Wins hazards. Captain Hodgson, I believe you would enjoy our assault course. The Big Push. Fear not. We will deactivate the truly dangerous hazards for your benefit. Doctor, will you give it a try?’

  ‘I’m happy to spectate.’

  ‘That would be to miss the full experience. Bungee jump? Climbing wall?’

  ‘I’ll take pot luck.’

  ‘Pot luck it is! I’m sure Herr Kramer will lay something on.’ He nodded in the direction of the tall blond young man I’d seen on at least three occasions now. He was standing at ease a little apart from the group, watchful, keeping up the scan. ‘But remember, if it all gets a bit too stressful, just raise your hand and ask for the umpire. Nobody will impersonate the umpire. House rules. Well, goodbye for the moment. Klaus!’ He lurched over towards the bodyguard, right leg negotiating invisible impedimenta. Gait’s getting worse. He and the minder had a brief tête-à-tête, sotto voce, in German. Klaus Kramer. KK. I lodged the snippet of information away. Fox made his way over to the Sikorzky and seemed to give us a farewell salute in the form of a discoordinated, flailing gesture. It occurred to me that Saskia had made herself invisible and gone off in the direction of the house without greeting her father. Cadbury said stiffly, ‘Come this way.’

  He led the way from the helipad towards the house along a broad gravel path between trim lawns. The mini-tornado started up again and I turned briefly to watch the Sikorsky rise fifty feet vertically, hover, and turn south-east on a sixpence. Then she stuck her nose down and clawed through the air, presumably back over to Auckland.

  The entrance to the Xanadu gardens was a mock-up of Maori meeting-grounds – a marae – with fencing in dark wood and an elaborately carved gate in the Maori style. There was a small wizened man brushing leaves with what looked like a witch’s broom. He looked up and gave us a malevolent look. He reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin. As we passed he uttered a single expletive in a high-pitched yelp, and laughed inanely. Spot diagnosis? In a less politically correct age he would have been called an idiot. The driveway split into two semicircles of chunky red
gravel bordering a substantial fountain. The house itself was of honey sandstone in four storeys. A broad set of stone steps led to an impressive entrance, where the housekeeper, also dressed in black, watched our approach. What had Fox called her? Duck something. She gazed at us disapprovingly.

  ‘This way.’ She wanted me to know that I had already taken up too much of her time. She turned and led the way with rapid bird-like steps. Her heels set off a percussive tattoo across the entrance atrium’s parquet flooring. The furnishings were tasteful and expensive but completely nondescript. I might have been in a top-class hotel anywhere in the world.

  We took the lift to the top floor. We stepped out into an airy and high-ceilinged corridor. There was light pine wainscoting to waist level and then expensive-looking wallpaper in pastel lemon with a border effect created by a single thin gold filament. Symmetrically placed paintings were mostly of New Zealand pastoral scenes in oils and captured in rich greens. We passed several doors. The bedrooms were named: Lotus, Marigold, and Myrtle. MacKenzie got Marigold, Nikki got Lotus, I got Myrtle. Myrtle was the last door at the end of the hallway.

  The housekeeper opened the door to Myrtle using a master key. She held it open with barely concealed impatience. ‘You will undoubtedly be comfortable here.’ Any contrary view would have been out of the question. It occurred to me that Fox had given me the best room in the house, and the help didn’t like it. I said, ‘Thank you very much.’ She gave a terse nod and closed the door as she left.

  It was not a room; it was a suite. It had its own entrance foyer decorated in minimalist style, with a large bowl of fruit under the warm glow of a standard lamp. This gave way to a spacious living area bathed in the afternoon sunlight that was now pouring through the broad north-facing bay windows. Within the curve of the window area was a raised dais and, on it, a white baby grand piano bearing an extravagant bowl of red roses. Between this and the entrance way, a suite of sofa and chairs in deep floral red upholstery surrounded a low-slung coffee table. At the wall was a compact writing desk at which an Anglepoise lamp had been left on. Above it on the wall was the picture of a young ballet dancer in a tutu, stooping to adjust her pointes. It looked like a Degas and, on closer inspection, turned out to be so. It was not a print.