Still, there was little time to contemplate the subject further. The day of the first concert had arrived, so I hurried back to take up my post in the box office (I didn’t really expect any ‘returns’ but you never could tell). It had been decided that the festival would open with a matinée and an evening performance. Greylag was scheduled to present a symphony at three in the afternoon, followed by another at eight o’clock. It was a heavy workload, but he seemed not the slightest bit overawed.
Sanderling, by contrast, was very much on edge.
‘All those people streaming in,’ he said. ‘How can I possibly check their tickets and show them to their seats?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I advised. ‘Most people sort their seats out themselves.’
Fortunately for Sanderling, I was proved right. The matinée audience arrived punctually and remained in good order as they filed into the auditorium. I half-expected the occasion to be marked by a speech, delivered perhaps by Grosbeak or Merganser. They were both present, as was Gadwall, but apparently they weren’t interested in any flummery. The orchestra was already in position, and at precisely three o’clock the concert started without any announcements. Just as the lights dimmed I slid in at the back to watch Greylag in action. As usual he displayed perfect control over the orchestra. Interestingly enough, this first symphony matched exactly the verbal description he’d given me all those months before. It was a little unsettling to watch him perform it so flawlessly, knowing that all the while he held it in such disdain. When the music finally ended he gave a bow, the audience applauded and the concert hall emptied.
The second performance went equally smoothly, but afterwards Sanderling was completely exhausted and had to be revived with a bottle of wine. We’d discovered during our short time in the city that you could buy anything if you had the money, so we’d decided initially on this shared bottle.
‘I really ought to save up,’ he said. ‘I don’t intend to drink all my wages away.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘nor me.’
We agreed mutually that fairly soon we should consider rationing ourselves. In the meantime we would try to be as useful as possible, thereby ensuring our continued employment.
Following the introductory back-to-back concerts, the festival reverted to a more leisurely programme of two performances a week. Obviously, the orchestra needed to rehearse each piece thoroughly, but there was also time for Greylag to resume work on his own compositions. Occasionally I would enter the auditorium and recognise snatches I hadn’t heard since we were at the cake. It was gratifying to know that Greylag was still pushing at the boundaries, as befitted an appointed Professor of Music.
So it was that our existence gradually evolved into a regular cycle. The orchestra rehearsed, practised and performed; the audiences came and went; Sanderling and I sold tickets and took care of the concert hall as it filled and emptied again. At the end of each day we drank a bottle of wine and then went to bed.
I soon noticed that Sanderling was starting to take an active interest in the performances themselves. Often I saw him chatting to Greylag during recesses, and it turned out he was enquiring about the differing musical forms that were being showcased during the festival. After a while he commenced taking notes, firstly for his own clarification, but later for the enlightenment of others. On subsequent concert evenings he could be observed imparting his newly acquired knowledge to chosen members of the audience. Clearly he was enjoying his role as ‘front of house’. Each afternoon between two and four he slipped away, having presumably found somewhere quiet to revise his notes.
Eventually, with the final symphony approaching, I began to wonder what we were supposed to do when the festival was over. Hopefully there were many future programmes in prospect, but the City of Scoffers was now in the depths of winter and I had a feeling they wouldn’t come to fruition until the spring. The skies darkened and the days were cold. New arrivals at the central station appeared half-perished, yet still they kept pouring in. The city’s flags fluttered and became ragged in the bitter easterly wind.
For the time being, though, life remained satisfactory. After all, the concert hall was comparatively cosy. Soft pink chandeliers glowed all day long while the orchestra rehearsed, and Greylag was as fully absorbed as ever. The ninth symphony was the longest of the works he was performing; hence he spent many hours labouring over its four movements. Then, at last, he was ready.
Tickets for the closing concert had been sold out days earlier. On the evening of the performance there were crowds gathering at the door long before dusk. Sanderling was there keeping order and telling people what they already knew: that this was their cherished composer’s most well-known symphony. Finished only days before he died, it was generally considered his departing masterpiece. The anticipation of the audience was palpable. By eight o’clock we had them all sitting comfortably inside. The orchestra was waiting; the lights were dimmed and Greylag made his entrance. At the last moment a latecomer sidled into the only empty seat. Sanderling and I took up our positions standing at the rear of the house.
I sometimes thought Greylag was rather cruel in his assessment of this composer. While I was quite aware of his own exacting standards, it seemed to me that he gave insufficient quarter to rival composers, especially this one. As I stood listening to the ninth symphony I heard only pleasant tunes, dynamic phrases and an overarching theme that was hardly forgettable. Sadly, I concluded that Greylag’s years in serfdom must have shaped his opinion of others.
By now the symphony was moving towards its finale. I knew from rehearsals that it didn’t end with a climactic eruption as with most similar works. Instead the fourth movement petered out quietly, leaving the listener to reflect on what had gone before. When the last notes faded away the audience sat in silence for a few seconds; then they responded with thunderous applause. Greylag turned towards them, bowed, and left the podium.
Hitherto during the festival there had been no encores. Apparently they weren’t customary in the City of Scoffers. I had witnessed the occasional standing ovation, usually after the more famous pieces, but that was more or less the extent of their enthusiasm. These were serious people: they were not given to prolonged bouts of floor-stamping.
Tonight, however, was different. Maybe it was because the music had been so powerful, or simply that this was the final performance of the festival: whatever the reason, the audience demanded an encore. The applause continued unabated until Greylag reappeared at last. He even received a muted cheer from one or two people down at the front. Then everyone fell silent.
Evidently he’d chosen the purest course of action: he proceeded to play the fourth movement once again. This was most agreeable. We’d only heard it a few minutes before, yet in Greylag’s hands it sounded as fresh as if it had just been written. Towards the end, though, some sort of change had been made: not to the music itself, but to the instrumentation. The main theme from the first movement had returned and the whole orchestra was in full flight when suddenly all the cellos stopped playing. As the other musicians continued, the cellists packed away their instruments and left the arena. After a few more bars, the entire brass section did exactly the same thing; but Greylag went on conducting as if nothing had happened. I glanced at Sanderling and he raised his eyebrows; then we carried on watching in fascination. Slowly but surely, different parts of the orchestra began to disappear, each musician carefully putting his instrument in its case prior to departing. The oboes went next, then some of the percussion, then the rest of the woodwind. The dwindling orchestra played on as the symphony’s conclusion drew gradually closer. Soon there were only a half dozen violins remaining; then three; then only two. In the original piece the entire ensemble had delivered the last few bars very quietly. This time we were carried to the end by a lone violin. He finished playing and packed away his instrument. Then he, too, vanished. Finally, Greylag turned to the audience, gave a bow and left his podium.
Fortunately, the onlooker
s took it all in good humour. After an initial stunned silence they began clapping again, louder and louder, until genuine applause had fully returned. Clearly they viewed it as an interesting diversion with no added connotations.
Yet from where I stood the message was obvious. I leant over to Sanderling and spoke in his ear: ‘Greylag wants to go home.’
Chapter 23
Once the crowds had departed, I went into the auditorium to sweep up the discarded tickets. I expected the place to be empty: most people had trains to catch and stragglers were unheard of in the City of Scoffers. I was doubly surprised, therefore, to see Wryneck sitting in one of the seats. He was lounging at the back of the stalls, and appeared to be scrutinising the arched ceiling.
When he caught my gaze he nodded.
‘The acoustics here are far superior to those in the cake,’ he remarked.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I don’t doubt it.’
He rose from his seat and began strolling around the auditorium. He peered at the pink chandeliers and classical decor. Then he went up to the grand tier and examined the quality of the upholstery. Finally, he mounted the conductor’s podium. He stood for a moment conducting an imaginary orchestra before joining me in the stalls.
‘This is the standard we’ll be seeking when the cake is restored,’ he announced.
Wryneck spoke as if we were continuing a conversation we’d broken off only a few minutes earlier, rather than renewing an acquaintanceship after several long weeks, but this was typical of him. He rarely bothered with such trifles as saying hello.
‘Enjoy the concert, did you?’ I asked.
‘Excellent,’ he replied.
‘How did you manage to get a ticket?’
‘On the black market.’
‘I didn’t know there was one.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘you can buy anything here if you have the money.’
Despite Wryneck’s supercilious manner I was quite pleased to see him again. He was wearing his dandy coat, and the sight of it brought back memories of life in Fallowfields. I thought fondly of Whimbrel pottering around in the observatory; of Gallinule and his companions drinking in the Maypole; and of glorious sunlit evenings in the great library.
‘How’s Smew?’ I enquired. ‘Does he still have lemon curd for tea?’
‘He’s fine,’ replied Wryneck, ‘but the lemon curd ran out.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘So did the quince marmalade and the fortified wine.’
‘So you’re here for the black market, are you?’
‘No,’ said Wryneck, ‘I’ve come to find that young emperor of ours.’
The emperor! I’d forgotten all about him. His alleged antics at the university had led indirectly to all the recent upheavals: the occupation of the imperial capital; the resulting shortages; the displacement of the orchestra; not to mention my own sojourn here in the City of Scoffers. Yet for some reason he’d completely slipped my mind. It was odd to think that he was playing truant somewhere in the metropolis while the rest of us got on with our lives as best we could. Now, all of a sudden, Wryneck had turned up on a mission to find him and bring him to book. Or at least that was the presumed intention. His tone of voice certainly suggested he’d lost patience with our elusive sovereign. It transpired, however, that Wryneck wasn’t here simply to mete out chastisement. Seemingly, the person of the emperor was required for critical reasons of state.
‘We have reached a low ebb,’ Wryneck explained, ‘but there is a chance the situation can be saved. A few weeks back we received word that a great fleet of ships had landed on the western seashore. An envoy was dispatched and he returned with some remarkable news. The landing party claimed they were descended from the mariners who sailed into the west all those years ago. Evidently their forebears discovered a plentiful new world and soon became prosperous, but now some of them wish to return to the empire.’
Wryneck paused and smiled to himself before continuing.
‘These people aren’t a bit like us but they insist that they’re our closest cousins. I’ve met them and they appear to be very earnest, though I must say they take some getting used to. They speak in superlatives, they walk with a swagger and they constantly refer to themselves as “liberators”. Their wealth is derived from a range of processes we’ve never even thought of, and for some reason they want to share it with us. They took one look at the railway and instantly offered to buy it; they propose to restore the cake to its former glory; and they want to establish an automotive industry in Fallowfields.’
‘That’s all good news then,’ I remarked.
‘Good news indeed,’ said Wryneck, ‘except that they added a precondition.’
‘Which is?’
‘Greater Fallowfields must have a reputable cabinet headed by the emperor himself.’
‘So that’s why you’re here.’
‘Correct.’
‘How on earth are you going to find him?’
‘Good question,’ said Wryneck. ‘Obviously we can’t hope for any assistance from the local authorities: if we succeed they’ll have to give the orchestra back.’
‘Yes, I suppose they will.’
Wryneck glanced around the auditorium.
‘Actually, that’s why I came here tonight,’ he said. ‘I thought there was a possibility the emperor might wish to see his orchestra perform the famous ninth. The event has been advertised all over the city so he was bound to have known about it.’
‘Yes, he must have.’
‘Apparently, however, my high expectations were ill-founded: I saw nobody of his description.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘someone did sneak in just after the lights were dimmed. Maybe that was him.’
‘No,’ said Wryneck, ‘it was me.’
‘Ah.’
‘I’d been following a line of inquiry and it made me late.’
‘Did anybody check your ticket?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’d better have a look,’ I said. ‘I ought to know what these forgeries are like.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it’s a forgery,’ said Wryneck.
‘It must be,’ I retorted. ‘I was in charge of the box office and I wouldn’t have sold tickets to anyone who looked unscrupulous.’
‘See for yourself.’
Wryneck handed me his ticket and I examined it closely. True enough, it exactly resembled the tickets I’d been issuing all these weeks; which suggested that somebody had sold it under the counter.
‘But there’s only been me and Sanderling here,’ I said, ‘and he would never stoop to such depths.’
Wryneck regarded me for a long moment.
‘That reminds me,’ he said, ‘I need to speak to Sanderling about the arrangements for tomorrow.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘As a matter of fact I’m quite indebted to him: he’s really been most obliging during my search for the emperor. He helped me contact some dancing girls with whom he was intimate.’
‘Sanderling?’
‘No, the emperor.’
‘Good grief.’
‘I’ve been conducting interviews every afternoon between two and four.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Not yet,’ said Wryneck, ‘but I intend to persevere.’
These revelations all came as a bit of a shock to me. Plainly Sanderling was a much darker horse than I’d imagined. Moreover, Wryneck was proving himself to be a very astute customer. Whether he’d taken matters into his own hands or was acting under Smew’s orders I wasn’t sure. Either way, it appeared likely that I’d soon be going back to Fallowfields to resume my seat in the cabinet; which meant I’d have to apply to Greylag for a travel permit. Technically he was still my employer, and I realised I needed to play this game very carefully over the next few days. Without any further explanation, Wryneck wandered off in search of Sanderling, leaving me to ponder his words.
So, Greater Fallowfields was to be liberated, was it? Well, perhaps; but I won
dered at what price a final settlement would be achieved. These newcomers had begun making demands already, and I suspected that the empire was in danger of becoming a mere puppet state.
For the moment, of course, the whole subject remained in abeyance. Our priority was to find the emperor as soon as possible. The following day Wryneck renewed his investigations; I offered to accompany him but he politely informed me that Sanderling’s contacts were more valuable. The two of them departed shortly after breakfast.
Finding myself at a loose end, I dropped in on the musicians to see how they were getting on. To my astonishment the auditorium was deserted. In all the time I’d been attached to the orchestra I had never known them not to practise or rehearse, but today they were all absent. A short investigation revealed that some of them were still in bed, while others had gone sightseeing. Well, I had to admit they deserved it: they’d done nothing but work, work, work ever since I’d known them and clearly they needed a rest. What surprised me, though, was that they didn’t bother unpacking their instruments for the entire day. When they returned in the evening a good few of them had red faces and smelt of drink; it then dawned on me that they must have been out spending their wages. Obviously this would have been an experience for which they were poorly prepared, and doubtless they’d regret it in the morning.
I was then struck by a secondary thought: if the musicians were indeed going home, as now seemed probable, how would the new regime react to having an orchestra of serfs on its hands? Serfdom hardly fitted in with the idea of liberation as I understood it, and suddenly I pictured a lot of unanswered questions. Where, for example, would Greylag stand in all this?
It so happened he was difficult to track down too. Naturally, I expected him to exclude himself from any sort of holidaymaking, and guessed he would resort to the privacy of his study. Yet when I knocked on the door there was no reply. I noticed the door was off its catch, so gently I pushed it open and peered inside. The room was empty.
A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In Page 20