Now the part of his mind not occupied with transcribing the old man’s wild invention listened with amazement to the flood of sound pouring forth. There was nothing familiar to cling to; note piled on note to a tottering height only to be swept up, contained, in a harsh chord as precise as a razor. A slow upwelling of melody burst forth, suddenly, into a headlong torrent of linked notes like an avalanche of glass. At the end of an impossible cadenza the violin ceased abruptly, paused as it were on the edge of a precipice. Bottelli used the interval to complete his notation, the freakish memory that was his chief asset as a composer reproducing exactly the sounds he had just heard.
Suddenly another sound intruded itself. In a surge of anger Bottelli recognised the sound of footsteps, several pairs, and a murmur of voices, approaching. Then . . . laughter! Applause! A shout of ‘Bravo, Maestro!’ And a confused clinking as though someone had emptied a purse into the old man’s instrument case. Furiously Bottelli leaped to his feet, clutching his manuscript. . . .
Too late. The old man stood looking down at the pile of coins, his eyes wide, his chest heaving, then swiftly he bent, seized the handle of the case and in the same movement flung its contents into the astonished wine-flushed faces of the half dozen midnight revellers standing before him, their hands still lifted in a tableau of approbation. In the next instant he had thrust his violin and bow inside, crushed the case closed under his arm and turned to leave. Bottelli had clawed his way through the screen of foliage, shouting wordlessly, when he saw the violinist suddenly stop, stagger, and collapse onto the pavement, still holding the violin case under his arm.
***
When he awoke it was with a sense of child-like wonder, and at first no coherent thought. He lay on a soft bed, with clean white sheets above and below. Sunlight streamed through an open window where fragile embroidered curtains stirred faintly in a warm breeze. The ceiling high overhead was sculpted along its edge with an endlessly repeated design of intertwined leaves and for a time he followed the pattern with his eyes, not attempting to lift his head from the pillow. His body felt light and very weak, and he was conscious of the feeling of some sort of night clothes against his skin, as clean as the sheets and momentarily he frowned. Surely there was something not right about this, something unusual. Had he always awakened thus? Somewhere there was a memory of darkness, and stale odours, and fitful dozing with the ever-present itch of insect bites, coupled with the ceaseless sound of scrabbling claws from the rats which . . . he raised his head from the pillow with a sudden effort. The world tilted and revolved for an instant and then steadied. There was no sound but the whisper of the breeze at the open window, and somewhere the faint music of a piano being played.
Cautiously, moving his head by slow degrees, he looked about him. The room was unfamiliar; well proportioned, with a high ceiling and smooth walls papered in a subdued pattern that spoke of wealth as surely as the ornate bedstead and few pieces of furniture. Near at hand was a small table bearing a pitcher as sparkling and clear as the water it contained, next to a clean goblet and a candle holder bearing a new candle all of white wax. He beheld all these things with astonishment and a growing sense of unease, clutching the bedclothes at his chest. He looked down at his hands. They at least seemed familiar enough, the fingers long and sinewy with prominent joints and hard blue veins, the backs wrinkled and spotted. Clean, though, like everything else in the room, and that was strange because . . . because . . . the thought vanished as the polished door at the end of the room clicked and began to open.
The woman who entered seemed for an instant to have no face, before his startled thoughts, circling in sudden panic like a flock of birds, settled and he perceived her backing into the room pulling a small four wheeled cart. She was dressed in a sober black uniform and the cart tinkled softly over the carpeting. When the cart was clear of the door she released it to close the panel gently and only then turned to face him, her pleasant middle-aged face registering at first surprise and then a calm pleasure. Unhurriedly she reopened the door and spoke a few words softly, before conducting the laden cart to his bedside.
‘So, the Sir is once more with us,’ she murmured with a broad country accent, busying herself with the crockery it contained. Steam arose, and an enticing odour which his stomach recognised with a sudden cramp and a flow of saliva under his tongue. Gulping, he tried to swallow and speak all at once.
‘ ’Ere am ah,’ he managed, then struggled up against the pillows and tried again. ‘Where am I?’ he managed more coherently, ‘How . . .’
‘Now, the Sir mustn’t worry, him that hasn’t had a bite of food in two days, and only what water we could get down.’ She looked down at him with a gleam of professional pride, ‘Old Tanya knows. I says to myself, it’s time for a bit of soup, even if we has to pour it into him with a funnel!’ A brief chuckle showed that this was intended as humour. ‘The Sir is safe,’ she continued, in the manner of a servant of some great household addressing a guest. ‘Master will see him looked after. Now no more talk,’ she said briskly, picking up a spoon with a determined air.
Bewildered, his mind in turmoil, he allowed himself to be fed like a young child, the taste of the hot broth mingling with the smooth metallic feel of the spoon. ‘Silver? Not tin?’ asked a thought which alighted for a moment and fluttered away. The woman in black, servant or nurse, was careful and deft, gently patting his lips dry with a linen napkin at intervals and, true to her word, spoke not at all until he had finished the bowl, a film of perspiration prickling his scalp. He lay back on the pillows, unable to speak, only staring at her in mute supplication. Suddenly the door at the end of the room was flung open again. The woman who entered this time in a rustle of silken petticoats was surely no servant. Erect and slim, her blond hair elaborately coiffed, she moved swiftly to his bedside, her steps light, almost dancing, a delighted smile on her pretty young face.
‘Thank heavens, we have you awake at last,’ she said in a rush, while part of his mind registered that he was being addressed respectfully, as an equal, rather than with the familiar form used to dogs and children. ‘We were so concerned, and then if anything had happened we would have felt responsible, you know, and I never would have forgiven myself, never, such an artist . . .’ she paused for breath, her hands clasped almost theatrically to the lace at her breast, and the older woman interrupted, gently chiding.
‘Now, Mistress, you know the Master’s orders. The Sir is not to be worried.’
‘Oh Tanya, I’m not going to worry him’ she returned with a toss of her head, obviously unimpressed with anyone else’s authority. ‘You must go and tell your Master our patient is awake at last.’ With an exasperated shake of the head the woman named Tanya gathered together her little cart and left the room. ‘Why, you must have a thousand questions,’ the young lady insisted, seating herself gracefully on the chair by his bedside. The gown she wore was of a light coloured satiny material, with a bodice of lace gathered at the throat, and close to, he caught the hint on an expensive perfume. Her eyes were deep blue and searching, with a hint of mischief beneath their concern and instinctively he looked down and away. Somewhere there was a memory that one did not look high born ladies in the face. Where had he learned this?
‘Now, now, none of that,’ she chided, obviously understanding the gesture, ‘I’m not exactly royalty you know, I’m only a dancer, an artiste like yourself, though I suppose I am rather well known, no, but I mean you must be wondering how you came to be here?’ She ended in an interrogative trill, one shapely eyebrow raised.
‘Yes . . . this place . . . who . . . ?’ At the realisation that he had been about to ask his own name panic overcame him. Did he not know who he was, himself? The young woman responded to the cue in the manner of someone used to finishing people’s sentences for them, affecting not to notice his confusion and distress.
‘Oh, you’re in Maestro Bottelli’s house,’ she began, accenting the title as though it was in some way droll. ‘We, well, that is
of course it was his idea, the Maestro I mean, when you had your accident . . .’ she paused, putting out a hand theatrically. ‘. . . not that we meant the least disrespect, you understand, it was only that we’d been to a party, and I suppose the wine, and then that heavenly music . . .’ Music? The word leapt into his mind; yes, there had been music, he could remember music, all this while from somewhere in the house someone had been playing music on a piano, one phrase over and over, a phrase, a succession of notes he had heard before, but there was a sense of something not right, as of something familiar and distorted at the same time . . . and at that moment the playing suddenly ceased. He became aware that the young woman was still speaking.
‘. . . right back in our faces, and just as we deserved, and Maestro Bottelli came leaping out of the bushes, honestly I was quite frightened for a moment, I thought he was a footpad,’ she smiled with a hint of mockery, ‘And, oh, he was furious, and there you lay, poor man, on the pavement, still clutching your violin, so of course we didn’t know what to do, but Maestro Bottelli made us call a carriage, and we helped, well, one of my friends helped put you in, and well, here you are, safe and sound . . .’
Violin? My Violin? He looked down at his hands, clutching the sheet, and an image came of worn polished wood, warm and familiar against his chin, the hardness of tightly stretched gut under his fingers, sound pouring out into the night, the notes coming almost faster than his flying fingers and madly see-sawing bow could produce, music flying free into the night, released, which he . . . ‘WHERE IS IT?’ He was dimly aware of the young woman starting back, the flow of her talk frozen into the silent ‘o’ of her mouth. ‘MY VIOLIN! WHERE HAVE YOU TAKEN IT?’ He was sitting up now, the bed clothes in a distorted heap at his waist, there was the sound of steps as someone else rushed into the room, which lurched, tilted, and spun sickeningly. And then darkness.
He awoke as before, but this time not alone. The woman in black, Tanya, bent over him supporting his head, holding a small flask to his lips. There was a burning sensation and the unfamiliar smell of some strong spirit. The young woman had retreated to the foot of the bed, her hands clasped at her breast, her pretty face an almost comic mask of distress, while her place at the bedside was now occupied by a dark haired stranger, whose dress and colouring spoke of the south, and whose blunt, tanned features were contorted in a ferocious scowl in which anger and concern seemed equally mixed. As he pushed weakly at the flask and coughed, the stranger’s face relaxed somewhat into a grim smile.
‘It is well,’ the newcomer announced decisively, rising to his feet. ‘Tanya, you may go. Madonna Elisa,’ he said, turning to the younger woman with an obvious effort at patience, ‘Our friend here perhaps needs rest. At another time, it is possible, you may honour us with a visit but perhaps for the present . . .’ he spread his hands, managing to suggest both regret and dismissal.
‘Maestro Bottelli,’ the young lady protested, the mockery absent, ‘I meant no harm, it was only that I felt, we felt, you understand, responsible . . .’
‘But of a certainty, Madonna,’ returned the Maestro suavely, managing to combine reassurance and agreement, ‘who could doubt the good intentions of one so illustrious? And truly this our friend is honoured by your concern. I make no doubt that when he has recovered he will wish to convey to you, his good angel, gratitude and thanks. Is it not so?’ He turned, addressing the limp figure on the bed, then without waiting for a reply made a half bow, extending his hand toward the door. ‘You will, then, excuse us? Tanya will show you out.’
The young woman, showing by her heightened colour that none of the implied rebuke had been lost on her, inclined her head with a murmured acknowledgement and departed. Bottelli resumed his seat with a sigh when she had gone. For a moment he gazed at the old man who lay there, eyes wide and questioning, then suddenly he patted the bony shoulder as if he were soothing a frightened horse. ‘My friend, be at ease. Here no harm will come to you, and nothing will be taken from you.’ The familiar form, master to servant or parent to child, was somehow more soothing and reassuring than the unwonted deference. As if on cue, Tanya re-entered, bearing a shabby black case. ‘Here, you see, is your companion whom you have asked for. You see?’ And at a gesture the servant, smiling, delivered the violin case into the old man’s suddenly reaching hands. ‘Now,’ continued the Maestro, ‘Rest! Become well! At another time we shall talk. And perhaps . . .’ he added, the sudden gleam in his dark eyes belying the casualness of his tone, ‘. . . perhaps you will even favour us with some music.’
The old man barely registered the words, nor took notice when Maestro Bottelli rose and left, ushering Tanya before him. He lay in a daze, clutching the precious violin in the worn black case to his chest, and it came to him that often he had slept just so, to preserve the gut strings from the rats.
Time flowed through the little room, marked by changes in the light as day came and went, punctuated by the regular visits of the black-clad servant who fed him and ministered to his needs. Soon enough he could rise from the bed, for he was not ill, no, he had seldom been ill, it was only a weakness of the body from lack of food and rest. Clothes were provided for him, their unaccustomed cleanliness and quality feeling strange against his skin, and he began to walk in the Maestro’s walled garden for brief periods, the violin left at the bedside, finally, as the fear of losing it subsided. He felt no urge to play; the music that had possessed him on that night seemed to have withdrawn to some place of its own. Several times, with increasingly forced casualness, Bottelli suggested he might like to practice for a bit, and he had complied, effortlessly bringing forth one or two popular dance tunes from his repertoire.
He sensed the southerner’s irritation on such occasions, but it provoked only a vague sense of unease that his present comforts might be withdrawn.
Finally one morning Tanya announced solemnly that he was to attend the Master in his study, ‘. . . and the Sir is to bring his violin along, if it please him.’
He was conducted to a part of the house he had never before visited, and left in front of a large set of double doors after a brisk knock on the polished panels. Entering apprehensively at the curt summons from within, he found Bottelli seated behind a large polished desk littered with pages of manuscript. An ebony pianoforte occupied a space by the window.
‘So, my friend, let us now talk,’ the Maestro began, his eyes and voice direct and uncompromising. ‘Do you not know why you are here under my roof?’
‘The gentleman wishes me to play for him?’ the old man ventured timidly, uncomfortable under the intense gaze, fumbling with the catch on his instrument case.
‘Yes, the gentleman does wish it!’ Bottelli snapped, ‘Not your insipid waltzes such as I could hear on any street corner in the city. Music I wish to hear! Music such as you play in the night, alone. Music such as this!’ He thrust forth a bundle of manuscript. As the old man stared uncomprehending at the scribbled notation, the Maestro rose abruptly and went to the piano. Flinging the pages unto the lid he played a short passage, the notes rising furiously, incongruously in the quiet elegance of the room, and then abruptly breaking off.
‘Do you hear? Do you understand?’ Bottelli cried passionately, turning to the old man, who clutching his instrument case protectively was staring at the sheets of paper as though at something supernatural, his eyes wide with horror.
‘You. . . have written what I play?’ In his distress he had discarded formality and spoken directly.
‘Are you a child? A savage?’ replied Bottelli, rising, ‘What one can create, another may write down. My friend,’ he continued more softly, ‘would you spend your genius on the empty night? Living in God knows what filthy hovel? Playing insipid rubbish to drunken fools for a few groshen?’ The old man shook his head, his eyes on the manuscript spread out on the piano lid.
‘So what do you fear?’ Bottelli, misunderstanding, put one hand on the other man’s elbow, with a southerner’s familiarity. ‘That I should steal from you?
I, Sandor Bottelli, conductor of the city’s greatest orchestra? Riches I offer you! Fame! Fine clothes instead of rags! I wish only to bring your genius before the world!’ The old one remained silent, perhaps stupefied by his good fortune. ‘So come,’ gently Bottelli attempted to lead him to the piano, ‘let us begin. This passage here, eh? What follows?’ A shake of the head answered him and the violinist attempted to turn away. ‘Dio! These geniuses!’ Bottelli released his hold and instead patted the old man’s arm gently. ‘Very well, I understand. The mood, the time, they must be in accord, is it not so?’ He reached for a tasselled cord hanging nearby and gave it a sharp tug. In a moment the black clad servant entered.
‘Tanya will take you back to your room. Be free in my house, walk in the garden under the stars, what you will. Play when you will. I shall be listening.’
Once he had seen a flock of crows disturbed by a hawk, flying in a cloud of black wings darting this way and that. So his thoughts tumbled and spun uncontrolled, mixing past and present in a wordless whirlwind of images. As he sat numbly on the edge of the bed in the room where Tanya had left him, scenes from a life barely remembered passed before his inner eye. He saw himself seated in a row of violinists, part of a large orchestra. Sound, crashing and booming around him, sweat stinging his eyes as he strove to follow the score, one eye on the conductor’s deadly baton. Again; himself younger, nervously clutching his violin, presented to the director of the city opera by a person feared and indistinct . . . his father? The face of a woman, speaking strange words, protesting, a language that was in some way itself a protest, something forbidden . . . black notes on a page, black as the crows, yet frozen forever, never to fly, notes on lines as pitiless as iron, all around him, like bars all around him, a cage of black iron strung with notes like a row of dead birds he had seen once on a fence, his hand held by . . . someone . . . screaming, crying and running, running from the dead birds, from the orchestra, voices shouting, crying, as harsh and meaningless as the voices of crows, flying . . . hands reaching for his violin, pulling, then running through the streets, many streets, holding the precious instrument to his chest . . . hunger, and alien faces passing, the sound of an accordion wheezing, money clinking into a dusty hat, the first notes played timidly into a vast indifference, begging for food, the wonder of the first coin flung casually at his feet out of a sea of anonymous figures . . . wandering from town to town, cold and rain in the countryside, drawn to the cities and the possibility of shelter, of being a stranger, unknown among strangers, always the music, not caring or hearing what he played, except sometimes alone, dark night and the voice of a lone bird . . .
The Girl with the Peacock Harp Page 6