Wolf Tones (Standalone Psychological Thriller)

by JJ Marsh

  In addition to a tough rehearsal, a hot, humid muggy day and the inevitable row when he got home later, he had somehow pissed off both Trudi and Jun. They barely spoke to him all day and at lunchtime, they disappeared without inviting him to join them. He ate a pasta salad in the park, willing the sunshine to lift his mood. On return to the Konzerthalle, he used the gents’ bathroom and encountered Bertrand.

  “Hi Rolf, how’s it going?”

  “Pretty shitty, since you ask. This morning was hard work, this weather’s like a sauna and Trudi and Jun have got the hump. I have no idea what I’ve done.”

  Bertrand washed his hands. “Bad manners is what you’ve done. OK, you’re new and it’s the first time you played with a quartet. But to ask the maestro to release you without talking to your colleagues is very unfriendly. Trudi and Jun both believed you enjoyed the weekend. Going behind their backs to escape that responsibility is a cheap move, my friend. I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t like you. A great orchestra is made up of decent people as well as brilliant musicians, and you need to work a bit harder on the first part.” He dried his hands and left the room.

  Rolf stood in the centre of the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He closed his eyes and concentrated, recalling the conversation with the maestro and his own passionate wish to remain with the quartet. He even had the maestro’s own message on his phone, assuring him of his support. He checked the device, searching for the message, but it had been deleted. That was wrong. He knew with absolute conviction he had saved that message, waiting for the right time to show Leonor. Something was wrong, and the cold from the tiles seemed to creep up his legs, over his lower back and wrap itself around his chest.

  He caught the maestro as he exited his office to return to the rehearsals.

  “Herr Jaro, once again. Our corridor assignations will soon start to generate gossip. What can I do for you?”

  “Maestro, when we spoke on Monday, I assured you I wanted to stay with the quartet. You supported me and gave me good advice both in person and via message. I appreciated that more than I can say. My desire to remain part of the quartet is unchanged. Stronger, if anything. Yet I hear from one of my colleagues that I have asked to be released. I swear I have not. It is the last thing I want and I’m very confused. Do you somehow think that I want to quit the quartet?”

  The maestro stopped and looked down at his feet in Japanese slippers.

  “Wait, please.” He reversed into his office and Rolf could hear the electronic sounds of a printer. He checked his watch and saw rehearsals were due to start in under two minutes. The maestro emerged with a piece of paper, which he handed to Rolf.

  “Herr Jaro, I intend to begin with the brass section this afternoon. I suggest you read this and join us in around thirty minutes. We will not discuss this topic until the end of the day. By which time, I hope you can provide me with an explanation.” He walked stiffly in the direction of the rehearsal room, shaking his head as if he had a flea in his ear.

  Rolf stared after him, bewildered and looked down at the paper in his hand.

  Dear Maestro Wilk

  Thank you for your message, and I appreciate the sentiment. On consideration, I believe the quartet is an extra obligation to which I would rather not commit. Perhaps after the season is over, I will find more time and energy to devote to such public-facing events. In the current circumstances however, while trying to find my status within the orchestra, I would prefer to withdraw. Thank you for your understanding and for the opportunity.

  With kindest regards

  Rolf Jaro

  He walked in a circle, past the ground-floor dressing rooms, out into the public areas and cafeteria, back through a personnel-only door and returned to stand outside the rehearsal room. His head was a hornets’ nest of confusion and stress. He folded up the document, tucked it in his pocket and with an act of mental visualisation, locked the issue into a strongbox for later examination. When he heard a break from the musicians inside, he opened the door and took his place amongst his peers.

  12

  The sun shone directly in Rolf’s eyes. The maestro stood up and closed the blind, leaving the room in a strange half-light. It gave their conversation a somewhat abstract air, and Rolf was relieved. It was easier to state truths without the glare of afternoon sunshine. He’d been rehearsing this speech for hours.

  “You asked me for an explanation, maestro. I’m afraid I can’t give you full clarification about why you received two contradictory accounts regarding my position within the quartet. What I can say is that I did not send that email. This much I swear. This weekend was pure pleasure and the opportunity to play with three of my friends cemented my love for the city and the orchestra. I don’t want to give up the position, in fact, the thought of being excluded feels like a weight on my chest. If, and we are talking about a hypothetical situation, I did not wish to remain in the group, I would have the decency to explain my thinking to your face and to my fellow musicians in person.”

  Wilk sat in silence, his face a Zen mask of patience.

  “So how do I explain the email tendering my resignation? I can’t. The only thing I can do is give you my word that any future discussions regarding my role within the orchestra or any of its offshoots will be conducted face-to-face. Maestro, I am profoundly sorry for the confusion. I will also apologise to my colleagues in the quartet. Truly, I want to play with my friends.” He cringed at his own words. He sounded like a petulant child.

  The maestro’s gaze was on his hands, splayed in front of him on the leather-covered desk. Minutes ticked by, the only sound being the bells of the city marking the hour of six o’clock. When the final echoes had died away, Wilk placed his hands together as if in prayer.

  “Herr Jaro, before I comment on the subject under discussion, I want you to know one thing. Every member of this orchestra is my charge. Yes, I mean charge, as if I were your guardian. I’m responsible for your professional development but also for your pastoral care. Issues in your personal life that affect your ability to perform at your peak are considerations I take very seriously. Some of your colleagues have housing problems or difficulties with childcare or financial worries. I want to know about all these external pressures because we can offer assistance. The orchestra is a family and we are here to help one another. Therefore, should you feel yourself in a situation where your autonomy is compromised, understand this: you are assured of my complete discretion and total support.”

  “Thank you, maestro.” Rolf’s throat was tight.

  “As to your domestic situation, I confess to being a little worried. Partners often believe they are acting in the best interests of their spouses or lovers, often with a desire to defend them. There’s a fine line between protective support and the removal of agency. You’re shaking your head. You find my language patronising?”

  Rolf shook his head still harder. “No! No, not at all. I didn’t realise I was shaking my head, but if I was, it’s out of disbelief. It’s hard to believe somebody else understands the situation so well. Maestro, you hit the nail exactly on the head.”

  “So your consideration must be how to draw the line?”

  That was not an easy question to answer. Rolf took several moments to consider the pattern of the inevitable argument later that evening. He would raise a point. Leonor would go on the attack. He would defend himself. She would remind him of his place. He would ask her not to do it again. She would deny any wrongdoing and insist that she was on his side. He would drop the argument and attempt to retreat. She would pursue him, relentless and determined to win the point. He would apologise and she would either forgive him or hurt him. When he gave in, they would have sex. Everything would be on her terms. There was no way he could articulate any of this to the maestro.

  “Truthfully, I’m not sure.”

  The maestro interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on his hands. “You are loyal, rightly so. We should honour the people who have made sacrifices to ena
ble the status we enjoy today. At the same time, one needs to slip the leash and become one’s own person. Gratitude and appreciation are beautiful sentiments when given freely, but less so when they are demanded as if in some kind of repayment. Herr Jaro, if I may make a musical comparison? When you learn to play a piece or instrument to the point of confidence because you know it so intimately, then is the time to reassess your relationship. There are plenty of clichés such as ‘familiarity breeds contempt’ which can be twisted to suit whichever argument one attempts to make. However, I would say that all relationships require frequent realignment to ensure both the instrument and the player are serving each other equally well. I will say no more at this stage and trust you to consider my words before you discuss this situation with your partner. One thing I must reiterate. You are my charge and your well-being is my primary concern. Out of respect to your colleagues, please explain the misunderstanding. You must ask their permission to continue playing with the quartet if that is what you want. I will abide by their choice whatever they decide.”

  Rolf got to his feet and expressed his thanks in some sort of confused mumble. He collected his cello and went out into the muggy streets. He needed some time to think before going home. A little café just up the road from the Konzerthalle drew him in, and he sat down at an outside table and ordered an orange juice. Out of habit, he pulled out his phone and saw six missed calls from Leonor. He thrust it back in his rucksack and concentrated on what he wanted to say. She was going to be angry, there was no avoiding that, and she dealt with anger so much better than him. If only there was some kind of net between them, like in a tennis match. If she would stay on her side, it would be easier. The trouble was, she never did. She ignored all the rules of engagement, marched across the court and attacked him, verbally, physically and emotionally. She hurt him until he curled into a metaphorical ball and then she kicked him when he was down – all the while telling him it was an act of love.

  It was quarter to seven and she would have made dinner. Being late was the worst way to start a discussion but he had no choice. This time, he promised himself, there would be no pleading, no whining, no apologising. She was in the wrong, not him. He left money on the table for his juice, picked up his cello and headed for home. If only he could knock on Anton’s door before going upstairs to face her. Just one kiss or a gentle embrace would fortify him for the battle ahead.

  He hesitated in the hallway, willing Anton to come into the hall for some random reason. A door upstairs opened, and with a guilty start Rolf began climbing the stairs. It was not Leonor flying downstairs like a hellcat but young Dieter Fitz with his violin. Of course, he had cancelled Monday’s lesson and this was his catch-up session. The boy looked paler than usual and Rolf stepped down to allow him to pass.

  “Hello, Dieter. Good lesson?”

  The boy’s voice came out in a whisper. “Good evening, Herr Jaro. Very good, thank you. I’m sorry to rush but I need to catch the bus. I wish you a good evening.” His voice sounded oddly choked, provoking Rolf to ask if he was all right. The kid opened the front door, nodded and scurried away down the garden path.

  Leonor was sitting on the balcony and did not turn around when he called his greeting. She had a glass in her hand and swilled it in irritable circles. He put his things away and retrieved the email from his inside pocket, unfolding it and smoothing it onto the dining table. He sat down and waited for her to come inside.

  When she did, it was already clear that she was in an evil temper. “Where the hell have you been? I called you at least half a dozen times and you didn’t answer. It’s basic common decency to let someone know if you’re going to be late. Answer me! Where have you been?”

  Rolf breathed two long inhalations and exhalations, his eyes on the printout. She snatched it up from the table and scanned the text. Then she screwed the paper into a tight ball and threw it at his head. He dodged it.

  “And?”

  He kept his voice calm and deliberate. “You crossed a line, Leonor. You do not get to speak for me. I appreciate everything you’ve done to advance my career, but I make the decisions about how I use my time. How dare you resign from the quartet on my behalf? How dare you?”

  She didn’t answer, but she drew out a chair from the dining table, dragging the legs across the parquet floor. “How dare I? I did everything for you, Rolf Jaro. I discovered you, I mentored you and I found the only tutor in the world who could make you what you are today. I know how much you can do and how quickly you will fail if you take on too much. The quartet is a bad idea and unnecessary. There are plenty of lesser musicians who can take that role. You are destined for greater things. If you can’t see that, too bad. That’s what I’m here for. So I told the maestro you are pulling out. I did you a favour. If you are aiming to be a principal cellist, you don’t need to pimp yourself around Salzburg!”

  “Please don’t use such crude terms. I play with the quartet for two reasons. Firstly, because I enjoy it and the other players are my friends. Secondly because I’m proud to promote the orchestra in a wider arena. Even if you thought it was a bad idea, you should have discussed it with me first. Why would you write to the maestro as if you were me? I find that shocking, really I do. Mutual support is one thing but taking control of my voice is another.”

  She drained the contents of the glass and went into the kitchen to pour herself another. “Do you want a vodka and tonic or are you still being Saint Rudolf?”

  Rolf massaged his temples. He hated it when she used his full name, mocking him, or worse, scolding him as if she were his mother. “No, thank you, no alcohol for me. I want to say two things. One, you do not speak for me, ever. Two, I acknowledge and appreciate everything you’ve done to further my career, but that doesn’t mean you can take control of my life. I’m aware that you’ve made sacrifices and I’m grateful for them, but the situation is different now.”

  The silence stretched on and on. Not a sound came from the kitchen, not even her breathing. Dread chilled him from the pit of his stomach to the back of his throat.

  Her silhouette moved across the rectangle of sunshine on the living-room floor. Eventually, she emerged, her glass still empty. With the early evening light throwing her face into shadow, her eyes were obsidian. Her voice was so cold, Rolf pressed himself into the sofa.

  “Such a naïf. It is no surprise you cannot see what’s going on under your nose. You see, Rudolf, in the theatre, an orchestra performs in a pit. Which is exactly where you are, stuck in a pit with vicious predators intent on exploitation. Once they’ve had their fun, they will toss you aside. I’m working day and night to promote your career, keeping you out of trouble and planning our next steps. Like any manager, I take every aspect of my client’s welfare seriously. Some decisions you might not like but you’re just going to have to trust me. We are playing the long game. Talking of sacrifices, what goes around comes around. I have a meeting in half an hour.” Her smile was cruel. “Time for you to defer your gratification and earn my respect. From now on, I am nothing more than your agent. You will sleep in the spare room.”

  13

  One thing was crystal clear when Rolf awoke the next morning and the fear of losing Leonor hit him like a slap in the face. With self-imposed blinkers, he’d focused on the freedom he enjoyed with Anton, spiced with the excitement of the forbidden. It was a delusional bubble, tainting his vision and muddying his judgement. His relationship with Leonor had somehow reduced itself to lust, lies and a battle over control. That was all. He had mistaken gratitude and admiration for love. Yet now, when there was a risk of losing it all, the deepest of all his feelings overtook him. How could he have forgotten their history? How could he have risked it all? He refused to believe her rejection. She had to be lying, trying to find a way of hurting him, undermining his confidence while chaining him to her side. He didn’t understand half her cryptic allusions, but he recognised that look in her eyes. She was moving in for the kill – but just like Blue, she would hav
e her fun first. He had to stop it before the frenzy started. It was time to repair their dysfunctional relationship.

  Just not right now. First he had to make things right.

  Tonight, he would attend Anton’s lesson with the twins. He would praise their talent, and after they’d gone he would tell Anton he’d made a mistake. Whatever madness had overtaken him was over. Friends and quartet colleagues from now on, nothing more. When Leonor came home, they would have a realistic conversation and take some practical decisions about the way they treated each other. It was time to start again. They had to stop playing games and be honest. Up to a point. Confessing what had happened with Anton was unnecessary when it was all over. The truth would only enrage her.

  The clock on his phone showed quarter past six. He didn’t need to be up for another two hours, but until he could implement his strategy he had to avoid seeing Leonor. He got up, showered, took his cello and left the building. He could have gone to work, because the Konzerthalle was open from seven o’clock, but he decided to make the most of the dewy morning and the vibrant birdsong. The park where he had eaten his lunch amid the buskers was almost empty, save for a few joggers and a couple practising tai chi. He set up his cello on a bench and began playing Fauré’s Après un Rêve, a heartbreaking expression of love lost forever. His concentration was entirely on his instrument, his fingers vibrating on the neck and the movement of his bow across the strings. Eyes closed, he swayed in time with the music as it built to its crescendo. Soprano voices provided by wild birds accompanied the cello’s alto tone, while percussion was the susurration of wind through the trees.

  With a sense of being in tune with nature, Rolf opened his eyes to see the tai chi couple had been joined by another ten people, all moving in time with his playing. An unexpected audience would normally have disconcerted him but in this case he found it energising. He continued to play, trying to add some beauty to the morning. Once he’d finished, the group applauded and he rested his bow on his lap so that he could applaud them in return. The moment, so unexpected and uplifting, gave him sustenance and enabled him to face the day ahead.