Rannaldini was in Rome, she went on, expected back tomorrow. How was Marcus’s asthma? She rattled out the questions. Was he practising too little? Too much? Had he heard whether he’d qualified for the Appleton? She didn’t listen to any of his answers.
She sounded uptight when Marcus said Flora was away, then relieved when he added that she and Trevor were staying with her parents. Was Helen frightened of all Rannaldini’s exes? wondered Marcus, as he studied the Bartok, pencilling in reminders, as he listened to her.
Outside he could see Scriabin stalking a mouse, teetering along the fence, plumy tail aloft, like the sail of The Corsair’s pirate ship. Stealthily she crept towards him, on her velvet paws, thought Marcus.
He could bear it no longer. The moment Helen rang off he dialled the Ritz only to be told that Mr Nemerovsky had checked out, gone straight to Abby, no doubt. Marcus banged his burning forehead against the window- pane.
Work was the only salvation.
‘Always practise as though you were playing in front of an audience, even if it’s only the cat,’ Marcus remembered his old teacher’s words, so now he played for Scriabin, nearly breaking the keys in the fireworks of the last movement, working off his anguish until he was wringing wet. The sun had also appeared round the brow of the hill, blazing into his studio.
As he flung open the window, he could hear shouting and a time bomb tick. He must be hallucinating, for there, getting out of a taxi, smothered in the same grey wolf-coat that he had been wearing at the gala, was Alexei.
As he tore across the lawn into the darkness of the cottage, Marcus realized he had forgotten to put the branch of philadelphus in water. Brandishing it like a white hot, scented sword to defend himself, he opened the door.
‘I ’ave no money,’ said Alexei simply. ‘Can you pay the taxi? He will take cheque.’
‘I’ve got the cash,’ Marcus tried to curb his elation. ‘It’s only a fiver from the station.’
‘I come from the Reeetz.’
By the time Marcus had settled the bill, with a cheque which would probably bounce, Alexei had made himself at home, dipping chunks of brown bread into tara-masalata and pouring Abby’s vodka neat into two ice-filled glasses.
‘For you,’ Alexei chucked a little grey bag at Marcus, which clinked as he caught it. ‘Roubles for when you come to Moscow.’
Alexei tossed back one entire glass of vodka and handed the other to Marcus, who shook his head.
‘I’ve got to work. I’ve got a concert on Saturday. I don’t know the piece yet, anyway,’ he stammered, his blushing crimson cheeks clashing with his dark red hair, ‘Abby isn’t here.’
‘Of course, zat is vy I am here.’
Marcus’s heart was beating so fast, only Alexei’s flying feet could have kept up with it. Grabbing a rolling-pin, he bashed the stem of the philadelphus ferociously, before ramming it into a pale green Wedgwood jug. The heady sweet scent was overpowering.
‘I ought to work,’ he said obstinately.
‘I ought to walk,’ mocked Alexei. ‘I need country air in my lungs.’
He refused to remove his wolf-coat.
‘In Eengland, I am always cold.’
Outside, the sun highlighted his night-owl pallor, the flecks of grey in the thick straight black hair.
Last evening’s eye-liner still ringed eyes that were just slits of amused malice beneath the heavy lids. A half-smile played over the rubber-tyre mouth. A cocksucker’s mouth, his father would call it, thought Marcus, Oh God, help me.
Alexei walked, as he danced, with a springy step leaning backwards, chin raised, head thrown back proudly, idly whistling tunes from
But Alexei was gazing at the mayflies endlessly dancing above the still dark water, making the most of their one day of life.
‘They are like me,’ observed Alexei bitterly, ‘you ’ave sixty, perhaps seventy more years to play the piano. I have ten to dance, eef I’m lucky. I’m not going to drag myself on like a wounded eagle like Rudi.’
‘You could always direct or teach.’
Alexei shrugged. ‘No more bravos, no more centre of attention.’
Reaching the end of the lake, they turned back up a rough track into the wood, going deeper and deeper until only the occasional sunbeam pierced the darkness, throwing ingots of gold light on the carpet of dark moss. It was wonderfully cool after the blazing heat. The birds were silent beneath their green-baize cloth of leaves. Marcus kept his distance.
‘What d’you call this ’ere?’ Alexei was shaking a great acid green shawl slung over the branch of a towering sycamore tree.
‘Old man’s beard,’ muttered Marcus. ‘Some people call it traveller’s joy.’
‘A nicer name, I am a traveller, who will bring you joy,’ announced Alexei, then, when Marcus didn’t respond, asked, ‘How ees anyone as beautiful as you so frightened, leetle Marcus? You should be enjoying your beauty. Brave boys like you should not be afraid of wolves,’ he added mockingly.
Marcus started, opened his mouth and shut it again. They had been joined by Mr Nugent and Mrs Diggory’s spaniel, who often escaped together on illicit hunting sprees.
Now the two dogs were crashing round trampling the last green seed-heads and yellow leaves of the wild garlic. The smell reminded Marcus of Taggie’s cooking and the gentle intimacy of long chats with her in the kitchen, until these had been ruined by the return of disdainful, disruptive Rupert, who was even jealous of a son he despised.
Once again Marcus thought how alike were Rupert and Alexei. Did all gays fall for men like their father?
Alexei walked very fast splashing through the puddles, while the dogs tiptoed round the edge. Marcus was getting breathless — he wished he’d remembered his inhaler.
‘You should take more exercise,’ said Alexei reprovingly.
‘I have asthma. It’s hard to breathe, the pollen and things.’
‘Foo to the pollen! Ees difficult to breathe because I am ’ere, and you know it.’ As Alexei raised his hand to touch Marcus’s cheek, the boy jumped away in panic, his eyes enormous.
Alexei laughed. ‘Just then a beeg grey wolf
‘I can’t, Alexei,’ gabbled Marcus, ‘I can’t do it to Abby, the last time a man cheated on her, she slashed her wrists.’
‘Hopefully she do eet proper theese time.’
‘Shut up, I love her; anyway I’ve got to marry and have kids, my father’s got to have an heir. I’ve let him down so much already being a wimp, being shit-scared of horses, being terrified of him, not even succeeding as a pianist.’
‘It would feenish him off altogether eef he knew you were in love with a ballet dancer, hey?’
In terror, Marcus gazed into the still but curiously speculative face.
‘Am I?’ he muttered. ‘I’m supposed to be marrying Abby.’
‘You will make her terribly unhappy.’
‘Oh Christ, are you sure?’
This time when Marcus tried to jump away, Alexei held onto his hand with a boa-constrictor grip, drawing him close.
‘No matter how ‘ard the wolf try to escape, he only pulled the rope round his tail tightair,’ he whispered in Marcus’s ear.
The path ahead was really churned up — like walking on turkey fat. Brambles clawed Marcus’s legs as if trying to hold him back. Twice he slipped, twice Alexei caught him.
Then Alexei halted, idly pulling aside the curtains of ivy hanging from the roots of a massive beech tree to reveal a little cave. Marcus had to duck his head as Alexei pulled him inside, down onto a bed of mossy yellow stone