Appassionata

found half an hour to administer so much unpolitical correction to Hermione that she could hardly sit down.

Marcus’s supporters gazed at her stonily.

‘I thought it was jolly funny,’ snorted Dame Edith, blowing cigar smoke in Hermione’s pained face. ‘Rannaldini tried to scupper Marcus, and the boy rose magnificently to the occasion, just like his father always did. Boy’s a genius, and brave as a lion, nothing more to be said.’

Lady Appleton, however, had a lot more: the reputation of the competition was at stake.

‘Can one rely on Marcus to perform all those concerts?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Oh well, if you’re going for the safe candidate,’ boomed Edith, ‘we might as well settle on the American and go and get blotto.’

Jennifer, sitting in the next armchair, her mouth full of crisps, wagged in agreement.

The jury, however, bridled. They’d all read a piece in the Daily Telegraph by Norman Lebrecht last Monday which accused today’s juries of rejecting genius, passion and true individuality in favour of reliability and predictability.

‘Marcus ’as a voice all his own, a radiance beyond the notes,’ sighed Pablo. ‘What emotion, what power, what eenocence, what wiseness, what love.’

‘He had a memory lapse,’ repeated the Chinese judge, who was busy rewriting the chapter on the Schumann concerto on his laptop.

‘I still think Natalia has the — ouch!’ screamed Dame Hermione, as Ernesto surreptitiously pinched her on her pained bottom. ‘Just a twinge of neuralgia,’ she added hastily.

‘I shall resign if Marcus doesn’t ween,’ said Boris, taking his hand out of Deirdre’s, and speaking for the first time.

‘I, too,’ said Pablo.

‘And I shall resign if he does,’ said Rannaldini, sweeping in in such icy rage that everyone wilted. The ladies, who’d dog-paddled with him in the deep end, felt their resolve weakening.

‘We cannot let soloist deectate,’ hissed Rannaldini. ‘We must eradicate thees kind of hooliganism. I geeve heem every courtesy, every encouragement, see what he does in the middle movement, see ’Ow he reject my proffered hand? Never ’ave I been treated like that. It is all part of grudge match,’ he went on. ‘Marcus’s father ’ate me for marrying his ex-wife. The boy worsheep his mother — like many homosexuals he is wildly jealous of anyone she love. He is seek, he is unbalanced.’

‘Marcus is unbalanced?’ said Boris in amazement.

No-one dared laugh. Rannaldini’s rage was so controlled, yet so venomous.

How could I have let that man take over my orchestra? thought Dame Edith in horror.

‘Marcus is seek in body, too,’ went on Rannaldini. ‘Constantly ’e pull out of concert at the last moment because of asthma.’

‘We certainly must have a healthy candidate,’ said a worried Lady Appleton, ‘with all those wonderful engagements lined up.’

‘Under that kind of pressure, he will crack,’ said Rannaldini dismissively. ‘You see him go to pieces in the first movement. How boring he play Waldstein in early round. You make terrible mistake.’

Pablo Gonzalez could see the jury sliding away from him.

‘Marcus was zee most chivalrous accompanist,’ he pleaded. ‘Whenever the orchestra ’ave big solo, he just drop gently out of the limelight, that seem balanced to me. He get up from his deathbed, and all that scandal with Nemerovsky.’

‘I agree with Pablo. I never see finer example of grace under pressure,’ said the burly Ukrainian stubbornly.

‘Yes, I thought you found him attractive,’ said Rannaldini bitchily. ‘I saw you having a clandestine dreenk with him the other night.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Lady Appleton glanced at the clock. ‘The news will be over in a minute or two, we must vote.’

There was a knock on the door of Marcus’s dressing-room. Outside stood a grey-faced piano tuner.

‘We’re busy,’ snapped Rupert.

‘I must have a private word with Mr Black,’ then, as Marcus went outside with him, the tuner stammered: ‘I know it’s too late to change anything, but I’ve got to tell you what I did to the piano on Wednesday.’

He then explained how he had slid a ball-bearing on top of the two concealed blocks of wood at the bass end of the keyboard, which divide when the soft pedal is pressed.

‘The ball-bearing just slipped down between the blocks, holding them apart,’ mumbled the tuner, ‘jamming the soft pedal for the rest of the Waldstein. When they called me back because you’d kicked up a fuss, all I had to do was roll out the ball-bearing with a long screwdriver when no-one was looking.’

‘How very ingenious,’ said Marcus, fascinated. ‘I couldn’t think what had happened. Could you do it to Benny next time?’

The piano tuner was shattered.

‘I can’t believe you’re taking it like this,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you who bribed me, but I’m going to pay back every penny of the money.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ advised Marcus. ‘Rannaldini can afford it. Thanks for telling me.’

Marcus couldn’t be bothered to say anything when he went back to his dressing-room. The whole confession had been a welcome interruption. He had been interviewed by the frightful James Vereker and now found the strain of waiting in a crowded dressing-room intolerable. People, including half of the orchestra, seemed to have poured in to congratulate him and drink Rupert’s drink.

A still furious Howie, and a still tearful Helen, who’d been bawled out by a foaming Rannaldini and banished from the conductor’s room, were the only dissenting voices.

Seeing Marcus whitening near to death, the shadows deepening under his eyes, Rupert kicked everyone out.

‘You OK?’

Marcus nodded. ‘It’s crazy. On the drive here, all that mattered was that I got through it,’ he blushed. ‘Now I seriously want to win.’

‘That’s my boy, you’re learning.’

‘Course you’ll win, you’re a star now,’ said Taggie.

Suddenly Marcus remembered Alexei warning him that stars could never belong to each other, that the true artist could only belong to the world, and the pain came roaring back. What did winning matter without Alexei? There was a knock on the door.

Chrissie had put on some crimson lipstick to match her turkey legs.

‘Ready, Martin? They are going to tell you the results beforehand in the green room.’

Rupert got to his feet, and straightened Marcus’s tie again. Taggie brushed down his tail-coat.

‘Good luck,’ said Helen in a tight, trembling voice. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘By the way,’ murmured Rupert, then waiting till Helen had left, he drew a cellophane box containing a white flower out from behind the curtain. The envelope attached to it had been opened.

‘Someone chucked this in the bin.’ He handed the box to Marcus.

Ripping it open, Marcus nearly fainted, as he breathed in the sweet apple smell of philadelphus, instantly bringing back that baking hot June afternoon. There were only two lines on the card.

‘I was wrong. With love all is possible. I am very jealous of the world. Alexei.’

Seeing the incredulous joy on the boy’s face, Rupert removed the carnation from Marcus’s buttonhole and replaced it with the philadelphus.

‘Come on, Martin,’ grumbled Chrissie. ‘We can’t keep the Princess waiting. Although Lady Appleton will have told you the order beforehand do try not to show your disappointment when you file onto the platform as it spoils it for the audience. Anyway,’ she added, seeing Marcus’s face fall, ‘you’re way ahead in the NTV viewers’ poll.’

As he walked into the Green Room, Anatole greeted him in ecstasy.

‘I ween pub competition, I ween thees,’ he brandished a huge beer mug. ‘Knees up Muzzer Brown.’ He did a little dance.