Appassionata

Later that evening, Marcus endured a half-hour moan about bills from a restless, sobered-up Helen. He then pointed to Nielsen’s Flute Concerto and Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony lying on the piano.

‘If we’re that broke, why are you buying that bastard’s records?’

Startled, because Marcus was normally so tolerant, hoping Mrs Edwards wouldn’t drop her in it, Helen tried a grey lie.

‘Rannaldini wrote me a delightful letter, admiring Malise’s flute book and sent me the Nielsen and the Mahler because he thought I needed cheering up.’ Helen gave a deep sigh.

‘Sure, Mum, Rannaldini’s still a fiend. He wiped out Flora and he crucified poor Kitty. You ask Lysander.’

‘Lysander stole Rannaldini’s wife,’ said Helen furiously.

‘Because Rannaldini was so unfaithful to her. He’s randier than Dad’s Jack Russells.’ Then, as Helen winced, added, ‘Small man syndrome. Although for a small man he casts a long shadow, and he’s got a repulsive black- leather-clad henchman called Clive, who takes women off the bone for him.’

Helen shuddered.

‘Why does he dislike Boris so much? I read it somewhere,’ she added hastily.

‘Boris is taller,’ said Marcus, ‘and a million times more talented. Rannaldini only admires musicians who are dead.’

‘This article said he could be nice.’

‘Only because it’s such bliss when the electrodes stop.’

FOURTEEN

Helen was appalled. The last thing she wanted was another promiscuous sadist. When Rannaldini called, she’d just refuse politely. But Rannaldini did not call. Expert at fostering addiction, he knew exactly how to give a blue glimpse of Paradise before slamming the skylight shut. Whizzing off abroad, he left Helen to stew for a fortnight until she was diving for the telephone, snatching letters from the postman and scanning the pallid November skies praying one of the circling rooks would grow into a big black helicopter.

Then, on the morning of the opening night, when she had abandoned all hope, Rannaldini rang blithely from Prague.

‘I hope you are coming; a messenger will drop tickets for plane and for Don Giovanni within the hour. Clive will meet you at Prague. I book you into charming discreet hotel, L’Esplanade.’

‘I didn’t know I was expected,’ Helen’s voice scraped down a blackboard of indignation. ‘I can’t make it at such short notice.’

‘I didn’t want to pressure you,’ confessed Rannaldini. ‘An I wasn’t sure of production, but eet come good.’ Then, after a long pause, he whispered, ‘I need you, Helen.’

As Helen arrived at Heathrow, a defiant red sun leaving the western sky aflame had just been sucked below the dark horizon like Don Giovanni.

Never had Helen been less prepared for a trip; normally every local legend would have been memorized, every fine church charted. In anticipation of their own proposed trip, Malise had bought her a guide book to Prague. But she had been too superstitious to open it and once she was on the plane she couldn’t take in a word. She kept panicking about things, including her wits, she had left behind.

To avoid the Bourbon-breathed attentions of a businessman with hairy nostrils in the next seat, she accepted a copy of The Times from the hostess, only to find among the birthdays that international conductor, Rannaldini, was forty-four today — on the cusp of Scorpio and Sagittarius, those two most volatile and darkly virile signs. Rannaldini must want to share his birthday with her and she had brought no present except a first edition of Malise’s book on the flute. How awful.

Although fog symbolizing her confusion delayed the plane by nearly two hours, Rannaldini’s Leporello, the sinister Clive, his light eyes as unblinking and expressionless as a cobra’s, was still waiting. Helen kept as far away from his lean leather-clad body as her seatbelt would allow. She was so thin now, there would be nothing for him to take off the bone.

She was far too uptight to be more than fleetingly aware of empty, ill-lit restaurants, floodlit fortresses and spires, a gleaming river and overcrowded unkempt trees, trying to escape over park railings.

As the Czechs had only recently had mass access to cars, the driving was hair-raising. Clive swore under his breath as somehow avoiding head-on collisions he hurtled Rannaldini’s black Mercedes down the narrowest of streets, rattling over the cobbles as if he would bang the heads of the tall lowering houses together.

The hotel, as Rannaldini predicted, was charming, with a crescent of smiling receptionists.

‘Take your time, we’ve missed the first act,’ Clive called after her, as an ancient, knowing porter drove the rickety tram of a lift up to the fifth floor.

Seeing her pinched, twitching reflection in the lift mirror, Helen was overwhelmed with longing for Malise; he’d always thought she looked beautiful and would have known exactly how many kopeks to tip the porter.

The next moment she was gasping with joy for her entire room was filled with different coloured freesias, embracing her in their sweet heady scent. Beside a blue glass bowl spilling over with persimmons, peaches and passion-fruit was a bottle of Krug on ice and the bathroom was full of soap and bottles containing every permutation of Balmain’s Jolie Madame. How darling of Rannaldini to have realized it was her favourite perfume.

More magical still, on the drab beige bedspread lay a long crushed velvet dress in the same soft umber as the drenched ash wand he had picked up in the wood. On the dressing-table was a red leather case from Cartier’s and a letter.

My darling,

The dress is to go with your beech-leaf hair. In box is small present to echo the stars I will put back in your eyes.

In hope,

Rannaldini.

Collapsing on the bed so hard it nearly broke her back, Helen opened the box. Inside glittered a diamond necklace. The dress was wonderfully becoming, the high neck and long sleeves concealed her jutting collar bones and refugee arms. The ribbed clinging velvet made her look saluki-slender. But what would happen when Rannaldini undressed her and found the skeleton beneath the skin? And how could she not sleep with him after accepting these gifts? She wouldn’t mind so much if her bottom hadn’t dropped and if she didn’t feel so leaden-limbed and out of practice. What would happen if she froze inside as she had done so often with Rupert?

The clasp of the diamonds nearly defeated her shaking hands. She was going home. The telephone rang. Oh, why wasn’t it Malise?

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ lisped Clive’s voice.

As Helen came out of the lift, he was singing to himself.

‘Where’s my master, Don Giovanni?

Making love to youth and beauty

While I stay on sentry duty.’

But there was no admiration in his face. He preferred the more butch male singers from the chorus.

It had been the worst pre-opening week he could remember, he told Helen on the drive to the theatre, Rannaldini’s clashes with singers and orchestra had been epic.

‘Musicians here are used to working for the state and having the same job for life, so it doesn’t matter if they learn the parts or arrive on time. They’re very bolshy. All the singers were in tears at the dress rehearsal. Donna Anna said first-night nerves were a doddle compared with Rannaldini’s rages.’