Appassionata

‘She’s pissed, and Boris has been getting too much attention recently. Leave her,’ said Flora.

‘I cheer her up,’ Boris went towards the french windows.

‘I think you should have a bath first,’ said Flora, ‘I don’t believe you’ve touched a bar of soap for a fortnight.’

Putting the kettle on, Marcus realized he hadn’t eaten all day. There didn’t seem any point starting. When he took out a cup of coffee to Abby in the garden, all the daisies that had shrivelled on the parched yellow lawn seemed to have sprung up in the star-covered sky. Boris was sitting on the old white bench under the greengage tree with his arm round Abby.

‘You must guest more,’ he was telling her. ‘When I conduct the London Met or the New World, the musicians adore me because they ’ate Rannaldini so much. Don’t cry, my darling, I vill dedicate Requiem to you.’

THIRTY-FOUR

Boris had cracked the Requiem, now, as Flora said, he had only to ‘add the rough edges’. The next morning, having bathed at length and washed his hair in Marcus’s shampoo, and put on yet another pair of Marcus’s boxer shorts, he took the draft into the garden, looking handsomer than most dawns as he sat in a deck-chair eating dried apricots.

All great artists sacrifice the emotions and lives of those around them to further the interests of their art. In a mood to be expansive, Boris realized he had pushed Marcus too far.

‘You are sad.’

‘I’m OK. I wish my father would forgive me and I could see Taggie and Tab and the kids again. I wish my mother wasn’t married to that shit Rannaldini and I wish my career wasn’t going backwards.’

Boris’s face softened. ‘I will write a very good piano part into the Requiem.’

‘Not much point. I was so rude to Old Mother Parker, George Hungerford’ll never let me over the RSO threshold again.’

‘Markie.’ It was Abby calling from the kitchen, looking radiant in a new scarlet bikini. She had also washed her hair and was reeking of Amarige. ‘I can’t open this jar of coffee,’ She said as Marcus went inside. ‘My grip still isn’t right. Isn’t it a beautiful day?’

‘Forecast says rain,’ Marcus said, handing back the jar. Out of the window, he could see huge white clouds gleaming like arctic cliffs in the sunshine, banking up beyond the wood. ‘God, we could use it.’

‘Oh, Markie,’ suddenly Abby looked wildly excited, ‘d’you think Boris fancies me?’

It was the question he’d been dreading.

‘I’m sure.’

‘Oh, darling Markie,’ Abby hugged him, giving him the cruel benefit of her hot scented, nearly naked body. ‘You’re the little brother I never had.’

Hearing the post-van rattling over the dry stones up the lane, Marcus had an excuse to wriggle free before she felt the frantic hammering of his heart.

He was absurdly pleased to get a letter from the musical society in Lancashire.

Dear Mr Black,

Yours was the first concert our society has ever had. We all enjoyed it very much indeed. We would like to thank you, and take the opportunity of booking you again next year.

Boris had a letter from Astrid.

‘I haven’t ring her since Vendesday because of vork,’ said Boris mortified. ‘I vill ring her once I get to end of “Sanctus”, at least I can pay her now.’

Abby’s good mood evaporated when she read a postcard with a photograph of a donkey on the back which had arrived from Viking to Flora, saying how much he was looking forward to seeing her, and that he hoped L’Appassionata had recovered from her strop.

Conscious of a froideur despite the heat, Flora decided to make herself scarce. She was fed up with copying black dots. She wanted to buy a new dress and get her hair cut, and tried to persuade Marcus to go into Rutminster with her.

‘I ought to practise.’

‘And there’s still a mass of copying to do,’ protested Boris.

‘Can I borrow your car, Marcus?’ said Flora.

Left alone with Abby and Boris, Marcus felt increasingly claustrophobic as Abby, stretched out on the grass in her bikini and pretended to make notes on the huge score of Brahms’ Second Symphony.

Boris, flat stomached and lean hipped now he’d lost so much weight, his sallow skin turning a smooth dark brown, pretended to orchestrate the ‘Sanctus’.

He’s absolutely gorgeous, Abby gazed at Boris through splayed fingers. It was lovely that he was dedicating the Requiem to her. Imagine her biog: Not only was Abigail Rosen the Paganini and the Toscanini of her age, but also Boris Levitsky’s Immortal Beloved. Rodney’s caresses had made her aware of how desperately she needed a man.

‘Sheet, I ’ave run out of manuscript paper,’ Boris glanced down at the laboriously copying Marcus. ‘You got any more?’

‘This is my last page.’

‘And Flora’s taken the car,’ wailed Abby.

‘I wonder who’s got some?’

‘Certainly not the Celtic Mafia,’ said Abby with a sniff, then exchanging a languorous eye-meet with Boris, volunteered, ‘I’ll call Old Henry.’

Marcus was passionately relieved to escape. The bus-stop was only half a mile away if he took a short cut through the woods. Twenty yards down the track, he turned round to find Abby hovering at the gate. ‘Just wanted to check you’ve got your inhaler,’ she had the grace to blush. ‘Please take it slowly.’

Just to make sure I’ve really gone, thought Marcus bitterly.

I must ring Astrid, thought Boris, as he put down the orchestrated ‘Sanctus’. But, on his way to the house, he passed Abby, poring over Lionel’s impossibly difficult violin solo which Marcus had just copied out and left on the garden bench.

‘God, this is wonderful — if only I could play it.’

‘You vill,’ said Boris, ‘I used to be a teacher, I taught Marcus, I vill help you to play again.

‘You take the bow in this hand.’ Boris kissed her fingers. ‘You take the violin in this one.’ He picked up her left hand, examining the palm. ‘Such a strong fate line, so much passion.’ Slowly he ran his tongue along her heart line.

Abby shivered with excitement, not least because she’d got all the feeling back.

She and Boris were exactly the same height. For a second he gazed at her, then buried his lips in her scented neck below the left jawbone.

‘This ees where you put your violin,’ he whispered, ‘I weel make you bettair.’

As he kissed her lips, he was enchanted by the wild enthusiasm of her response.

Rain brought back the wild flowers, the butterflies and Viking O’Neill to Rutminster. He had enjoyed his time in Dublin. He had recorded the Strauss Horn Concertos, played chamber music, romped with his numerous nephews and nieces, gossiped to his mother until four in the morning, looked up old girlfriends and drinking pals. He had also acquired a second-hand BMW convertible into which he had transferred the Don Juan horn call.

But by the end of three and a half weeks he had had enough. He lusted after Flora, about whom he’d had a lovely erotic dream last night, but which had faded like a rainbow when he tried to retain it. And then there was