Питер Ловси - The Tooth Tattoo

‘They’ll understand,’ Dolores said. ‘Everything I’ve heard about string quartets and the way they work suggests that there’s debate going on all the time in rehearsal. And sometimes in performance. I don’t need to tell you this. You’ve played in ensembles.’

‘Filling in isn’t the same as taking over for someone who has left,’ Mel said. ‘The two people I’ve met are formidable characters in their different ways. They’re not going to give me an easy ride.’

‘Would you want one?’

‘An easy ride?’ He smiled. ‘Of course not.’

Then his phone beeped.

‘D’you mind if I take this?’

‘Feel free.’

‘Mr. Farran?’ Mel tensed. The voice was Ivan’s, the same Beechamesque tone as if he was speaking to an audience. ‘We spoke before, about the quartet.’

‘Yes.’

‘We’d like to arrange an opportunity for you to play with us.’

‘In concert?’

‘No, in more of a soirée situation, a private house, with the three of us and possibly our manager.’

‘Where is this?’

‘We will send a car, as before. Would next Sunday afternoon suit you?’

‘I suppose.’ His brain was racing. He almost forgot to ask the basic question: ‘What are we playing?’

‘Are you familiar with Beethoven’s Opus 131?’

He took a deep breath. The Quartet in C sharp minor is one of the most challenging in the repertoire, a forty minute masterpiece. He’d have five days to prepare. ‘I wouldn’t say familiar. I’ve played it.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ Ivan said. ‘Be sure to bring your best instrument. We need to hear the sound.’

‘Is this an audition, then?’

‘Don’t think of it as such. Treat it as an afternoon of making music . The car will pick you up at two. Do you eat smoked salmon?’

‘When I get the chance, yes.’

‘We’ll have some for tea. Oh, and there’s no need to dress up this time. Come in your weekend attire, whatever that may be.’ This was Ivan at his most human. Apparently deciding he’d gone overboard, he abruptly ended the call.

‘I’m about to find out if this is genuine,’ Mel told Dolores. ‘Sunday afternoon, Beethoven Opus 131. In at the deep end.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Think of it as—’

‘An afternoon of making music?’

‘Exactly.’

An afternoon of making music?

Some chance.

Mel wasn’t treating this lightly. He was about to be put to the test. Each waking hour must be devoted to preparing the piece, learning the seven movements passage by passage in readiness to respond to the other instruments, letting the viola speak, sing, inspire, transform, in harmony with the rest. And of course the difficulty was not being able to predict how the others would interpret their parts. The preparation you can do in isolation is limited.

For encouragement he kept telling himself that this wouldn’t be a memory test like a solo performance. Quartet-playing is almost always from the sheet. They’d have the score in front of them with the composer’s markings.

Opus 131 is said to have been Beethoven’s favourite of all his string quartets. It is also said to be the ultimate in difficulty, in places almost beyond comprehension. Enough to make a nervous player take up drumming.

Yet more than once Mel had filled in for a quartet when the violist had become ill between final rehearsal and concert. He’d gone in cold and performed well enough to get through. Nobody had thrown anything.

Surely these people would make allowance.

Or would they? Ivan was the sort who expected perfection, gritting his teeth at anything less. Cat would treat any false note as hilarious. Hard to say which would be less mortifying. The great unknown was the mysterious third member, the second violin, who hadn’t shown any interest yet. Mel tried to put all three out of his mind and steep himself in the work, but he knew in his heart that the personalities in a quartet are fundamental to its performance.

By Saturday he was up with the piece, as well prepared as anyone could expect to be. Sunday morning he went through it twice without fluffing a note. He drank a large black espresso, packed the instrument in its case and started looking out of the window for the black Mercedes.

But it never arrived.

Instead, around ten past two, a red convertible with the roof down rattled the Fingis Street window frames. The driver — not the man he’d met before — got out, gave the house a long look and decided against all appearance to the contrary it must be correct.

Mel saved him the trouble of ringing the doorbell. ‘It’s me you’re picking up, I think. Mel Farran.’

‘Good man. Set to go, then?’ There was none of the deference of the previous chauffeur. This guy looked and behaved as if he owned the Aston Martin. ‘I’m Doug, of Douglas Christmas Management.’

Pause for thought. ‘You manage the quartet?’

‘Try to — on their more agreeable days. Hop in. We’re running late.’

‘I need my instrument.’

The driver flashed his whitened teeth. ‘Of course.’ He took a key from his pocket, pointed it at the car and the boot lid opened.

‘Thanks,’ Mel said, ‘but I’d rather keep it by me.’

‘You fiddle players are all the same. Treat them like newborn babies.’

They left Fingis Street behind, roaring through West London, the sound exaggerated by the roof being down. Mel kept the case containing his baby between his knees, deciding this gave more protection in case of a collision. Conversation would have been difficult anyway, and was rendered impossible by rock music at high volume. Doug wasn’t a Radio Three man.

Somewhere west of Acton they joined the North Circular and stayed with it as far as Friern Barnet, at which point Mel gave up trying to track the route. Soon they were travelling into an area lush with greenery and golf courses. A right turn, a private road, an electronic gate and they moved up a red-tiled drive and stopped outside a residence like the backdrop to a Gainsborough portrait. Mel shed all doubts about the quartet earning six-figure salaries.

‘Whose place is this?’ he asked when the engine was switched off.

‘Mine, actually. The talent, as I call them, will tell you I’m an extortionist, but that’s their little game. In my position you have to have a reasonable lifestyle or people don’t believe you’re good at what you do.’

‘Is this where we’re playing?’ All week he’d pictured four upright chairs in someone’s living room with the other furniture pushed to the walls.

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Are the others inside?’

‘And getting stroppy by now.’ Doug marched to the front door, opened it and shouted, ‘We made it, musos.’

Mel followed, his knuckles turning white around the handle of his viola case.

The Georgian front of the house was no preparation for the interior, an open-plan conversion, a monument to the possibilities of the rolled steel joist, with several stone pillars where solid walls once stood. The spaces were defined in a conventional way, dining area, kitchen, office, library and a couple of lounges. At the far end three people waited, already seated with stands in front of them in what was evidently the music space. A fourth chair had been put out for the newcomer. Mel spotted Cat first, not unlike Britannia on an old penny coin, her cello leaning against her thigh. She raised her bow.

‘Glad you made it, kiddo.’

Ivan was opposite her, checking his watch. His weekend casuals were a three-piece suit and striped tie.

‘My fault we’re a trifle late,’ Doug said. ‘Couldn’t find the street and ended up on the Hammersmith Flyover.’