Питер Ловси - The Tooth Tattoo

Eleven-thirty at night, sweaty in his evening suit and shattered after a heavy night playing Rachmaninov, Mel Farran plodded out of the artists’ exit on the south side of the Royal Festival Hall. Good thing his legs didn’t need telling the way to Waterloo station and the tube. He’d done it a thousand times. Rachmaninov was said to be the ultimate romantic — miserable old git. The six foot scowl, as Stravinsky called him, had been a pianist through and through. He worked the string section like galley slaves to show off the joanna man, and Mel Farran was a viola-player, so thank you, Sergei.

The moon was up, spreading the shadow of Hungerford Bridge across the paved square called Beacon Market Place.

He was forced to stop. A young woman was blocking his path, one of those situations where each takes a sideways step the same way. It happened twice and they were still face to face.

She said, ‘Do you mind?’

Mel took it as a statement of annoyance. He was annoyed, too, wanting to move on, but what’s to be gained from complaining?

Then she surprised him by saying, ‘Please.’

How dense am I, he thought, not realising she always intended to stop me. Something glossy and flimsy was being waved under his nose. The concert programme. She was holding a pen in the other hand.

Mel forced himself out of his stupor. She wants my autograph, for God’s sake. She can’t have confused me with the pianist, else why does she think I’m carrying an instrument case?

Quick impression: she was the typical music student, bright-eyed, intense, dark hair in a bunch tied with red velvet. It wasn’t all that long since Mel had gone through college himself, passionate about all things musical. He’d queued through the night for the proms, cut back on cigarettes to buy the latest Nigel Kennedy, busked in Covent Garden to pay for a trip to Bayreuth. But he’d never understood the point of collecting autographs, still less the autographs of mere orchestra members.

She pleaded with her eyes. Almond eyes. Nothing remarkable in that. Every college has a large quota of students from the Far East.

He succumbed. ‘Are you sure it’s me you want?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’m only one of the orchestra.’

‘Principal viola. You were wonderful.’

‘Get away.’

‘Truly.’

Well.

Maybe I was, he told himself, and his self-esteem got a lift. I’m good at what I do and some people appreciate my playing, even when ninety-nine percent are there to hear the pianist. This well-informed young lady knows who I am, so I’d better sign and be on my way.

He tucked the fiddle under his arm to free his hands. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Tokyo. Have you been there?’

He shook his head. ‘One day, maybe. Just my signature?’

‘Whatever you want to write.’

That was a facer. At the end of a long concert he couldn’t think of two words together. ‘May I make it personal and put your name?’

Instead of the gasp of pleasure he was expecting, she curled her lip.

He was thrown. Had he said something wrong?

She gave a laugh — a throaty, mocking laugh, meant to hurt — and took a step back. ‘You don’t know who I am, dumbo.’

At the same time Mel felt a sharp, strong tug from behind. He flexed his arm. Too late. His viola had been snatched.

He swung round in time to see a young guy on a bike in baseball cap, T-shirt and jeans pedalling away across the square. He was riding one-handed with Mel’s instrument case in his free hand. It was a set-up. He must have sneaked up behind while Mel — shit-for-brains — was being soft-soaped by the girl. He’d been mugged.

Life was unthinkable without that viola. It wasn’t a Strad. It was not particularly valuable, not even old in instrument-making terms, but it was Mel’s voice, his art, his constant companion, his living. You’d need to be a professional musician to understand how he felt.

Hell, he decided, I won’t allow this.

He was no athlete, but he started running. Later he realised he should have chased the girl, who was clearly the accomplice. She would have been easier to catch than a bloke on a bike. Instead all of Mel’s focus was on his viola and the thief himself, fast escaping along the side of the Festival Hall.

The concert audience had long since dispersed. At that time of night people were keen to get away. The great palaces of culture along the South Bank are locked, impenetrable, but all around — for those who know — are places of refuge, arches, stairwells and underpasses. The whole area becomes a haven for dossers and derelicts.

Mel doubted that the thief was a down-and-out. For one thing, he’d grabbed the fiddle, not his wallet. For another, he was working with the girl, who looked and sounded Royal College of Music. And he was on an expensive-looking bike.

Spurred by a degree of anger he didn’t know he possessed, Mel kept up the chase. The thief was faster, but one thing was in Mel’s favour: they’d turned left towards the Thames and he couldn’t cycle across.

No use shouting. There wasn’t anyone else in sight. Taking increasingly shallow gasps, Mel sprinted the length of the building as well as he could, resolved to get the thief in sight again. He turned the corner by the main entrance, already in darkness.

The guy was there, up ahead.

Mel’s legs were heavier with each stride and a band of pain was tightening across his chest. He was slowing, for all his strength of will. The buildings were a blur when he started. Now he could see them clearly.

But the thief would have a problem. The riverside walkway was at a higher level and a set of about a dozen steps formed a barrier ahead of him. He’d need to dismount. It wouldn’t be easy carrying both bike and viola up there.

Mel urged himself into another spurt.

He was running in the space between the front of the Festival Hall and the side of the Queen Elizabeth Hall. No one was around to help. It’s me and him, Mel thought. If I keep going I may catch up before he gets up those steps.

The guy’s head turned, checking, Mel guessed, whether he was still in pursuit.

Then he surprised Mel by veering to the right just before the steps, straight towards the QEH. What was he doing? Mel had been assuming the high wall was solid concrete like the rest of the building.

He appeared to cycle straight through and vanish.

Disbelieving, in despair, at the limit of his strength, Mel staggered along the remaining stretch and discovered how it had been done. There was a hidden ramp just before the steps, obviously meant for wheelchair access. The thief must have skimmed up there without breaking a sweat.

Suddenly he was back in view on the walkway, pedalling across Mel’s line of vision as if to mock him. But he stopped just to the right of the gated entrance to the Festival Pier, still astride the bike, with his feet on the ground.

He was up against the railing by the water’s edge. He swung the viola case back to get momentum. Jesus Christ, Mel thought, he’s about to throw it over.

‘No!’ he yelled. ‘For God’s sake, no.’

He was powerless to stop it. The thief couldn’t hear him this far off.

There was a freeze-frame moment as if he was having second thoughts. Then Mel’s precious fiddle was hurled over the edge.

Water is the worst enemy. No stringed instrument will survive immersion. The canvas case wasn’t waterproof. It would fill with filthy water. Whether it floated or got dragged down was immaterial.

To Mel, what had just happened was akin to murder. Anyone who has listened to music, who has heard a violin or a viola sing, must know it has life. It’s a unique individual with the power to speak directly to the soul, to calm, heal, inspire, uplift the spirit in ways beyond man’s capability. Mel would defy anyone not to respond to the purity of legato bowing, the eloquence of the flowing tone. Each instrument has its own voice.