Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

‘What sort of weakness, exactly?’ Solly asked, wondering about the tenors and if any of them had been friendly with the late George Millar.

‘Numbers. Always numbers. It is so hard to recruit sufficient for the balance of sound. They are not the professional Chorus, you know?’

Solly shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know. You mean you use an amateur choir in the Concert Hall?’

‘But of course. There are so few groups of singers who are professionals. Your own Scottish Opera is one, of course. Amateur, you use this word. It means only that the singers themselves are paid nothing. In all other ways they act as professionals, I assure you. And that is why we have these particular rehearsals at night, you see. The singers, they are mostly at work during the daytime.’

‘You mean the rehearsals for the Christmas Classics concert? I did wonder about that.’

‘You think it too early for the Christmas songs, eh?’ Poliakovski laughed. ‘Ah, but I am told to take the opportunities to rehearse with the Chorus. When the Concert Hall is free, you understand. That man, Mr Drummond, he is most insistent that the Orchestra is made available to his singers.’

Solly shrugged. He obviously had a lot to learn about the classical music world from the other side of the podium.

His thoughts were interrupted by the waiter bringing their supper and for the next hour Poliakovski refused to give himself up to anything other than the delights of the table. The Conductor was an excellent dinner companion, regaling Solly with anecdotes from his travels, many of which centred upon the gourmet high spots of Europe. He had seen all the major capitals of the world, apparently, and talked animatedly of his times in the Far East.

‘The Japanese are like us Russians. They take their music seriously. It is a question of nurture, Doctor,’ he said, raising a glass to his lips. As Solly inclined his head Poliakovski elaborated. ‘They take a child with genius and they protect him as they would an opening flower. I do not see so much of this here,’ he added, wiping his mouth with the white linen napkin. The psychologist saw something flare in the Russian’s eyes. That was good, he thought, to be passionate about the educational side of music. He could understand more than ever why Poliakovski commanded such respect.

‘Did George Millar share your views?’ he asked.

‘The Leader? How would I know? I scarcely spoke two words to the man.’ Poliakovski’s fingers closed on a piece of tablet and Solly watched as he popped it into his mouth and smiled. ‘Ah, these sweetmeats. They know how to make them, yes?’ The Conductor leant back, his voice deliberately raised to attract a waiter passing them by.

‘I’ll fetch some more, sir?’

‘Ah, good fellow,’ Poliakovski beamed as the waiter set off again. ‘You bring me to a splendid restaurant, Doctor. I thank you,’ Poliakovski lifted his glass in salute and drained the last of his Beaume de Venise.

Solly nodded, wondering just what the City of Glasgow Orchestra’s accountant would make of the Russian’s bed-and-board expenses.

Solomon glanced towards the main restaurant area as the doorman collected their coats. A melody from the Thirties wafted across the laughing heads seated around the darkened bar, reminding him of the bygone era that was encapsulated in this Art Deco jewel. For a moment he listened and watched, thinking how little humankind really changed from one age to the next. There would always be intrigues, romance and desire. It simply came in different packaging these days.

Solly grinned as he and Poliakovski stepped out into the night. There, as if to confirm his thoughts, a huddle of Goths stood around Royal Exchange Square swinging pumpkin lanterns. He laughed softly, causing his companion to follow his gaze. The Conductor raised his eyebrows and gave an exaggerated shrug.

‘They dress up to Trick or Treat?’

‘You know about Hallowe’en, then?’

‘Of course. Remember how well travelled I am, my friend. I see this often. Especially in the United States.’

‘Do they have Goths there too, then?’

Poliakovski frowned. ‘Goths?’

‘They’re not dressed up for Hallowe’en tonight. That’s how they always look,’ Solly laughed softly, stopping to regard the group more closely.

It was true. The boys and girls were clad in their usual blacks and reds, some of the girls with banded stockings, hair dyed black or shades of purple, variously spiked.

The studded dog collars were almost a ubiquitous element of their dress, another feature that caused Solly to smile. The psychology of group dress fascinated him. Here were youths who sought some individuality away from what they saw, no doubt, as the strictures of school uniform. Yet they had created such uniformity without realising it: that was what was so amazing, their lack of self-perception. Several of the girls carried a pumpkin lantern, jagged teeth and eyes hacked from the orange skin. old traditions died hard, though it had been smelly turnips singed by old bits of candle ends when he had been a boy. Their eyes shone with the same excitement, though. Some things never changed.

‘Children dressing up,’ he murmured to himself.

Poliakovski shot him a puzzled look then walked away from the scene, leaving Solomon no option but to follow his dinner companion through the stone archways. It was only a short walk from Cafe Rogano to Lang’s Hotel where Poliakovski was staying and so the two men set off along Buchanan Street. Glasgow Royal Concert Hall loomed large on the horizon, its video screen advertising events in neon pink and blue.

It was like a rock, solid and safe against the city’s swirling currents; people were out in party mood tonight, groups of revellers laughing after the office night out, their faces shining in the myriad lights spangling the trees that lined the street.

Solly thought about Derek Quentin-Jones and Edith Millar. How much more difficult it was to cope with grief in such a carnival atmosphere. And who else within the orchestra might still be grieving? That was something he might just try to find out.

Flynn sat up in bed slowly, the neck brace moving his head forward. He’d been asleep since lunchtime and the muscles across his shoulders still ached. Even to see out of the window Flynn had to negotiate his whole upper body sideways. He looked out at a grey November sky heavy with the threat of more snow. No change there, then. There was a television in one corner of his room angled just so that the patient could watch comfortably without straining to see. They’d been thoughtful about setting things like that up here, Flynn realised. Patients in the spinal injuries unit couldn’t complain about the quality of service. No indeed. Flynn had been cheered to find the hospital telly had Sky TV and he could flick all the channels using the remote that nice wee nurse had left on his locker.

Between the nurses all fussing over him and the meals that appeared at regular intervals, he was almost glad he’d run in front of that van. The driver had even been in to see him. He’d been dead apologetic and all that but Flynn had told him it was no sweat. He’d been entirely to blame. The guy had looked pretty relieved and they’d ended up chatting about the football. He’d left Flynn a newspaper and a bag of jam doughnuts. When he’d gone, Flynn had picked up the paper, greedy for any news that might have been written by Jimmy Greer.

The headlines had made him sink back into his pillows. Another violinist murdered? What the hell was going on in there? Flynn tried to straighten up then winced as the pain shot through his head. Even yawning was fraught with difficulty. Since his accident he’d slept fitfully, the nights one long dreary darkness only relieved by the night staff coming in to check his temperature and blood pressure.