Appassionata
The custard tart that only a few seconds ago seemed appetizing, coats my teeth in tasteless glue. I am in the newly refurbished Cloisters Café, where Formica and self-service have superseded tablecloths and aprons. Familiar voices in the next booth, oblivious to my presence, are in the process of ruining my tea; my day; my life.
‘I know you’re stuck with the programme but what about the solo?
‘I’ve tried everyone I can think of, they’re all busy.’
‘And that means?’
‘Yes’
‘Sally?’
‘I don’t have a choice.’
A groan; the chink of china and a noisy slurp.
‘She’s just about bearable doing all that diddly diddly stuff in Bach, but this…’
Lawrence and Jerry talk on. With every word my shame and humiliation increases, for they are the conductor and leader of the local symphony orchestra, discussing the cor anglais solo that I am due to play in the forthcoming concert. Usually, I play second oboe. There’s been a succession of first oboes but somehow I have always been passed over for the illustrious chair a few inches to my right. Nothing personal, I was led to understand. Jane, the current first, is Lawrence’s daughter, fresh from Music College; Deidre, the previous incumbent, teaches the oboe. I am merely an enthusiastic amateur. Today, however, the real reason for my inability to progress is being made painfully clear.
My playing is dull; it sounds computer generated, a cross between a Dalek and a duck, has no sparkle, lacks passion. I am stunned; torn between the desire to run away at once and a morbid desire to hear the full horror of their damnation. They go on.
‘It wouldn’t be so bad if it was something obscure she had to play but everybody knows the New World symphony since the Hovis advert.’
‘That was a while ago now.’
‘A mere blink in the eye of our audience.’
‘Perhaps she’ll rise to the occasion.’
‘Pigs might fly.’
‘You know there’s a cultural contingent coming over from Italy, don’t you? A twinning thing. Evidently they have the equivalent of the Birmingham Symphony Orchestra.’
I run; thrust a ridiculous amount of money at the cashier and leave without collecting the change.
At home, I try to restore my equilibrium with reason; they are men and I am a middle aged woman with no obvious sexual appeal; they are muddling up my passionless playing, with me. A hopeless argument, my playing and I are, of course, inseparable. I must remember it is only their subjective view…although given their roles, aren’t they the most important?
I am in the Slough of Despond. All these years thinking I was rather an asset to the orchestra, rhythmically reliable, never late with an entry and getting my fingers round all number of notes, yes, the diddly-diddly stuff…I can certainly do that. I’m an oboist, for goodness’ sake, half the repertoire is diddly-diddly!
My oboe case is open and the instrument lies diagonally across the plush interior. I still experience a lift when I pick it up, the easy feel of the fingers sliding into place, the smooth keys and the balanced weight on the right thumb rest at the back. Under the oboe case is its unopened big brother, the cor anglais. It isn’t unusual for a second oboist to play cor anglais and Jane, surprisingly, doesn’t possess one.
When the orchestra committee requested a repeat of the programme performed twenty-five years ago at their inaugural concert, the playing of the New World solo fell to me. It will be my cor anglais debut and I was, until today, thrilled. Now, I fit the instrument together with a feeling of impending dread. Am I that bad? Should I offer to lend it to Jane? I am moistening the reed in my mouth when the phone rings.
‘Drop everything, Sally, I’ve got a spare ticket to the opera.’
It is Deidre and what she means by opera is the Metropolitan Opera, New York, beamed live to the local cinema.
‘They’re doing La Boheme,’ says Deidre, ‘you simply have to come. I’ll pick you up at six o’clock.’
Deidre is a dear friend, much more assertive than I am and there’s no question that her playing traverses the entire gamut of emotionality. Listening to her Swan of Tuenela was quite alarming and it was no surprise when she moved on to play with the highly regarded regional orchestra. Over a hasty glass of wine in the bar, I confide in her. She is quiet, not, I notice, immediately refuting the notion that my playing is dull. Instead, she suggests listening to a few recordings.
Perhaps it is the wine, for as Mimi tightens her threadbare shawl round her voluminous bosoms to keep out the cold and sings with the purity of the angels that she will shortly be joining, I silently weep. My tissue gradually shreds and later I will discover bits of it stuck to my chin. Even though Rudolpho has difficulty reaching past his chubby tummy towards his new love, no-one in the auditorium could deny his heartfelt passion. The music swells in increasing intensity, dashing itself on the shores of Mimi’s dejection, and mine.
During the interval, the cameras turn a hundred and eighty degrees to reveal the interior of the mighty Metropolitan Opera House. The audience across the Atlantic rise from their seats while we sit on, for we are to be treated to behind the scene interviews. Here is the Maestro himself and like so many doctors and policemen these days, barely shaving it seems. He is young, handsome and also Italian, with a flash in his eye from the stage lights. His grasp of English may be poor but he is charming and entirely endearing to this audience and me in particular. He has my undivided attention as I imagine him conducting my orchestra. I would need new glasses, of course, for I couldn’t possibly make do with the fuzzy arm waving that I put up with from Lawrence Soper.
‘The orchestra,’ he is saying, ‘eez like a woooman. You make the looove to her.’
He looks directly into camera and it feels frightfully hot suddenly. The interviewer, a mature woman of about my years, looks flustered as he steps nearer to her and goes on.
‘Down there, in the peeet,’ he breathes, gesturing towards the pit, ‘eet iz like the bedroom. You must bring the players to…how you say…their…their peeek.’ He is waving his hands and I can’t help thinking about where they could go when Deidre leans towards me and says,
‘Has Lawrence Soper brought you to any good peaks lately?’
It is the next rehearsal and I am looking at our Maestro with more intent but little success, as my appointment with the optician is not until next week. My big solo is in the second movement. I have already assembled the cor anglais and have it beside me on its especially purchased, new stand. I lean across, pick it up and put it to my lips. It goes well? It does, it does…does it? As the movement draws to a close I feel sure he will say something but Lawrence just taps his baton and moves on to the third movement. Wishing myself better is not enough; action is required! I will take Deidre’s advice but I will also take some of my own.
There is a bewildering array of recordings to choose from and I wonder if Dvorak would be proud that his work would be revered for its ability to conjure nostalgia for days when bread was delivered by a boy on a bicycle. I buy three different versions; cheap, expensive and a compilation of music used for adverts so the Dvorak is now sandwiched between aftershave and ice cream. At home I listen to them carefully, licking a cornet.
In rehearsal, I will myself to see a handsome Italian instead of Lawrence Soper but the leap is too great. In fact, I feel unusually irritated by his rather relentless conducting. It occurs to me that he is being somewhat insensitive, hurrying me along to get it over with perhaps. But is he listening? Surely he should notice that my little elasticity with the beat adds a certain poignancy to the phrasing. That’s just what it says on the recording notes of the version I am attempting to emulate. Afterwards, Jerry comes up and informs me that he thinks I sound better but he doesn’t look me in the eye. Something more is still required.
The new glasses are tremendously revelatory! The world is new, clear and sharp but I am old, lined and baggy under the eyes, looking in need of a few months’ sleep, or perhaps an extended hang upside down to restore gravity’s sag. In shops never previously entered, I try on dolly’s clothes, in an attempt to rejuvenate both myself and my dated concert attire. I squeeze into a push up bra in an effort to look like Mimi from the Met but the stabbing pain when I breath in makes me wonder how on earth she could sing anything thus boned. My cleavage is impressive though and I favour a rather risqué V-necked number. I buy some high heels, the first time for two decades. I have my hair highlighted.
Deidre is encouraging about my new appearance and quite enthusiastic about my rendition of the solo. She says I think too much and then spouts all those expressions I’ve heard so often before that end up with me thinking musicians ought to wear swimsuits; go with the flow; let it wash over you; submerge yourself etc etc. See? The problem, I fear, is that whilst I like the piece, I can’t say it presses any real buttons for me. There aren’t enough notes; it’s too slow and even the big climax is hardly what you’d call dramatic. There’s no waves crashing on the shore in clouds of foamy froth, just one of those high water surges that muscle their way towards the shore and slop a little over the sea wall. Think of a sepia boy pushing a bike up a steep cobbled hill. Let’s face it; where’s the excitement?
We’re in the Cathedral because it’s a special occasion. I can see the Italians, sitting at the front with the mayor and our local MP. The trouble with the Cathedral is that while it’s nice for the audience it’s a bit cramped for us. I put the cor anglais by my chair. Too close, as it turns out, because as we all rise for the interval, I forget I am wearing my new shoes with their ridiculous heels. There is a moment where I tip over on my ankle, know it is too late and see the world slowly slide sideways as I fall, accompanied by a huge, echoing, clatter of chairs and music stands and a much smaller, but more serious, snapping sound as I land on my cor anglais.
Any miniscule shred of pride I may have had is now pulped. People are kind. Of course they are! This is massive on the mortification scale and everyone must be thanking their lucky stars it’s not them. Several keys have been ripped off my poor cor anglais and one of the posts is bent. It is unplayable. I am only bruised. Two men are approaching from opposite directions. Lawrence Soper looks as if he will commit murder, mouth open like a toddler about to bellow. The other is one of the Italians; he intercepts Lawrence, and holds up both his hands.
‘Ten minutes,’ he says, pronouncing minutes with three syllables, ‘all well in ten minutes. I lend one.’ He grabs my arm and steers me from the scene. Out in the cool air of Cathedral Yard he hurries me across the green to the hotel on the corner, all the time talking in a mellifluous baritone. He plays in Italian orchestra, tomorrow they do concert of chamber music, once he forget his suit trousers, play in jeans, another time took empty instrument case to concert. Since wife die he struggle all the time with these things.
His hands me his cor anglais, suddenly seeming shy. ‘Eez very nice,’ he says, ‘my son, ‘ee give me.’
I can tell it’s rather more than nice from the maker’s name on the case. This is the equivalent of a Stradivarius violin! I gasp and he puts his hand on mine, nodding his head. Walking back, he continues to murmur reassurance. He play this symphony often, love it very much, but he has different thinking about it. He see the big tune as longing for someone, not somewhere or home, as most do. These few notes, they are just the surface of things, like the clothes on a person. The notes are not hard and too slow to keep fingers very busy. It is for the soul to do the work, to play appassionato, to, how you say, make the love with.
I wonder if I will ever speak again, let alone play. The orchestra are already assembled when I return. We begin. Is it me playing? Or does this instrument know its own way? There is Lawrence beating time but not for me. I am not looking at the music much, for I know it well and no, I do not see my saviour either, for suddenly, there seems to be no me at all. I have thrown whatever that was into the depths of this glorious, swirling sound. Here are my few precious notes…mine? No. They are not mine; they belong to everyone. Can you hear them? Listen…follow them, go on, follow, for they are aloft now, like shimmering birds they seek to bind together, to entwine, to fill this place and your heart with longing. They are all for you, I want for nothing.
Everyone is pleased. For the first time in twenty years Lawrence makes me stand to take a bow, I rise carefully, conscious of my earlier fall. The applause gets suddenly louder and I seem to go on rising until I am taller than the tallest shoes could possibly make me. In the hush following, the orchestra chairman thanks Lawrence and also my new Italian friend. His name is familiar. Of course, the resemblance is obvious. The cor anglais, a gift from his distinguished son, the opera Maestro. Now he is walking towards me, I think it is to fetch his instrument and in one way it is, but before he does, he turns to the audience to elicit one more round of applause for me.
‘Bravissimo!’ he whispers, as he leans forward to kiss my cheeks, ‘ I hope you here tomorrow,’ and he presses a ticket for his concert in my hand. I have one already, at home, but see no reason to admit that now.
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