The Gradual Page 9

  Then Bayan Cron led Cea Weller and myself backstage, as the applause at last died away.

  I was too excited to return to my seat in the auditorium so I sat through the remainder of the concert in the hospitality room behind the stage. Two large video screens showed the concert continuing, with the music relayed through speakers. I was on my own, with just staff from the concert hall readying themselves for the celebratory reception that would come at the end of the concert. Cea Weller had been taken away by Msr Cron to another part of the building, presumably to her dressing room, so I did not see her again.

  Finally it was over. The second encore was played, the ovation rang out, and at last the conductor and the musicians came down from the stage and filled the room. In no time at all everyone was drinking fast and talking noisily. It was the end of the tour, and it had come to a tremendous and successful conclusion. Short congratulatory speeches were made, there were jokes and a little teasing – the chief timpanist was presented with a metronome, to acknowledge the fact that he had made so many insistent claims that the orchestra was stepping out of time from him. Our guest conductor, Msr Cron, was handed a stave, one of the odd little devices we had been told to carry with us everywhere. He seemed pleased but nonplussed. It was all in good part.

  ‘Msr Sussken?’

  A quiet voice at my side made me turn away from the others. It was Cea Weller. For a moment I had trouble recognizing her. She had changed out of the formal gown in which she had performed, and was wearing a blouse and skirt. Her hair, which had been pulled back into a stiff bun while she played, was now loose and at shoulder length. She was holding two glasses of sparkling wine and she handed me one of them.

  ‘Congratulations on your performance,’ I said politely. ‘It was magnificent.’

  ‘I wanted to say how much I love all the work of yours I’ve been able to listen to,’ she said. ‘It’s sometimes difficult to find recordings from the northern countries, but I have bought everything of yours that I’ve found.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She said, ‘I have some friends here who would love to say hello to you.’

  I realized that behind her and around her was a small group of people, who were standing attentively while she and I spoke. She introduced them to me one by one: they were all involved in music in one way or another. Four of them were professional musicians, while two others were journalists: one was a writer for a magazines, while the other was a critic and musicologist. I only barely caught their names. We chatted politely and conventionally for a while but the party was getting under way and the noise level was rising. The concert had been a triumph and everyone was high on adrenalin. I exchanged a few opinions with Cea and her friends, received and gave several compliments and as the staff went past with the trays of glasses, we drank more and more wine. Gradually, the others moved away. After a while, because of the noise in the room, Cea and I backed out of the crowd and stood by ourselves in a narrow corridor outside.

  We were talking much more informally – about some of the pieces I had written in the past, some of the conductors and orchestras she had played with, islands we had both visited. I told her my worries about Jacj, and she gave me a little information about charities in the islands which attempted to trace soldiers who were on the run from their units. People came down the corridor and as we moved briefly aside to let them pass, she and I returned to our place, standing a little closer to each other every time. I told her I was married – she said she was too, but she and her husband had separated the year before. She said her father and mother were both musicians – her father was still playing regularly, but her mother had retired. Her father was apparently one of those people she had introduced to me earlier, but I hadn’t heard all the names and I wasn’t sure which one of them she meant. She told me she was working hard at the moment: the concert tonight had been a highlight, but she had a full diary for the next few months, and the next day had to travel to an island called Demmer. She was to perform a series of recitals.

  At one point she asked me about my part in the tour, and I talked about that for a while, but it led naturally into me telling her about the rock musician who had been copying some of my music. When I said he lived on this island she said there were a lot of young musicians here. Temmil Waterside was renowned for its music scene and there were many bars, clubs and other venues where music was played. I told her the name, And Ante, but she said it could be anyone – many men on Temmil had names like Cornand, Anders, Stephand, Ormand – some of them abbreviated it to And. We laughed about the musical pun.

  The party continued but Cea and I left together, walking down the hill from the concert hall complex. She had her hand on my arm – I later put my arm around her and she leaned her head on my shoulder. We saw the night sea, the lights in the harbour, the bustle in the town centre, the doors open to the hot night with music and voices spilling out from within. Hundreds of people were walking about. It’s called the promenadá, she told me. When we reached my hotel she went inside with me and we spent a happy night together.

  Then came, inevitably, the awakening to a new morning, a bedroom in a hotel, a virtual stranger beside me. The memories of the excited post-concert party no longer seemed to provide the context, the excuse. That was already over – normality had returned. While Cea dozed in the bed next to me, slowly rousing, I began to think guiltily about the implications of what I had done. I was about to return home to Alynna, to whom I had always been faithful. I blamed myself – Cea had done nothing.

  Then she was awake, and after a brief affectionate hug we went about the slow business of the morning after. We had both drunk too much at the party so there were those after-effects to cope with, plus the unfamiliarity we had with each other. I knew so little about her, what I had seen of her, how she had played. She must have been feeling much the same about me. What was there in her life that she must return to?

  When we were both dressed I walked out of the hotel with her and we stood together for a few minutes in the ornamental garden at the side of the building.

  ‘What next, Sandro?’ she said. ‘The tour is about to move on, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’re crossing to Hakerline Promise this afternoon – they’ve laid on a special boat. There are no more concerts. This will be a break before we return home.’

  ‘I’m leaving for Demmer today,’ she said. ‘Two weeks of recitals.’

  ‘So we’re unlikely to meet again?’

  ‘Unlikely – but not impossible. Maybe we shouldn’t try.’

  ‘I think so too. You all right with that, Cea?’

  ‘Of course. We’re both adults. It was a great party – let’s leave it at that. It was good while it lasted.’

  There was a taxi rank at the hotel. When her car had driven away, I returned to my room to pack. I realized then that I had said nothing to her of my hopes and plans of one day moving to Temmil permanently. That was probably as well.

  22

  We tour members settled into a large, modern hotel a short distance outside the town centre of Hakerline Promise: it had its own beach, boats for hire, fishing areas, restaurants, bars. The remaining admin staff from Ders Axxon’s organization left us there.

  On the second day in Hakerline Promise I walked down to the beach below the hotel and stared across the strait at nearby Temmil. The dark shape of the Gronner stood against the sky, a thin stream of its outflow drifting with the wind away from the island. That small island represented my future – of that I was certain. It was difficult, painful, all but impossible, to contemplate returning to the dour northern landscape of Glaund and trying to write there. Restlessness filled me. Guilt about the night with Cea – other uncertainties too. What would happen when I returned home? Would Alynna want to come with me to Temmil?

  I had felt my ideas about music changing as I travelled. My ascetic, theoretical modernism, with its experimental clashes and pauses, a delight to the intellect, was being drastically challenged. I now longe
d for the surge of romanticism, the delirium of colour and rhythm, the exhilaration of wide-open lyricism. I wanted to write sea shanties and children’s musicals and I wanted to celebrate the love affairs of famous people.

  It made me smile to think such things.

  I could not help remembering Denn Mytrie, the young Muriseayan composer I had shared a record with, years before. I had privately scorned his romantic composition, then grown to like both him and it. I had seen some of the reviews in Glaund City newspapers of our shared disc: at least two of the critics openly sneered at what they saw as his naïve musical values. (I had never sent him copies of those reviews and I hope he never came across them.) At last I was understanding how his music came into being, the texture of his open society of islanders, the enjoyment of simple things. I now wanted to write music that would make those same musical prigs disdain me too. But first I needed to return home, spend a great deal of time with Alynna, and in due course let the new music of these islands take me wherever it willed.

  23

  The return journey to Questiur took more than eight days. Every day my watch appeared to lose or gain time – one day it gained four hours, or lost eight. I was not sure which.

  We had to change ships several times, a nuisance, a delay and a vexation. Our baggage and musical instruments were often examined by officials. With the concerts behind us all we wanted was to go home. For part of the journey I stayed below-decks, annoyed and sulky because of the maddeningly slow progress.

  One day, one ship, it was intolerable – the ship had been wired up with loudspeakers on every deck and in every companionway. From the moment we boarded they were playing popular music from which there was no hope of escape. At first, for a few minutes, I was intrigued. I wanted to learn something of the Archipelagian musical popular culture, which was for me a novelty, but it soon became tiresome, unavoidable. Then they played a track I instantly recognized – it was from Pilota Marret. And Ante’s screeching electric guitar shattered any remaining peace of mind. As that long day passed with agonizing slowness, one track after another from his wretched record was played. Played at me, or so it felt. I spent most of that day on the aft boat deck, as far away from the sound as possible, letting the sea wind bluster about me.

  At other times, on other ships, I stood or sat on the open decks. I knew this might be my last chance to take in the unique ambience of the Archipelago. I was watching, watching, thinking about colours and winds and seabirds and mountains and light and waves, and the secret codes of music they all somehow imparted to me.

  The weather gradually cooled.

  Every change of ship meant that we had to disembark and briefly enter the island as transit passengers. The grudging, pedantic methods of the officials were no better than they had been anywhere else, but to us the process was simply pointless. We produced our documents, our visas, our travel passes, our staves – all were routinely examined, and the staves were dipped into the mysterious scanning machines.

  We noticed the attendant group of young people at every stop, but by this time I was no longer intrigued by them and barely registered their presence.

  My stave never elicited any response from either officials or scanning machines. None of the officials remarked on that, or anything else. Always the cool, unexplained transaction: the stave handed over, the few seconds of silent examination, the insertion into the machine, the stave returned. It remained unmarked, apparently not changed in any way or officially approved. Mine was no different from anyone else’s. We all submitted to the perplexing procedure. My stave was beginning to look slightly travel-worn, but the smooth surface of the main wooden shaft remained unblemished.

  On the eighth day I was standing at the rail of the ship we had boarded that morning. I was cold and miserable. Most of the clothes I had brought with me were lightweight, what I had thought would be suitable for the warmer south, so all I could do to ward off the cold was put on an extra outer layer, another shirt, a jacket. I felt bulky and unhappy. A bitter wind was blowing. All the islands I could see from where I was standing looked windswept and barren. Never more had I wanted this long journey to be over.

  One of the orchestra’s second violinists walked across and joined me at the rail.

  ‘Have you noticed that?’ he said, pointing directly ahead of the ship.

  I saw what I thought at first was another large island. It was low on the horizon, spreading across it indistinctly. I could see rocky peaks, but not much more.

  ‘I think we’re almost there.’

  ‘Glaund?’

  I was surprised. I had not expected we would arrive before late in the afternoon. I looked at my watch, a habit, but it was a long time since it had worked properly. Every day it gained or lost time.

  I continued to stare ahead as the ship bore us gradually nearer. The land became a more distinct sight. The iron-grey mountains were what drew the eye, and I could see that most of the higher peaks were covered in snow. Lower slopes were dark and unclear to see.

  Soon the coastal plain was visible, or to be more accurate it was possible to see where the coastal plain lay. A miasma of fog or mist or pollution ran from the sea, where it merged indistinguishably, back as far as the foothills of the mountain range. Nothing beneath the fog could be discerned.

  It induced a strange mix of feelings in me. This was home: my country, my parents, Alynna, friends and colleagues, most of my memories. My work and reputation were based in Glaund, but I had been away in the islands. I yearned to be home but in truth I wanted little of it.

  We were sailing ever closer to my dark and damaged country and I wanted the ship to slow down, veer away, turn back.

  One by one, other tour members were coming up from below, standing around me at the rail, watching as the boat drew us near, manoeuvring to line up on a dark smudge of town. We knew it must be Glaund City, or at least its port, Questiur. A few people commented, but there was not much to say.

  Soon there was no mistaking where we were headed as the mountains behind the town took on a familiar aspect and we could make out, through the smothering murk, large buildings we recognized in Glaund City. The voice of one of the crew crackled out through the public address system: we would be berthing in fifteen minutes, all passengers should collect their belongings and move to the gate number they had been assigned when boarding the ship …

  So for the last time we prepared to disembark. For me at least it entirely lacked the feelings of surprise, anticipation, excited pleasure that had been the feature of so many arrivals while we were in the islands. We all clambered about below-decks, pushing in and out of our cabins, collecting our baggage, what souvenirs we had bought, what instruments we could carry, trying to locate the gates of disembarkation.

  One of the sailors opened the metal gate to which I had been assigned, so I was able to watch the concrete quays sliding slowly past, feel again the chill from the mountains, breathe once more the smell of industry, engines, chimney discharge, the odours of millions of people, the output of their workaday lives.

  I was wearing on my back the holdall that Msr Axxon had handed out so long ago.

  ‘We won’t be needing that any more,’ someone said, behind me. He said he had left his behind somewhere. I had already decided to keep my own holdall – it would be a reminder of being away.

  I could see the open quay, with no sign of a Shelterate building, no small group of casually dressed young people. Once again I was in the world of bare functionality, the unattractive place where I had been born.

  The ship came to a gradual halt, sidling in to the quayside. Sirens blew, men on the quay shouted up to the crew on the bridge of the ship. Ropes were secured. The vessel lurched in a familiar way as it ground against the cushioned bulk of the quay. I was standing in a small group by the hatch and we jostled against each other.

  A gangplank was being swung across from the shore to the hatch where we stood. With the other musicians I picked up my heavy luggage. But no one moved
. The gangplank remained aloft, hanging on its chains. I could see along the wharf that a second gangplank was aloft, also waiting to be lowered.

  A detachment of troops had marched on to the quay and they were dispersing to take up positions against the places where the gangplanks would be. They stood in a disorderly way, carrying their weapons. They looked young and nervous, probably recently drafted. An elite squad had clearly not been sent to meet us. Several of the soldiers were staring up at the ship as if they had not been so close to one as large as this before.

  A couple of non-commissioned officers appeared – one of them shouted at the troops, while the other strode along the quay blowing on a whistle. The gangplanks moved again, lowered slowly towards the side of the ship. I did not want to be the first ashore, the first to be halted or questioned by the army, so I hung back, but soon I was on the gangplank, feeling it wobble and lurch beneath me.

  It was a homecoming but not one I wanted. I was still full of my dreams, the plans, the hopes, but for now they were to be buried beneath the suspicions of the ruling junta which had sent these troops to find out where we had been, what we had been doing, what we had seen, who we might have met, and perhaps also what we now wanted.

  I stood on the quay, my baggage on the ground beside me. While I waited to be singled out for the next questioning, I checked my watch against a huge clock on the wall of the wharf. Since I woke up on the ship that morning it appeared to have lost another seven and a quarter hours. Or maybe it had gained four and three-quarters.

  The air smelled of soot, of something acidic, of something I did not wish to breathe. I did not want to be there at all.

  24

  It was strange to be walking on solid ground again after more than a week at sea. Now that I was in the town of Questiur, buildings on every side and away from the coast, the air was not as icy cold as it had felt while I waited on the quay. I was laden with my luggage: the holdall and my violin case were strapped to my back, I had one large bag in each hand. I had no idea of the date and only an approximate idea of the time. Late afternoon? It was gloomy in the city but that was often the case under Glaund’s familiarly leaden sky.