Tara. ‘I always prefer the
boy treble sound in Faure’s Pie Jesu rather than the full blown
soprano.’
‘You think I sounded like a boy
treble/’ Tara demanded.
‘Very so much so. Charming.’ His
voice was laced with mockery. No aspiring singer over twenty should sound like
a boy treble.
‘You are absolutely right. Tara
is no singer,’ her mother stated flatly. ‘She’s a violinist.’
Xavier glanced sharply at Tara
from beneath his cowled eyelids. ‘Ah.’
‘No!’ Tara bit fiercely into her
lip.
Bruno came in bearing bottles of
claret and cut glass goblets on a silver tray. ‘She’s terribly good,’ he said
fondly.
‘Yes. She just won’t practise,
that’s the problem,’ her mother said evenly.
‘Mum! For goodness sake.’
‘Goodness has nothing to do with
it. You could have been a brilliant player. As good as your father, if not
better. Instead you decided to let your stubborn, mulish, wilful behaviour
stifle all your potential.’
Tara gasped. ‘Why are you
attacking me like this?’
‘As a last ditch attempt to stop
you throwing yourself into life’s dustbin.’ She turned to Bruno and Xavier.
‘Shall we eat?’ she suggested pleasantly.
The unease caused by Tara’s
outburst was rapidly dispelled during the meal by Xavier’s smooth flow of
anecdotes about the famous and quirky in the world of music.
Bruno was agog, his face shining
with enthusiastic interest. Xavier’s eloquence and charisma, together with the
consumption of generous quantities of white wine and claret, made him wonder
how he would ever get back to his law books.
Tara’s mother listened with quiet
appreciation, smiling abstractedly from time to time.
Tara, her eyes seemingly fastened
to Xavier’s carved face by invisible wires, found herself smouldering with
inner turbulence.
She was furious to have to admit
that Xavier was compellingly magnetic, that an almost tangible psychological
power emanated from him. There was something softly menacing about him also,
something stealthy and cat-like which both alarmed and stimulated her.
Damn him to hell! she thought,
liking to get the measure of people and then stick to it.
Over coffee the conversation
turned to the art of conducting.
‘Isn’t that whole thing about
Maestro power just a myth?’ Tara declared. ‘I mean look at poor old Otto
Klemperer. He would sit in front of the orchestra like a man under anaesthetic
whilst the players followed the first violinist and asked each other now and
again if the conductor was dead.’
Rachel sighed and raised her
eyebrows heavenwards.
‘Daddy used to tell that story,’
Tara told Xavier sweetly. ‘It’s absolutely true.’
‘I do apologize for my daughter,’
Rachel interposed. ‘I’d like to say that she’s not herself tonight – but
unfortunately she is just that. I’m afraid she needs taking firmly in hand.’
‘I’m working on it,’ Bruno said
gamely.
Xavier leaned back in his chair
and narrowed his eyes reflectively. ‘You know when I was a young music student
I once had the good fortune to attend a lecture in Milan given by Arturo
Toscanini.’
‘Before he went gaga I hope,’
Tara muttered under her breath.
‘Just before his final illness in
fact. When he was a very old, very experienced and very wise man,’ Xavier
countered, throwing Tara a mildly admonishing glance.
‘Sorry, go on,’ she said
grudgingly.
‘He still had the energy to curse
and rage about German and Austrian conductors who ruined Mozart’s two/four time
works by beating four beats in a bar instead of two. Toscanini himself always
beat two you see.’
Xavier hummed a Mozart tune from
one of the composer’s later symphonies. ‘You know it?’ he asked his interested
audience. ‘Of course you do. Now – Tara, Bruno, you sing it for me and follow
my beat.’
Fixing them with his penetrating
grey eyes and using just one long curved finger, he conducted their singing,
first beating with the accent coming on each
boy treble sound in Faure’s Pie Jesu rather than the full blown
soprano.’
‘You think I sounded like a boy
treble/’ Tara demanded.
‘Very so much so. Charming.’ His
voice was laced with mockery. No aspiring singer over twenty should sound like
a boy treble.
‘You are absolutely right. Tara
is no singer,’ her mother stated flatly. ‘She’s a violinist.’
Xavier glanced sharply at Tara
from beneath his cowled eyelids. ‘Ah.’
‘No!’ Tara bit fiercely into her
lip.
Bruno came in bearing bottles of
claret and cut glass goblets on a silver tray. ‘She’s terribly good,’ he said
fondly.
‘Yes. She just won’t practise,
that’s the problem,’ her mother said evenly.
‘Mum! For goodness sake.’
‘Goodness has nothing to do with
it. You could have been a brilliant player. As good as your father, if not
better. Instead you decided to let your stubborn, mulish, wilful behaviour
stifle all your potential.’
Tara gasped. ‘Why are you
attacking me like this?’
‘As a last ditch attempt to stop
you throwing yourself into life’s dustbin.’ She turned to Bruno and Xavier.
‘Shall we eat?’ she suggested pleasantly.
The unease caused by Tara’s
outburst was rapidly dispelled during the meal by Xavier’s smooth flow of
anecdotes about the famous and quirky in the world of music.
Bruno was agog, his face shining
with enthusiastic interest. Xavier’s eloquence and charisma, together with the
consumption of generous quantities of white wine and claret, made him wonder
how he would ever get back to his law books.
Tara’s mother listened with quiet
appreciation, smiling abstractedly from time to time.
Tara, her eyes seemingly fastened
to Xavier’s carved face by invisible wires, found herself smouldering with
inner turbulence.
She was furious to have to admit
that Xavier was compellingly magnetic, that an almost tangible psychological
power emanated from him. There was something softly menacing about him also,
something stealthy and cat-like which both alarmed and stimulated her.
Damn him to hell! she thought,
liking to get the measure of people and then stick to it.
Over coffee the conversation
turned to the art of conducting.
‘Isn’t that whole thing about
Maestro power just a myth?’ Tara declared. ‘I mean look at poor old Otto
Klemperer. He would sit in front of the orchestra like a man under anaesthetic
whilst the players followed the first violinist and asked each other now and
again if the conductor was dead.’
Rachel sighed and raised her
eyebrows heavenwards.
‘Daddy used to tell that story,’
Tara told Xavier sweetly. ‘It’s absolutely true.’
‘I do apologize for my daughter,’
Rachel interposed. ‘I’d like to say that she’s not herself tonight – but
unfortunately she is just that. I’m afraid she needs taking firmly in hand.’
‘I’m working on it,’ Bruno said
gamely.
Xavier leaned back in his chair
and narrowed his eyes reflectively. ‘You know when I was a young music student
I once had the good fortune to attend a lecture in Milan given by Arturo
Toscanini.’
‘Before he went gaga I hope,’
Tara muttered under her breath.
‘Just before his final illness in
fact. When he was a very old, very experienced and very wise man,’ Xavier
countered, throwing Tara a mildly admonishing glance.
‘Sorry, go on,’ she said
grudgingly.
‘He still had the energy to curse
and rage about German and Austrian conductors who ruined Mozart’s two/four time
works by beating four beats in a bar instead of two. Toscanini himself always
beat two you see.’
Xavier hummed a Mozart tune from
one of the composer’s later symphonies. ‘You know it?’ he asked his interested
audience. ‘Of course you do. Now – Tara, Bruno, you sing it for me and follow
my beat.’
Fixing them with his penetrating
grey eyes and using just one long curved finger, he conducted their singing,
first beating with the accent coming on each
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