might drift away from this difficult banter, and tried, uselessly, to think of one of the many anecdotes I’d set aside during the week to tell him. I resorted to asking him what concerts he’d been to lately and was relieved when he started telling me about an organ recital—Debussy and Jongen—he’d attended the night after Walter’s.
‘Jongen’s Symphonie Concertante isn’t a great work for the Abbey, though. If “ Nuages ” was Debussy’s study of what can be done with a single colour, the Symphonie Concertante was like a Belgian study of mushy peas,’ he laughed.
Our conversation continued similarly through both intervals, rather nervously, I thought, but without any awkward pauses, nonetheless. His eyes darted about as he spoke, as if they were tracing the outline of every detail in the foyer. Then occasionally, at the end of a phrase, or during my reply, they’d come down to land on me, his gaze softening and deepening, and it would be I who’d scurry off to the side.
At the end of the opera I followed him through the crowd like a child trailing a parent. People were approaching him with smiles and handshakes, congratulating him on a recital or badgering him about why his agent hadn’t fixed him the big HMV contract he deserved. Noël was nothing short of charming, thanking them bashfully as if their praise was entirelyunwarranted, and joking that he’d send a postcard from Carnegie Hall. At the first opportunity he excused himself to the Gents, and as I stood at the door waiting for him I could hear a tune being whistled, a solo melody sailing out above the hubbub of the foyer.
‘Orlando Gibbon’s Fantasia in four parts?’ I asked as he emerged, still trilling.
‘ Very good,’ he replied, causing me to blush.
We stepped outside and he was almost skipping down the stairs, then he just came out and asked, ‘So are your digs near here?’ as casually as if he were enquiring the time.
I hardly knew what to say; I just looked at him quite stunned and replied that we’d have to take a bus. Then he suggested we go back for a cup of tea, with such innocence that I felt as though my stifled desire was far more indecent than his bold and breezy approach.
Once we were on our way Noël seemed far more relaxed, chatting away as if we were old chums and even occasionally slapping me on the back, leaving a large warm imprint that sent blood surging straight to my loins.
When we arrived at my place he was still talking about the opera, sprinkling his discussion with quotes from the libretto in flawless Italian. I hardly uttered a word; I kept envisaging the kinds of chandelier-lit living rooms that he surely must have been accustomed to—Louis XIV cabinets, Picassos and Miros adorning the walls. I was panicking about what we would doonce we were inside, trying to decide which record to play—would Schumann or Chopin be too obvious?—and hoping he didn’t take sugar with his tea as I’d left my week’s rations on the bus. But when he followed me up the stairs of the lodging house, reducing his voice to a whisper as if he’d been there a dozen times before, he didn’t seem the least perturbed by his surroundings. Then the moment we entered he headed straight for the piano.
‘We adore the story of Tosca because we relate to her romantic spirit,’ he said, gently lifting the piano lid as if he were handling precious jewels. He started playing ‘ Vissi d’Arte’ while watching me at the sink, scampering about as I was with kettle and cups.
‘But she’s a rather hysterical type,’ I said, unnecessarily focused on the gas burner I was lighting. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to let him know I wasn’t the sort to get too carried away. ‘Puccini certainly was fond of his little-girl heroines.’ Without looking up at him, I pulled out some rolls and cheese and placed them on the table.
‘Yes, a bit of a sadist they say.’ Then, flicking through the music at the piano—‘Ah, you’re
‘Jongen’s Symphonie Concertante isn’t a great work for the Abbey, though. If “ Nuages ” was Debussy’s study of what can be done with a single colour, the Symphonie Concertante was like a Belgian study of mushy peas,’ he laughed.
Our conversation continued similarly through both intervals, rather nervously, I thought, but without any awkward pauses, nonetheless. His eyes darted about as he spoke, as if they were tracing the outline of every detail in the foyer. Then occasionally, at the end of a phrase, or during my reply, they’d come down to land on me, his gaze softening and deepening, and it would be I who’d scurry off to the side.
At the end of the opera I followed him through the crowd like a child trailing a parent. People were approaching him with smiles and handshakes, congratulating him on a recital or badgering him about why his agent hadn’t fixed him the big HMV contract he deserved. Noël was nothing short of charming, thanking them bashfully as if their praise was entirelyunwarranted, and joking that he’d send a postcard from Carnegie Hall. At the first opportunity he excused himself to the Gents, and as I stood at the door waiting for him I could hear a tune being whistled, a solo melody sailing out above the hubbub of the foyer.
‘Orlando Gibbon’s Fantasia in four parts?’ I asked as he emerged, still trilling.
‘ Very good,’ he replied, causing me to blush.
We stepped outside and he was almost skipping down the stairs, then he just came out and asked, ‘So are your digs near here?’ as casually as if he were enquiring the time.
I hardly knew what to say; I just looked at him quite stunned and replied that we’d have to take a bus. Then he suggested we go back for a cup of tea, with such innocence that I felt as though my stifled desire was far more indecent than his bold and breezy approach.
Once we were on our way Noël seemed far more relaxed, chatting away as if we were old chums and even occasionally slapping me on the back, leaving a large warm imprint that sent blood surging straight to my loins.
When we arrived at my place he was still talking about the opera, sprinkling his discussion with quotes from the libretto in flawless Italian. I hardly uttered a word; I kept envisaging the kinds of chandelier-lit living rooms that he surely must have been accustomed to—Louis XIV cabinets, Picassos and Miros adorning the walls. I was panicking about what we would doonce we were inside, trying to decide which record to play—would Schumann or Chopin be too obvious?—and hoping he didn’t take sugar with his tea as I’d left my week’s rations on the bus. But when he followed me up the stairs of the lodging house, reducing his voice to a whisper as if he’d been there a dozen times before, he didn’t seem the least perturbed by his surroundings. Then the moment we entered he headed straight for the piano.
‘We adore the story of Tosca because we relate to her romantic spirit,’ he said, gently lifting the piano lid as if he were handling precious jewels. He started playing ‘ Vissi d’Arte’ while watching me at the sink, scampering about as I was with kettle and cups.
‘But she’s a rather hysterical type,’ I said, unnecessarily focused on the gas burner I was lighting. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to let him know I wasn’t the sort to get too carried away. ‘Puccini certainly was fond of his little-girl heroines.’ Without looking up at him, I pulled out some rolls and cheese and placed them on the table.
‘Yes, a bit of a sadist they say.’ Then, flicking through the music at the piano—‘Ah, you’re
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