The Concert Pianist by Conrad Williams

Author:Conrad Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2006-08-23T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Friends from all over the world had taken time out of their concert schedules to be in Herefordshire on a Sunday morning in May, and as the distinguished, the elderly and the elegant filed through the hallway to the terrace (where silver glinted on linen and flowers spumed from vases) it seemed more like a wedding reception than a birthday party. Sunlight sparkled and danced on the scene.

There were perhaps a hundred people on the lawn, the Russian contingent, antique British musicians with walking sticks and parasols, young conductors at the height of their celebrity smiling gloriously. They arrived with cards and gifts and easy laughter. There was a bustle around those, like Lola Montrero, who had travelled furthest. Konstantine was in heartier form, greeting all comers on the terrace. He made a thorough job of embracing and double-kissing every guest. Tender eye contact with one well-wisher would be followed by a bear-hug with the next, each new person causing a joyous spasm on his ruined old face.

Oswald’s young men from the pub circulated in tunics bearing trays of champagne. Oswald himself swooped and wheeled like an inexhaustibly perfectionist maitre d’, dropping one minute into the kitchens to chivvy caterers, bustling the next past Barry or Kevin with a snap of his fingers at an empty tray or bottle. His elastic face crushed into charming expressions of welcome for arriving guests. He ushered and complimented, escorted and introduced; then slid through a side door to recapture his misanthropy like a gulp of fresh air.

Philip, meanwhile, busied himself on the sidelines. He popped corks and filled glasses and relayed empty trays to the pantry, avoiding eye contact wherever possible. His aim today was to be helpful and to keep on the move.

Arthur was grandly stationed at the end of the terrace. He was sedentarily magnetic, nonetheless, and had drawn to his side a retinue of the amiably ancient. Cedric and Aldous Braeborne were chipping in jokes, and Arthur was chortling pleasantly. ‘By Jove, she’s here,’ he erupted. ‘It’s Galina!’

Philip turned to see Galina Berberova hugging Konstantine and winking at Arthur, which caused the old boy to launch himself towards the only woman who had ever queered the perfect pitch of his sexual convictions. The insurmountable diva received his toothy peck like a blushing Venus scaled by admirers. Konstantine gazed on in craggy rapture.

Beyond them stood Vadim.

Philip was alert, though he did not move. Too many people were around for him to make an approach.

His heart beat faster. He should have called him before. It was awkward here. The onus was on Philip to take back what he said, but now it was too late.

He glanced around, seeking a refill. The depth of his unease surprised him. It was not so easy to take back the truth, to swallow it up. The truth was his doing, something he had to get out of his system to make the friendship tenable. Apology was impossible, of course. He swigged back his drink and decided to collar Vadim later on.

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