Novel Extract, Felicity Notley
February 28th, 2010 | Published in Volume XV: The Bright Side
In this section: Sebastian and his mother go to the concert
In the taxi Sebastian glanced at his mother. Her hair was white now, bobbed, and her face seemed if anything smoother than it had done two years ago at the funeral. The pale blue of her dress made her seem very gentle, and its softness would be comforting to touch. He had an urge to lay his face against her shoulder and feel the cashmere and the cool pearls and the motherliness.
Instead he picked a safety pin out of the inner lining of his coat, along with a pink ticket from the dry cleaners. He glanced at his long legs in the smart suit trousers.
When they entered the concert hall a small group of members of the Board were waiting. A tall, slim lady with glorious red hair approached them and shook Uschi’s hand. ‘I’m the Artistic Director,’ she said, and her accent was American. ‘We thought it so important that Herr von Elmendorff’s contribution should be marked, and it is a great pleasure to have you here.’
‘We regret that he was never able to attend a concert here himself.’ This from the wiry man at Uschi’s left shoulder.
‘He always seemed to have a project in hand,’ said Uschi quietly.
‘Yes indeed.’
As Uschi followed the two guides around the interior of that little castle-in-the-air that Friedrich von Elmendorff had created, she wondered, not for the first time, if she had really known her husband at all. If he had had extravagant visions, he had kept them to himself. His sensibility and sheer intelligence, so evident in this extraordinary building, were precisely the things that had impressed her in the early days of their marriage.
But they hadn’t seemed to last. Somehow, he had withdrawn himself from her. He had his work, always his work, but never even talked about it. Since his death, strangers now often went out of their way to tell Uschi what a ‘marvellous man’ her husband had been. They emphasised his bravery, his originality. She thanked them for it, but it troubled her.
And now, in this building that her husband had designed, she began to wonder. And the idea that he really might have been ‘quite something’ developed like a wound. She felt a sadness for her loss, and also something akin to anger.
Behind them Sebastian walked tall in his best suit. He heard his footsteps resounding on the wooden floorboards. He felt a strange mixture of pride and guilt. His father had been dead two years and in a way he accepted it. He could even attend a function like this and shine in his reflected glory. It didn’t seem right, and yet, he couldn’t help it. He was the new generation.
Sebastian had always loved music. His father had listened to music and Sebastian had acquired the habit. As a child he had bought records and later CDs of classical music. He worked through the composers, not knowing what the music would be like until he got it home. He had never thought of actually going to a concert.
As he took his place beside his mother in the front row he was excited and disconcerted. The wooden stage started about a yard from his knee and he had an especially good view of the musicians’ shins and ankles.
They were tuning up. It was an eerie sound, like a ship lost at sea, rolling and keening. He longed for it to stop. The rattling and blowing, the fast arpeggios and squeaks… they seemed to him like a mockery of real music.
Eventually the conductor fluttered his baton and the sounds were hushed. A silence followed, rounded and warmed by what came before and what would come afterwards.
The music began. It was the slow singing of the violin. Sebastian listened – and then he found he thought of other things. He saw his father’s face. It was a compounded memory of the many times he’d wheeled round to Sebastian in his office. The expression was serious, not kindly, not severe. There were papers behind him on his desk, architectural papers, beautifully drawn.
As the music continued Sebastian realized how tired he was, bone-tired. He stared, not at any of the musicians, but at a patch of wooden floorboard. He let his gaze go soft. At times he would notice the shape of the music, the mathematical symmetry of it: the piano, which provided the detail, and the overarching violin. He would listen for resolutions; they came and he was satisfied. But mostly he allowed himself to feel how weary he was and this music sluiced through him again and again, gradually bringing him refreshment.
The second half of the concert consisted of three pieces for the harp, accompanied variously by piano, flute and full orchestra. Sebastian saw that his mother had been crying. He laid his hand gently across the top of hers. He allowed his eyes to close. But the music jerked him wide awake. Somehow it was too intimate, too personal. He let go of his mother’s hand, and with unfocussed eyes took in one pair of golden shoes on the stage in front of him, one dark green organza dress and the music – the music, which seemed to follow this random pattern, this order within chaos of the harp’s strings.
At the after-party, it was the harpist who noticed Sebastian and his mother and approached them with a quick step.
As Sebastian saw the flurry of green approaching, his mouth dried. He fixed his eyes unhappily on one golden pointed shoe and it was only after his mother had introduced them both, that he raised his eyes to catch her lively smile.
‘I have such admiration –’ he could detect an East-German accent, ‘for someone who can create something which will last – perhaps forever! Are you an architect too?’ She looked straight at Sebastian.
‘No, I’m a humble carpenter,’ he said.
‘Ah, so you have rough hands like me!’
He looked surprised.
‘Yes!’ She waved her fingers under his gaze and then held them out to his mother for inspection. ‘The strings of the harp. I used to bleed when I first started out.’
‘Elena!’ It was the conductor approaching with two glasses of champagne. ‘Congratulations, if I may say so, on an excellent performance.’
Elena’s face lit up and then took on an expression of mock-seriousness. ‘Daro,’ she said, ‘May I introduce you to …’
She clapped Sebastian on the shoulder and stopped short. ‘I’ve forgotten your name already…’ she said in a stage whisper.
‘I’m Sebastian, and this is my mother Uschi.’
Elena took the two glasses of champagne off Daro as if they had been intended for the von Elmendorffs all along and handed them to them.
‘Sebastian’s father was Herr von Elmendorff,’ she explained grandly, ‘The architect.’
‘Ah, it is such a pleasure to meet you.’
Sebastian looked over at Elena.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve never heard a harp before.’
‘What?’
‘Really.’
‘Well, it was bearable, I hope?’
‘Bearable? … It was unbelievable.’
‘Music of the spheres, that’s what they say. But I’m no angel.’
At that moment she turned her head rapidly in response to a call from the other side of the room. ‘An enormous pleasure to meet you.’ She held out her hand to him, and to his surprise he found himself kissing it. ‘My next concert’s in March,’ she said significantly, and then was gone.