Eighty Days Red (12 page)

Later, having pacified the uncomprehending Liana and paid for a cab to get her home by way of apology, Dominik felt a need for fresh air, if only to clear the heavy cloud of confusion orbiting his brain, and took to the sea front. It was still mid-afternoon. Time had passed so slowly today.

The sea was sullen, spread out all the way to a grey horizon, lines of white dotting its surface, the ruins of the old West Pier emerging from the dormant waves like the skeleton of some rusty prehistoric animal.

Holidaymakers and idle conventioneers shared the promenade with children and joggers, dodging the cyclists who rushed about in their badly marked allocated lane as if they owned it. Dominik felt hollow and as his stomach rumbled he remembered that he hadn’t eaten anything today, having rushed to catch the train at Waterloo without helping himself to any breakfast. He remembered the fish and chip stand at the entrance of the main Palace Pier and he turned in its direction, walking briskly by the parade of hotels, past the Metropole, the concrete mass of the Brighton Conference Centre, and the Old Ship, before crossing towards the pier.

The comfort of the chips warmed him both physically and psychologically, unsophisticated but necessary comfort food for the soul. He quickly gulped them down to the very last crumb and was tempted to take a walk up West Street in search of a small second-hand bookshop he had once visited ten years earlier. By now, he’d decided he would stay the night as the hotel room at the Pelirocco had already been paid for and he was in no rush to return to London.

About to turn the corner, his attention was caught by the multitude of posters displayed outside the Brighton Centre. As well as hosting conferences and conventions, the warren-like building was also a major venue for music concerts and even featured ice-skating in the summer.

He had once seen Arcade Fire here when he had been unable to get tickets for their sold-out London gig. Maybe some music tonight would clear his mind. None of the posters displayed outside the centre appeared to be for tonight though. He walked in to the venue and located the box office.

Yes, there was a concert scheduled for the evening, but it wasn’t heavily advertised, although tickets were on sale, he was told. They were quite cheap, it was pointed out to him, as the band playing saw this as something of a warm-up, a rehearsal for a possible tour away from the prying eyes of the press and fans.

‘Do they have a name, at least?’ Dominik asked the cashier.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ the frumpy middleaged woman remarked, and pulled out a small flyer which she handed over to him. She read from it. ‘They’re called Groucho Nights. Can’t say I’ve heard of them before. They’ve got some classical violin girl playing with them.’ She peered at the small print. ‘Some foreign name …’
Dominik took hold of the flimsy flyer.
‘Featuring Summer Zahova.’
He just stood there for a while, silent, stunned.
‘Groucho Nights, featuring Summer Zahova – One Night Only, first UK performance before their European Tour
‘Their First Complete Public Performance Together.’
‘So do you want a ticket?’ The cashier’s voice brought him back to reality. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
He handed over some cash.
The gig was not until 8.30. Almost five hours to go.
He was about to make his way back onto the street when a thought occurred to him. He doubled back and asked the cashier, who was by now reading a celebrity magazine. ‘Do you know if tonight’s band are already here? Maybe doing a soundcheck?’
‘How would I know?’ was her desultory response. ‘There’s a duty manager on the first floor. He might be able to help you.’
Dominik rushed upstairs, searching for the office where he might get his question answered.
After being bounced from one jobsworth to another, he finally found a guy who seemed to know what he was talking about but was warned that rehearsals were essentially private and that no members of the public were allowed to watch.
‘But are the musicians already here?’ he asked.
And just as he did so, the muffled sound of an electrically amplified violin, or maybe it was merely a guitar, reached his ears, wafting upwards on invisible wings of song from the distant depths of the building.
‘Is that them? The rehearsal is already under way, isn’t it?’
The other man nodded.
‘I need to see one of the musicians, the violin player, she’s called Summer Zahova,’ Dominik insisted.
‘They can’t be disturbed,’ he was told.
‘She knows me. She will come, you’ll see. I promise you.’
‘Listen, mate, it just ain’t possible.’
Feeling like a walking cliché, Dominik pulled a twenty-pound note from his wallet and offered it to the centre staffer. ‘Tell her it’s Dominik, and that I need to talk to her. If she comes back, I’ll give you another note.’
The young guy looked dubious, but pocketed the money.
‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘I’m not making any promises. I just hope they’re not going to complain if I intrude on their rehearsal. But I’ll see what I can do.’ He skipped his way to the stairs.
Dominik stood there, rooted to the spot, the sounds of the music reaching him, loud, muffled, broken, dominated by the thump of drums and bass drowning out any sense of melody.
It felt like an eternity to wait.
The distant music came to an end, or maybe it had just faded away, echoing its way into silence.
He had his eyes fixed on the stairs that led to the centre’s foyer and underground performance spaces but no one came up.
Dominik had his back to the lift and heard a rush of air as the car reached the floor he was on. He turned round. The door opened.
‘There you are.’
The staffer walked out with a smile on his face. Followed by Summer.
She wore tight skinny jeans and a simple white silk blouse, her hair its customary jungle of fiery curls. She hadn’t changed one bit. She looked at him in silence.
The centre staffer also gazed at Dominik, with an air of expectancy. Dominik snapped out of his reverie, remembering his promise, and dug a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a further banknote which he handed to the guy.
‘Thanks, mate.’
He walked away, leaving Dominik and Summer alone.
Neither of them had yet spoken a word.
Looking at each other in silence, hesitant, tentative, as if locked in a contest as to who would utter the first words. Thoughts crashing in their minds like a nuclear reactor stampeding and veering wildly out of control.
Dominik was the one who finally realised he had to take the initiative.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi.’ Her voice was quiet, enquiring.
‘I happened to be in Brighton and found out by total coincidence you were playing here tonight …’
‘Yes, it’s not heavily advertised. It’s the way we wanted it to be. Away from prying eyes. To see how we would gel as a group.’
‘So, it’s goodbye to classical music, is it?’
‘No, no, not at all,’ she protested, anxious he not get the wrong impression and somehow disapprove of her actions. ‘Just a sabbatical, you know. I was getting a little stale and thought going on the road with Chris’s group might do me good.’
‘Groucho Nights is Chris?’
‘Yes. They changed the name. Felt Brother & Cousin was a bit too folkish and they needed a change of direction …’ Her words tailed off as she realised this was not the way she wanted the conversation to go.
‘You look great,’ Dominik said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. You?’
‘I just hope I’m not interrupting your rehearsals?’
‘It’s OK. We were just about to complete the soundcheck. It was time for a break. But I have to go back in soon. The technicians need me for the lighting run-through.’
‘Oh … Time for a coffee, at least?’
‘I can spare half an hour, I suppose. I’m not doing a whole set with the band. Just the second half. A lot of the songs are a bit too loud for the violin. They already had them down pat long before I came along. As they say, I’m just a featured guest. Whatever that means.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘I think there’s a bar area somewhere in the building. We should find it.’
They went in search of caffeine.
Again a wall of silence rose between them as they slowly sipped their insipid dispensing machine coffees in the deserted cafeteria.
This time it was Summer who rebooted the conversation.
‘New York … I’m sorry about New York.’
‘So am I,’ Dominik reluctantly replied.
‘I shouldn’t have agreed to go; I know it now. But it happened. I don’t want to justify myself, Dominik.’
‘Yes, shit happens. I shouldn’t have been there too.’
‘But you were.’
‘I was.’
‘I was in shock for a few days. But by the time I came to the loft on Spring Street, you were gone. Back to London …’
‘I waited a bit, then thought that was the best thing to do.’
‘I understand.’
‘So, how is New York?’ he asked. ‘I read an article in a magazine that you were now with Simón. Makes sense. So much in common. Musically …’
‘I’ve left New York,’ Summer remarked, looking him straight in the eyes. ‘I came back to London just a few weeks ago.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘I needed a change of scenery. Met up with Chris and his guys again and we decided we’d play together for a while. Today’s gig is just an unofficial warm-up for a short European tour. New cities, new music. A bit of an experiment.’
‘What did Simón have to say about it?’ Dominik enquired.
‘He’s not involved. We split.’
There was a moment’s silence, as Dominik registered the news.
Noting his impassive response, Summer felt obliged to keep the conversation going. ‘I recently got involved with someone else, though. Another of those things. I wasn’t looking for anything, for anyone, we just met and things clicked, so to speak. Viggo Franck. The singer and guitarist. You’ve probably heard of him?’
He nodded.
‘And you,’ Summer continued. ‘Are you with anyone right now?’
He knew he shouldn’t have said so, but he said it anyway. He was still processing the implications of Viggo Franck, and the devil inside seemed to be in control of his tongue.
‘Lauralynn lives with me. You remember her, don’t you?’
‘She’s lovely,’ Summer remarked, forcing a smile. ‘I really like her.’
‘Good,’ he said. Then added sarcastically, ‘I’m glad you approve.’
She ignored his barb.
They were both now holding empty plastic coffee cups. Neither of them wanted to make another trip to the dispensing machine.
‘So where does this European tour begin?’ he finally asked.
‘Paris. In two weeks.’
‘Are you looking forward to it?’
‘Yes, but Chris and I are still not fully satisfied with the sound we’re achieving. There’s something missing. We can’t quite put a finger on it. Viggo says we need more oomph.’
‘He’s now your musical adviser?’
‘He’s taken Chris and the group under his wing. Got them signed to his record label, too. Oh, you know Fran?’
‘Your sister, yes. You often mentioned her.’
‘She’s also come to London. We now live together. We’re staying at Chris’s place in Camden Town while I look for something more permanent of my own. It’s working out quite well, so far.’
‘Amazing,’ he conceded with a visible lack of enthusiasm, uninterested by the gossipy way the meeting was unfolding.
‘Still playing the Bailly?’ he asked.
A shadow passed across her face.
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s been stolen.’
‘Fuck! When, where?’
‘Since I’ve been back in London. Just disappeared from a heavily guarded changing room at another gig. I was gutted. I’m so sorry. I know it meant a lot to you too …’
Dominik sighed. It wasn’t just the news of the instrument’s disappearance but hearing her make a concession to their previous life.
This time, he couldn’t control what he said on the spur of the moment, but it came from the heart.
‘You meant a lot to me, too, Summer …’
Their eyes locked.
Unable to sustain his gaze, she was the one to blink first.
‘I know …’ No louder than a whisper.
‘It’s good to see you, though. So often I’ve wanted to get in touch, but could never summon the mental strength to do so.’
‘Me too.’
‘But I’m pleased everything is going so well for you. Apart from the Bailly, of course. It must have come as a terrible shock.’
‘It was awful.’
‘I can imagine. I since found out a lot of curious stories about the Bailly. Did you know it’s also called the Angelique?’
‘No. How come?’
‘A lot of superstition and urban legends, no doubt. I came across the information researching another book …’ As he said this, Dominik realised the Paris novel had not yet been mentioned in their halting conversation.
‘I liked your novel, Dominik. I really did.’ Summer said.
‘You didn’t mind …’
‘You using me as a model for the character? Not at all. It was a lovely thought. Not that I would have done all the things Elena does in your story, though.’
Dominik smiled, a wave of relief racing through him.
Ella, the drummer for Groucho Nights, walked in to the cafeteria, interrupting them.
‘Ah, there you are, Sum. I’ve been looking all over for you. You’re needed downstairs – the techies say they can’t finalise the lighting prompts without you being in position.’
‘In the spotlight, eh?’ Dominik remarked.
Summer rose from the rickety table.
‘We must stay in touch,’ she said. ‘I know we both now have different lives. New partners, lovers. But surely we can be friends. Again?’
‘I’d like that,’ Dominik said.
She was already walking away when she turned round and said, ‘And maybe you can help me find the violin. What was its name?’
‘The Angelique.’
‘You say there are all these stories about it. Maybe they’d give us a clue to its whereabouts?’
‘If I can help, I will. In any way I can.’
‘I have some suspicions. But it’s rather delicate, you see. I can’t really explain now. Listen – phone me, my number is still the same. We can talk about it.’
Her red hair faded as she stepped down the stairs, her round, denim-clad arse swaying in perfect harmony, her scent still lingering in the air. Dominik took a deep breath and tried to calm his beating heart.
‘
Ciao
,’ he whispered under his breath, although he knew she could no longer hear him. And it wasn’t a goodbye; it felt like a hello all over again.

7
Of Violins and Cameras

Losing the Bailly was like parting with half of my soul.
For a few days I felt as if I would never be able to play the same music again. It wasn’t just the unique sound I had been able to coax out of its strings with so much ease

but all the associations the instrument had with my immediate past in London and New York.