The Concert Pianist

Praise for
The Concert Pianist

‘Conrad Williams's new novel examines in devastating detail the inner life of a concert pianist undergoing an existential crisis . . . This thoughtful novel hits few false notes in its presentation of the classical music business. Unlike many fictional treatments of this world, it manages to eschew melodrama, despite its dramatically heightened plot. Intellectually engaged with the aesthetics of music and humanly engaged in its protagonist's story, it transforms its material into a remarkably well-made narrative'

Lucasta Miller,
Guardian

‘Williams takes us to the heart of the creative condition . . . [He] writes intelligently and sensitively about music and the musical world . . . [His] rich cast of characters - pushy but priceless patrons, charming but tricky agents, critics and mentors - explore the place of the high arts in contemporary culture . . . [and] the restless and often excruciating journey undertaken by all who attempt truthfully to create or interpret works of genius'

Sunday Telegraph

‘A savagely acute novel . . . No critic, agent, entrepreneur or fawning amateur is safe from Williams's glittering, scabrous and rhetorical assault, and there are enough disturbing psychological resonances to make even the most hardened careerist retreat from the field of battle . . . Would-be concert pianists should steel themselves before reading this novel. The ring of truth . . . is brilliant and enlivening and will stop even the most blase reader in his tracks'

Bryce Morrison,
The Gramophone

‘Flying colours . . . Williams writes with easy grace and an evocative turn of phrase . . . He follows his character's emotional trajectory like the best kind of psychoanalyst, and makes us care what happens to him . . . The book's gradually revealed truths come as a shock, which is testament to Williams's narrative skill. He achieves a series of stylistic tours de force, some involving Philip's re-encounters with the landscapes of his childhood, others moving into the world of dreams. The book ends with a starburst, in which the music of Chopin becomes the vehicle for Philip's salvation'

Independent

For
my mother and father

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Acknowledgements

A Note on the Author

By the Same Author

Also available by Conrad Williams

Chapter
One

He saw a lawn freshly striped by mowing, steps rising to the old terrace, clumps of aubretia and lavender greening up. The house was bearded with clematis. A pair of deckchairs faced the glorious open countryside. He knew at a glance that it had been a waste, or at least a dumb oversight, to spend his middle years living in London.

His heart was beating away. Children's voices were audible. Beyond the walled garden was an orchard. One could distinguish the upper bars of a climbing frame.

He pushed through the gate and strode on to the lawn, shadow going before him. The perfect grass drew attention to his shoes - unpolished. He saw a watering can by a flower bed, and suddenly there she was. She wore a light-blue summer frock. The skirt twisted as she came through an archway, wrapping around her thigh and then blowing free, trailing in the passage of air as she walked towards the wheelbarrow.

He expected to be seen, but she was picking at her gardening gloves and for a second he was frozen by the spectacle of her lost in thought, unaware of him. And then she turned. ‘Philip!' she shrieked.

He could feel the lightness of her body even before she rushed into his arms, and because she greeted him with such delight, he swept her clean off the ground and nearly tottered over. The kiss was warm, straight on the mouth. She looked up at him with as much glee as a happily married woman can bestow on an old boyfriend.

‘What are you doing here?' She was joyous.

He shrugged and smiled.

‘
I can hardly believe I'm looking at you!'

‘Been ages.'

‘Certainly has! Who's that?'

‘Ilya, my driver.'

Vadim stood by the wicket gate, gazing at the countryside.

‘Your driver!'

He wore a black suit and a black polo-necked shirt and looked rather filmic between the cherry trees.

‘Gosh! Would you like some tea?'

‘I'd love some tea.'

They drifted towards the house, Camilla still amazed and not knowing quite what to say or where to start - everything to catch up on.

‘I keep seeing your name,' she said. ‘You were all over the
Sunday Telegraph
a couple of weeks ago.' She turned, smiling. “The Renaissance Man of British Pianism!”

‘Yup. I've got a run of concerts on the South Bank so the publicists are in action.'

She was impressed. ‘Shouldn't you be practising, Philip!'

‘I should always be practising.'

‘I'm glad you're not.'

‘Children?' He nodded in the direction of the orchard.

‘Two.' She smiled with lovely pride.

He was fascinated by the sensation of physical closeness to a woman he had made love to fifteen years ago. He felt the original attraction as a tingle, inadmissible now.

‘I think Ilya would like some tea.'

Vadim had progressed to the lawn, and was considering the view, cigarette tipped between knuckles.

‘Don't worry about him. Where are your children?'

‘In the orchard. Lulu!' she called. ‘Fernanda!'

There were photographs of the two girls in clip frames on the kitchen wall. They were pretty; the kitchen was pretty; the mullion windows framed pretty views. As the kettle came to the boil he strolled around, admiring the homely touches and farmhouse feel. He found what he was trying to avoid on the fridge door: a photograph of her husband. It showed the face of a man beaming with pride. Weak features were enlivened by love and purpose and
a
kind of recovered innocence, as if the possession of farm and family gave him all the future he needed.

Philip glanced at Camilla, busy in the kitchen: a frown of things to do, a ship to run. Her hair was fine and lustrous. It swept away from her forehead with all its original glamour.

‘Husband on the farm?'

‘He's in Salisbury buying a bed.'

‘I like your home,' he nodded.

‘Lots of hard work. Don't go into farming, whatever you do.'

‘Beautiful girls, Camilla.'

She smiled. ‘It's so amazing to see you. Mr Famous Concert Pianist! Is Ilya taking you on a royal spin round the countryside?'

‘Tour of old girlfriends.'

She laughed.

He gazed at her with unguarded nostalgia. ‘I just wanted to see you.'

‘How flattering!'

‘Don't be flattered. It's the same old me.'

‘You're looking extremely well, Philip Morahan.'

She was so appreciative, and this he always liked. She had loved him absolutely for himself.

‘I had an interesting quiz question for you, actually.'

‘Oh yes!'

He looked just the same, she thought, distinguished now, with that high, donnish brow and the glittering spectacles and sharp, nervous eyes that looked at you intimately. His face was sensitively creased, frayed with lines of worry and doubt, as though real life were a constant riddle for the concert pianist; and yet how warming was his smile, that heaven-sent smile, that made you want to amuse him and see his face light up. He had put on a little weight, she noticed, mainly in the right places.

‘What quiz question?' She gathered the kettle.

‘For a maximum score of ten.'

She looked ready and willing.

He drew back a little, hesitating. ‘Why did you leave me?'

She was startled. ‘Leave you?'

‘I know it sounds a bit left field after all these years.'

She shot a glance at the door, suspecting children. ‘It does sound a bit left field.'

He
smiled encouragingly.

‘I hope you're not serious.'

‘I'm always serious, Camilla. I play Beethoven for a living.'

She was amused and slightly appalled. ‘That's water under the bridge, isn't it?'

‘Not my bridge.'

‘We left each other.'

‘You dumped me like a sack of rotten potatoes!'

‘I didn't!' She laughed in protest.

‘I'm not saying you didn't have excellent reasons.'

‘Philip, shush! Now! Earl Grey or PG Tips?'

‘Glass of red would be nice.'

She took the cork off a half-empty bottle at the back of the counter, and splashed some into a mug. ‘There. Change the subject, please.'

She had the measure of him, and this he always liked. Camilla's sense of humour fostered his eccentricity, his awkward directness.

‘Fine. You're looking more gorgeous than ever.'

She could not help laughing. ‘You are hilarious. You haven't changed a bit. I don't hear from you in ages and then you sail in out of the blue asking ridiculous questions. I honestly don't think we were meant for each other. It was a lovely stretched-out fling. And anyway, you were married to the piano well before I came on to the scene.' She smiled.

Philip looked over his shoulder, a door banging. ‘Oh fuck.'

Vadim strode into the kitchen like a foreign emissary assured of a gracious welcome.

Philip frowned, looking away in frustration.

‘Hello!'

He quickly pulled himself together. ‘Urn, Ilya. Meet Camilla.'

‘Ilya?' said Vadim, as he crossed to Camilla, taking her hand and kissing it like a court noble.

‘You're Russian?' She was amused.

‘Ty
ochen' krasivaya.'
He bowed, clicking his heels. ‘Ya
hochu chtoby ty byla moyei seichas.'

‘A Russian chauffeur?'

‘Chauffeur?' Vadim glanced at Philip in double admiration.

She beheld him with outright amusement.

Vadim had a sort of grand sweep to his tread, and yet a young
man's
mock knowingness, too. Despite being the foreigner in these parts, he seemed very at home in English country kitchens amidst Agas and women of a certain class. Dark hair scrolled off a high, photogenic brow, full of noble intentions. His mouth was a rosebud, his nose rather small, his cheeks rather preciously delineated. He had the face of a ballet dancer and the physique of a bear.

‘You're not a chauffeur! Philip, you devil!'

Philip shrugged at his diablerie.

‘Are you a musician?'

‘The Russian Mafia sacked him for incompetence.'

‘Professional gambler,' nodded Vadim.

She laughed brightly. ‘The pair of you! Shut up!'

Vadim theatrically indicated certain needs.

‘Through that door on the left.' She returned Philip a glance filled with delight. ‘Who the hell . . .?'

‘Friend.' He waved it away. ‘Tickles the ivories.'

‘A pianist?'

Philip glanced at the door to the loo. He had maybe three minutes to come to the point. ‘He's got a concert this evening.'

‘This evening?'

‘I'm driving him down to Southampton to make sure he plays what's on the programme instead of switching it around or bunking off altogether.'