The Bellwether Revivals Read Online Free PDF Page A

blur in the corner of Oscar’s eye. ‘But I suppose you’ve got to hand it to her; she’s the prettiest thing in the room. Almost makes you feel bad for the others.’
    The first notes of the clarinet were throaty and faltering. Eden heaved out a long breath, leaning back into the darkness.
    Rain was thrashing outside, ricocheting against the roof of the taxi. Eden squeezed into the space beside Oscar and closed the door. He was prolonging the speech he’d started as the cab pulled up, though Iris didn’t seem to be listening: ‘And I know I said this last time, but your
Elégie
is definitely improving. You’re getting it right in the middle section now. You really
were
like a young Eva Janzer tonight. Not that I’m old enough to have seen Eva Janzer alive but, you know, I’m extrapolating …’ The cab moved slowly away from the concert hall, heading towards Silver Street. ‘When are you going to ditch the rest of them? That group makes you look so amateurish.’
    ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Soon maybe. I haven’t decided.’
    She leaned her head against the misty windowpane. Oscar could feel the press of her hip against his thigh. She seemed tired, bothered. Her skin was mottled pink and her hair slightly frizzedby the rain. She looked at him. ‘What do
you
think, Oscar? How did I sound tonight? Be honest.’
    Oscar was still thinking about her fingers, how they slid so effortlessly across the strings, how every note she played—whether it was deep down in the bassiest reaches of the instrument, or right at the very limits of the fingerboard—was crisp and true. He was remembering the shy, hesitant way she held herself on the stage, how she sat crooked over the neck of her instrument. But he found it very hard to come up with an answer to her question—how
had
she sounded tonight?—because, as he’d sat there listening, he’d been unable to concentrate on anything but Eden, sniffing and exhaling behind him. He’d focused on Eden’s presence so much that the group’s music had become a thick cloud of notes, an incessant blur. During her solo, he’d watched her right arm sweeping the bow, but for a good few moments he couldn’t make out the melody. It was as if he was seeing her on 8mm film, with no sound but the steady clicking of the cinema projector, a noise so constant and inscrutable that it may as well have been silence.
    There was no way he could explain all of this to her. ‘Your brother’s right,’ he said instead. ‘You were incredible. I can’t believe you’d even think about giving it up.’
    ‘Not the cello
full stop
,’ she replied. ‘I could never give
that
up. Just the chamber group.’
    ‘I don’t know. I thought you sounded good together.’
    ‘Well, my father says it’s getting in the way of my studies. Something has to go and the chamber group’s top of the pile.’ She sighed. ‘Nearly a year I’ve been playing with these people, and we’re still not getting any better. It’s hard to see the point any more.’ Her expression turned thoughtful. ‘Maybe there’s no use in it anyway. Performing in public, I mean.’
    ‘How come?’
    The cab slowed, and she checked the position of her cello case in the passenger seat. ‘It’s like Eden keeps telling me: why bothergetting up there and playing if you can’t really make them feel anything?’
    ‘I felt it,’ Oscar said. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
    ‘You’re just being kind.’
    ‘It’s basic musica theorica,’ Eden interrupted. He twisted round as much as his seat belt would allow. ‘She’s explaining it badly, that’s all.’
    ‘How am I
supposed
to explain it?’
    ‘Well, I usually start with Pythagoras.’
    ‘The triangle chap,’ Iris said brightly, though Oscar didn’t need telling. ‘Except triangles weren’t his whole shtick. He had this theory about the planets, too—the Music of the Spheres.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Oscar said, ‘I’ve read about that.’ He’d come across it