The Concert Pianist Read Online Free PDF Page A

point. One owed an almost blind loyalty to such gifted colleagues. Alas, in the second half Vadim’s playing deteriorated so abruptly (it was almost pugnaciously brash and insensitive) that Philip’s softer thoughts vanished. The Chopin was cavalier, the Liszt exhausting. There was muscular brilliance and power, but no sense of discovery, no care for suggestion. He listened with disbelief, and then boredom. The last blasting cavalcade of Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz yanked the audience to their feet, while Philip sat in dismay, wondering what he was going to say afterwards. He had a sick sense that confrontation was inevitable. What, otherwise, did he stand for as a friend, as a mentor?
    After the encore he stood up wearily, and made his way past outgoing members of the audience towards the stage door. An idea came to him like the filter on a camera lens, darkening the sky. The unborn child, he realised, was the ghost of the life not lived, something which, by its very nature, would remain unknowable. For days he had been haunted by the sense of that parallel life, the life sacrificed to art, the life irretrievably lost.
    He hesitated by the stage door and glanced once more at the emptying hall.

Chapter Three
    â€˜Everyone cancels concerts,’ said Vadim. ‘If you can’t play best, you have moral duty to cancel.’
    â€˜There’s nothing moral about you, Vadim.’
    They were seated in a latticed alcove of the Taste of India restaurant. A photograph of the Taj Mahal hung behind Vadim. Two pints of Kingfisher sat on the table, a tray of poppadoms. Both men were suffused in orange light from a nearby lantern, which made them look ill. Bulky local diners sat near by, chatting softly over steamy platefuls of rice and glossy dollops of brinjal. Vadim had ordered to excess, and now leaned back on his chair. He looked a bit gassy after the first slug of lager.
    â€˜Michelangeli’ - he lifted his head morosely - ‘would cancel if one note was not right. One note! What incredible perfectionism!’
    â€˜And Dinu Lipatti played when he was dying of leukaemia! I’ll take selfless dedication over neurotic perfectionism every time.’
    â€˜We are all different.’
    â€˜You can do better.’
    â€˜I did not cancel!’
    â€˜As a favour to me! I can hardly follow you around the country begging you to play.’
    For a second the Russian looked almost submissive. He sensed that Philip was annoyed with him, which was tiring, particularly after a concert. Normally he could avoid Philip’s seriousness, his holy solutions to the problems of life, based on different weaknesses that were irrelevant to him. Nobody had these same musical thunderbolts living in his sleeve. Olympians could not be advised by anybody, however well meaning.
    â€˜Do you play for yourself, or for your audience?’
    â€˜ I play for every beautiful girl in Hampshire.’
    Philip sagged. He had so little energy for a showdown. ‘Shame none of them turned up tonight.’
    â€˜Which is mistake because classical music is sexy. It should attract very sexy women who you want to fuck for the rest of your life.’
    â€˜It did! Marguerite. Your sexy wife. Whom you still haven’t called.’
    Vadim wiped his eye. ‘So I’m married, which is unfortunate. And you’re depressed, which is tragedy. Because you are bachelor and should be over the moon.’
    â€˜Listening to you I feel quite depressed, actually.’
    Vadim looked at him directly. Philip’s carpings were aimed at the thickest part of his hide. He could understand, but not really feel these criticisms.
    â€˜In Spearmint Rhino,’ he began, pausing for effect, ‘it’s hard to be depressed.’
    Philip regarded him coolly. ‘Unless you work there.’
    â€˜The arses are fantastic. For depression I prescribe two visits a week.’
    â€˜Can I have a glass of red?’ he said to a