The Virtuoso Read Online Free PDF Page A

would not be determined by the state of my hair, but each time I picked up my scarf and gloves and walked to the door, I’d take one last glance at the mirror and be horrified by the mawkish face that glared back. I was in a state of near exasperation by the time I finally made it out the door.
    The party was at the house of Noël’s cousin, the poet and music critic Walter J. Turner. I’d studied the A-Z map so carefully that morning that I was able to head straight towards Hammersmith Terrace as if I came home that way every day. I couldn’t help but think about the sorts of people who might be there—musicians and artists, of course; and plenty of critics, no doubt. I pictured them all standing about chatting about opera premieres, drinking champagne and picking at oysters and other delicacies that my father had talked about eating at the Savoy before the war. He’d told me about functions he’d been to, attended by Chamberlain and other ministers, always shrugging off the distinction of these occasions, telling me that these people were just the same as other human beings—they’re only from another class, he’d say, not another planet. Then again, he was only really talking about politicians and other dignitaries, not about geniuses such as Noël Mewton-Wood.
    It was cold and the moon had not yet risen. I rounded the corner into St Peter’s Square when all of a sudden it dawned on me: I hadn’t a clue what I was going to say to Noël when I arrived. All these years—those fanciful conversations I’d had with him, telling him about my life, my music—and all day today, and I’d prepared absolutely nothing! Perhaps meeting him was a ridiculous idea; I ought to return home immediately. I imagined making some comment to him about music, and him throwing his head back in laughter. I had no one there to turn to except Anton, and what was I to say to him? I’d never seen him at a party, only at the Academy and at concerts. And what if he wasn’t there when I arrived? I decided I couldn’t speak to Noël about music— And how was your recent Australian tour? I heard they loved the Beethoven but didn’t know what to make of the Hindemith. No, that would be far too embarrassing, too tedious for him. I’d read he lived out of town in Tunbridge Wells with a wealthy couple called the Eckersleys, and that Nancy Eckersley and Noël bred geese and Alsatians. I also knew he loved literature, painting, antiques, building model theatres and playing tennis. All of a sudden the possibilities overwhelmed me. The more I thought about Noël’s life, the more insignificant mine seemed, and the more I resigned myself to the fact that it would be better if I didn’t speak with him at all.
    At Hammersmith Terrace I pulled out my watch, it was only ten past eight. I was at a low brick wall overlooking the Thames, which ran full and fast belowme, a light wind wrinkling the surface. The moon was just beginning to peak over the elms on the far side, splashing little daubs of light on the water so that it looked like a river of writhing snakes.
    I sat on the steps that led down to the water and started squeezing my right wrist between the fingers of my left hand and then massaging around the joints at the base of my thumb. My right shoulder and arm had been giving me trouble again recently, and when I rubbed it the dull pain, with the occasional electric jab that shot all the way up to my shoulder, gave me a strange sense of relief. Sometimes I could find a point and pinch it crab-like between my thumb and second finger, and it would sustain the intense pain that ran up my arm. I had that point now and the sensation was like a burning wire that ran from my collarbone to my fingertip.
    ‘Don’t jump, you fool,’ a voice called out from behind me.
    I turned around; it was Anton, silhouetted by the streetlights, swaying left and right as he came laughing towards me. He was swaddled in coat, scarf and hat and had a bottle of red