The Tooth Tattoo(71)

Diamond shook his head. ‘Too busy with other things, unfortunately.’

‘But you know Beethoven.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

‘You can speak to Ivan, tell him you were listening to us and it was too quick.’

‘Me? He wouldn’t take advice from me.’

‘For all he knows, you could be one of our audience.’

‘With luck, I will be tomorrow night, but I’m in no position to tell a man of his experience how to play.’ He was fast running out of musical conversation, but he knew it was the only way to make progress with Anthony. ‘Is there an interval?’

Anthony frowned. ‘It’s full of intervals.’

‘Not the music. I mean a break during the concert for people to walk about.’

‘That will be too late.’

‘I’m not planning to speak to Ivan. I was wondering what comes after.’

‘After the interval? Some solo pieces.’

‘From you?’

Anthony shook his head. ‘The others.’

‘All three?’

‘All three instruments. Violin, viola and cello.’

‘Nice. I can’t wait. But what about you? I heard you’re a brilliant violinist. Don’t you give solos?’

The lips tightened.

‘Sorry I asked,’ Diamond said. ‘You’re more of a team player?’

No response. After going so well, this had hit the buffers.

‘Do you happen to remember what music you played in the first few concerts the quartet gave?’

‘Yes.’

Anthony’s precise responses came with the mental condition. They could be a barrier to progress when you expected more. ‘I’d like to be told,’ Diamond said.

‘Beethoven Opus 131, Quartet Number 14 in C sharp minor. Schubert Number 14 in D minor. Haydn Opus 74, Number 3 in G minor. Shall I continue?’

‘Wonderful, but no need. And do you also recall where you played?’

Anthony frowned. ‘No.’

‘I heard you go to some splendid houses, perfect for chamber music.’

‘I’ve forgotten.’ The gracious drawing rooms of Somerset and Avon, their Baroque splendour enhanced by candlelight, had already been deleted from this young man’s discriminating memory. Only the music counted for anything.

‘They don’t make an impression?’

‘I’m not there for the architecture. You can ask one of the others.’

‘But you remember every note of the music? Am I right?’

‘Not every note. We have the score in front of us.’

‘And how was your playing received?’

‘All right.’

‘Would you happen to remember if one of the audience spoke to you afterwards about your playing?’

‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘What they had to say. If it was only praise I wouldn’t bother. We get a lot of that.’

‘I’m sure it’s all well meant,’ Diamond said. ‘Is there anything you would remember?’

‘Intelligent remarks.’

‘Intelligent remarks about what?’

‘The music.’

One relentless track.

Diamond took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as the stress we give to the fourth note in the opening of the Beethoven Opus 131, Number 14. Ivan is the player, not me, and it’s a signature moment that sets the tone for all that follows. It can sound disruptive, the transition from G sharp to A. They’re separated by a full bar. He draws it upwards a fraction on the G and then slips back to the same pitch after leaving the A.’

It was about as clear to Diamond as the second law of thermodynamics. ‘Thank you for explaining. Did one of the audience raise this with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘A woman?’

‘A man.’

Another hope dashed.

‘Can you think of a comment a woman made after one of those early concerts?’

Anthony frowned, as if deciding whether the question came within his span of attention. ‘One told me our performance of the Schubert was superior to the recording she has of the original Staccati. Since then I’ve listened to the piece myself, and she was right.’

‘Do you remember who she was, this woman who spoke to you?’

‘The wife of the man who owned the house.’

In his long career, Diamond couldn’t remember an interview as tough as this. Each door slammed shut before he could get inside. ‘Wasn’t there another woman who approached you, a younger woman, Japanese?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘You would if she had something of interest to say about the music.’

Anthony shrugged as if to say, ‘You tell me.’