The Secret Knowledge

Chapter Six

Paige is getting ready to go to college, standing in the living room of her flat hurriedly finishing a cup of coffee when her phone rings.

“Hello, Paige?”

His tone’s friendly but she doesn’t recognise the voice. “Who is this?”

“My name’s Julian Verrine. I’m trying to get in touch with David Conroy. Do you know where I could find him?”

“Why should I?”

“You’re his student, aren’t you?”

“Not any more. They told me he’s on sick leave.”

He chuckles. “Is that what they’re calling it? No, David’s on another of his walkabouts, he does it now and again, goes AWOL and leaves everyone else to pick up the pieces.”

“You’re from the college?”

“I was meant to be arranging some performances, can’t get hold of him. Has he contacted you?”

“I heard he’d had a breakdown.”

“He’ll come up for air soon enough, always does.”

“How did you get my number?”

“David thinks very highly of you, says you’re the best he’s seen in years. A bit rough round the edges but definite star quality: his exact words.”

“Really? I’m amazed.”

“That’s why he gave you that piece to learn.”

“The Klauer?”

“You still have it?”

“No.”

He pauses. “We should talk. You’re obviously quite a talent.”

“Not exactly ready for the big time yet,” she laughs, warmed by flattery.

“There are opportunities even for someone at your stage. Let’s say we meet and throw a few ideas around.”

“But…”

“How do you feel about crossover?”

Does he think he can make her a pop star? “I don’t know.”

“I’m looking to showcase some new talent, young hopefuls, you appreciate I’m thinking aloud here, really we should talk. Lunch tomorrow? Even if it goes nowhere you’ll at least get a decent meal out of me.”

And in a moment it’s all arranged, she hangs up thinking this could be a psycho stalker or the biggest break of her life.

It’s three weeks since she showed up for a lesson with Mr Conroy only to be told he was unwell. Her tutor since then has been Mrs White, and when Paige arrives to see her she’s still thinking about Verrine’s call, wondering whether to mention it. They’re working on Chopin’s Scherzo in C sharp minor, Mrs White wants Paige to play it at a student recital later in the term. Mrs White is nearly at retirement age, has a grown-up daughter in Australia and a son who’s an anaesthetist; she’s fat and motherly, in a purple angora sweater with her spectacles hanging from a chord on her ample bosom. Paige can’t imagine ever being like her.

“You’re still using your old fingering,” Mrs White points out, interrupting Paige’s performance, saying it as if she were disapproving of the amount of salt being added to a pot of soup.

“Sorry,” says Paige. She’s been practising it exactly the way Mrs White wants, different from the fingering in the score and anything that would have occurred to Paige naturally, but supposedly better. Mrs White can do her own fingering perfectly and expects every one of her students to do the same. Paige tries again, they get along for a page or two.

“No ritardando there,” Mrs White reminds her. She chose the Chopin Scherzo for Paige to learn because, she said, it shouldn’t only be for those “big muscly boys”, and the unwanted image that came to Paige’s mind was of Sean, now going out with someone else according to social media and more particularly Ella. The Scherzo alternates between the muscly stuff and what Mrs White calls the “feminine” passages: Chopin, she maintains, was deeply in touch with his feminine side. These episodes are like flowing water, ripples on a lake; the other parts are solid rock. But whenever Paige tries to pursue this imagery she only ends up with Sean, herself, and the foetus.

The family photographs in Mrs White’s comfortably furnished room are more prominent than the piano that serves as support for several of them. The anaesthetist is seen in various stages: nappies, school uniform, geeky graduate, nervous bridegroom. The daughter looks like a younger Mrs White, embracing her own children in sharp antipodean sunlight, declaring success to the world, though Mrs White herself has an old-fashioned modesty that is immediately comforting. Her lessons typically begin with tea and end with biscuits (“I mustn’t,” she always insists, taking a Hobnob from the china plate). Mrs White says she never had any ambitions to be a soloist, would have liked to have done more touring as a chamber musician but had two children to bring up and, well, had to make choices.

Paige has been asked to do one of the watery bits again, she’s got to get the fingering right otherwise that water’s going to pour out of her hands and make a puddle on the floor. All very well hacking away at the rocks but they’re mountains in the background, need to look at what’s in front. And Paige thinks of Julian Verrine, his invitation to what she supposes should be called a business lunch. Can’t help imagining herself on Classic FM bashing through crowd-pleasing double octaves and to hell with getting the trickles right. Definite star quality. Sean opens the newspaper and sees her looking glamorous in a full-page interview. Wishes he’d never hurt her.

Mrs White says they should take a short break because she can see that Paige is getting tired. Very important not to overstretch the tendons. She refills Paige’s teacup and says she’s had a letter from Sarah about the mission, Paige is never good at keeping up with soap-opera but knows from previous lessons that the daughter does some kind of religious work, Mrs White is a loyal church-goer and exudes a serenity that Paige envies though also doubts. All very well to have faith yet what if it’s false? Paige would never discuss it with her, but if the miscarriage came up she knows Mrs White would say it’s in heaven, the little cabbage stalk grew wings and became an angel, when really it never had any life except a potential one that got burned like old paper.

Paige declines a Jaffa Cake and asks, “Have you heard anything about Mr Conroy?”

Mrs White shakes her head earnestly.

“Is it true he’s gone missing?”

“So it would appear. Some fear the worst.”

“You mean harming himself?”

“He tried it before, you know, when he had a breakdown a few years ago. Such a common story, artists cracking under the strain. So easy to become isolated and obsessive. And it all started so well for him, I remember when people were seriously calling him a new Pollini. But that was a long time ago.”

“Beaten by his own demons.”

“He certainly made a fine job of sabotaging his career though who can say how things would have turned out otherwise? You know how heavily the odds are stacked against any kind of success, Paige. First there has to be complete mastery of technique, no one would question David’s, in his day he was astonishing. And sensitive interpretation, again he had it, even if his readings were a little clinical. Then luck, David got his break when John Ogden had to cancel a performance and they wanted a last-minute replacement. But once you’ve got an audience you have to hold on to it, and that means connecting. I don’t think David ever truly connected with the public. I think he despised them, because really he despised himself.”

Paige wants to know more but it’s time to resume work. Her mind keeps wandering and her playing is sub-standard, Mrs White can sense it and soon calls a halt.

“Perhaps you didn’t get enough sleep,” she says kindly.

Paige is thinking about the meeting with Julian Verrine, wondering what to wear. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, dear.”

“How good do you really think I am?”

Mrs White answers without hesitation. “You’ve got huge potential.”

“I’m not talking about that.” Potential, Paige knows, is something that gets incinerated. “I mean now.”

The teacher’s beneficence remains undimmed though her response is evasive. “There’s a difference between performing for one person in a room and a thousand in a concert hall.”

“I want to know if I can connect.”

“You need to do the other things first: technique, interpretation, projection.”

“I’m twenty years old, there are pianists younger than me giving Prom concerts.”

“Yes, and Liszt was touring when he was twelve, you missed your chance at being a child prodigy. But as a mature artist you’re not yet fully formed. A child could learn the part of King Lear, but would he understand it?”

“You’re saying I don’t have enough life experience?” Paige is thinking: if only you knew.

“Yes, I suppose that’s what I’m saying. If you’re asking me about show business then it doesn’t matter, the younger the better, as long as there are no wrong notes. A lot of concertgoers hear Beethoven no differently at fifty than they did when they were twenty so that’s all the more reason for it not to matter, they like to see someone young and pretty on stage doing something they can’t do but wish they could. Given the right PR you could probably have a career like that tomorrow, though it wouldn’t last long.”

Paige wants to ask Mrs White about Verrine, has she heard of him? She says nothing.

“We’re not going down that road,” Mrs White says with maternal firmness. “We do things the right way, college concerts and competitions, no jumping the queue.”

The teacher offers more tea and biscuits for consolation but what Paige reads in Mrs White’s words is a simple message: you’re not good enough. She asks, “Did Mr Conroy say anything about me?”

“David and I have never had much to say to each other about anything.”

“You don’t get on?”

“We all have our own kinds of artistic temperament. Put it this way, the reason why David never did chamber performances was that he couldn’t find players who’d put up with him. A soloist in everything.”

“I heard that his wife left him.”

Mrs White looks surprised. “Wife? He’s never been married.”

“Or his partner. He said she walked out on him. Not long before I started.”

“He’s always lived alone.”

“But he said it.”

“It simply isn’t true.”

“Then he lied to me?”

Mrs White sighs. “He has quite serious mental issues, you realise.”

“Delusions?”

“That’s what it sounds like. He’s always been very private but one thing I can say for certain is that no woman would ever have been able to live with David Conroy.”

Paige is stunned. She mentally replays her encounters with Conroy, instantly reinterprets them, knowing that nothing he said can be trusted. Her star quality is no longer definite, there is only roughness around the edges. She’s gripped by a sickening dizziness. What about Julian Verrine, has he also been deceived by Conroy’s fantasies? Paige wants to tell Mrs White but it’s too late, the teacher is looking at the clock, lifting the biscuit plate, smiling to indicate that time’s up and she has another appointment. With rising nausea Paige goes out and along the corridor, pushing between other students to reach the staircase, hurrying as she goes down to the entrance hall, her throat dry as stone, tears gathering. She’s beside the glass case with its celebration of the famous and the dead, the remembered few, the ones of whom it’s been decided that they mattered after all. She wants to smash the bloody thing.

She tries calling Ella but it goes onto voicemail and Paige hangs up, she starts texting then quickly deletes it. Who gives a shit what Conroy did or didn’t say, or what Mrs White thinks? You’ve got to believe in yourself as an artist, this is what Paige tells herself, though the voice she hears isn’t really hers, it’s the voice of someone she’d rather be, someone who could genuinely believe. The louder voice, her own, is saying: you’ve fucked it up, you should have listened to your parents. You’re good but not great. Do you really want to earn a living playing cocktail bars and wedding receptions?

She needs air and daylight, goes through the revolving door onto the steps and stands feeling the breeze, breathing deeply until the sickness leaves her. The sound of traffic calms her, movement of distant pedestrians, spectacle of life’s insignificance.

“Hey, Paige.”

She turns and sees in his regular spot the skinny protester with his placard on a pole. Only him today. No hat this time, his brown hair is untidy and he needs a shave but the look suits him. Still can’t remember his name.

“You OK?” he asks.

“Where are the others?”

“Didn’t show.”

She goes over to him, looks at the placard with its painted slogan. “Why do you do this?”

“Because I want change.”

“And you think this can make a difference? Doesn’t change happen anyway?”

He starts telling her the kind of idealistic stuff he must say to everyone, she zones out and watches his teeth, sees a tiny white spot of saliva find its way onto his lip and stay there like a pearl, wonders what it would be like to be kissed by him. Eventually she interrupts. “Aren’t there better places to make a protest than outside a music college?”

“Sure, but I don’t want to miss lectures.”

“Revolution has its limits, right?”

He laughs, she joins in.

“Better go.”

“Bye, Paige.”

The conversation has lifted her mood, she walks home thinking about her meeting, it’ll probably go nowhere but you never know. It isn’t down to Conroy or Mrs White or her mum and dad: it’s about people like Julian Verrine. Again she plays the fantasy of Sean opening the newspaper, a photograph of her at the keyboard.

Next day she arrives promptly at the restaurant, a place she’s never been in, popular with media types by the look of it, stylishly minimalist like a picture in a magazine. The waiter sees her lingering at the entrance and comes to attend; she gives Verrine’s name and is taken to a table already occupied by a slim man in his thirties wearing a light grey suit. He stands and greets her warmly.

“Paige, great to meet you, so glad you could come.”

He has a firm handshake, deep suntan, finely trimmed beard and an expensive looking watch. Later, when Paige tries to describe him, she’ll find that this is all she can say about Julian Verrine.

“How’s the piano playing?” he asks brashly, she tells him she’s studying Chopin and he nods approvingly. “Can’t do better than that. David’s never been too much of a fan, though.” Immediately they have alighted on the subject of their common acquaintance. “Heard anything?”

“My new teacher worries he might have harmed himself.”

“Let’s hope not,” Verrine says earnestly. “It would be so out of character.”

The waiter brings water and offers them a selection of bread rolls, a piece of theatre that puts her in mind of Mrs White’s comments about show business. It occurs to Paige that as a pianist she’s training to be a kind of retail assistant, serving up musical morsels with a flourish. Verrine orders a glass of red wine, Paige sticks to water. She asks him how exactly he knows Conroy.

“We go back a long way.”

“You’re his agent?”

“I’ve helped set up quite a few of his performances. Not an impresario as such, but I have contacts. That’s what it’s all about, you know. Contacts.” His moisturised skin creases easily into a smile as he raises his glass to toast their new partnership. “Now, tell me about Klauer.”

The sudden change of topic takes her aback. “What about him?”

“You still have the piece?”

“I gave my copy back to Mr Conroy. He told you about it?”

Verrine cuts into his roll, disembowels it and pushes some of the white fluff into his mouth, scrutinising Paige who for a moment sees his eyes flick to her breasts before he takes a sip from his glass to wash down the bread. “Did you play all of it?”

“Only the slow movement.”

“Odd case from what I hear. Shot himself and survived, something like that.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

The waiter comes again, the next stage of the performance, inviting them to order. They haven’t looked at their menus; Verrine glances at his and opts for steak, Paige finds her attention falling more on the prices than the elaborate descriptions, hopes she hasn’t misinterpreted the arrangement, and orders a risotto involving morel mushrooms and pine kernels. She has no idea where such things come from or how they’re harvested, they seem to exist only for places like this.

“Chopin, eh?” Verrine resumes. “Poor fellow’s buried all over the place, heart’s in Warsaw and the rest of him’s in Paris, though it’s what he wanted, apparently. Know about his eyes?”

“Where are they buried?”

“Paris, I presume. But no one knows what colour they were. Liszt wrote that they were blue, others swore they were brown, some say hazel. Rotted away to dust now, so we’ll never find out.” It’s a sad and distasteful image but Verrine doesn’t notice Paige’s reaction or else doesn’t care, instead he pursues the thought. “So many things we can never know, because they make no difference. The colour of a man’s eyes, even if he’s alive or dead.”

“You mean Mr Conroy?”

“I meant Klauer. Dead now anyway, regardless of how things went. History doesn’t care either way.”

“Not necessarily.”

Verrine looks pleased to have elicited some resistance. “Are you going to tell me about the butterfly effect? Tiny details changing the course of history? I don’t believe that nonsense.”

“You’re a fatalist?”

“No, I believe we can all make a difference. I just don’t waste my time on details.”

“I’m guessing you don’t play an instrument.”

He laughs. “Touché. You’re right, I could never have been a performer. But I’ve helped launch a few careers.”

The waiter has reappeared, this time to replace redundant cutlery that had already been on the table when they arrived, with implements deemed appropriate to their order. Details, Paige thinks. Maybe Verrine’s right, we waste too much time on ones that make no difference.

“I want to know more about the Klauer piece,” Verrine says.

“You already know more than I do.”

“But you’ve played some of it, you know how it sounds. What did David say about it?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“I want to hear it from you.” Verrine’s look is momentarily steely, Paige can imagine him as boss of some big company, calmly firing an employee after years of faithful service, and again his eyes move to her breasts though this time they stay there a little longer. She doesn’t dislike his attention, instead she feels herself drawing power from it, and almost without thinking, she flexes her back, a movement that swats his gaze like a fly.

“The Klauer’s an interesting work,” she says confidently.

“Romantic or modernist?”

“Hard to say.”

“If it was a film soundtrack, what sort of film would it be?”

This is hard too; Paige thinks of the slow movement and tries to imagine the actors it would accompany, but all she can see is an empty landscape, remote forest or wetland, somewhere beautiful yet bleak. “Arty,” she says.

“I was afraid you might say that. No chance of making that your concert debut, then.”

“I already told you, I don’t have the score.”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” Verrine reminds himself. “But would you be able to play any of it from memory if you had to?”

“Why might I have to?”

“I was simply wondering.”

Their meal arrives; the risotto is a little tit-shaped mound that looks like a starter. Fortunately Paige isn’t hungry, Verrine’s manner has somehow taken away her appetite. He slashes his bloody steak with enthusiasm. She says, “You mentioned on the phone about possibilities. Performances.”

“That’s right.” He chews a piece of meat and looks as if he’s thinking of her body.

“So how would that work?”

“One step at a time, Paige. First I’d like to find David so the three of us can discuss this together.”

“Mrs White can give you an opinion.”

“I’m not looking for a reference,” he says with a voice that’s suddenly cutting, effortlessly dismissive. “I want to know why you’re pretending you haven’t heard from him.”

She feels the blood fall from her face. “What?”

His manner abruptly changes. “Only joking, Paige.”

“Why would you think he’d contact me?”

“Because you’re special.”

Conroy’s delusion: definite star quality. Paige says nothing.

“We’ve got to find him.”

So none of this is about her after all; Verrine wants to get in touch with his act. “What if he’s killed himself?” she says bluntly.

“He hasn’t. I know David, the pattern’s familiar. He’s prone to paranoia, sometimes feels he needs to run away and hide. Conspiracies, threats, he suddenly sees them popping up everywhere and can’t cope. Usually resurfaces after a few weeks but I can’t wait that long.”

“Look, Mr Verrine, I never had much to do with Mr Conroy, his mental health isn’t my business. I’ll be honest, I thought we were going to talk about my career, not his.”

Verrine is barely listening, he summons the waiter with a wave of his hand and orders another glass of wine to replace the one he’s drained. Then he says, “It’s you I want to talk about, Paige. But you’re wrong about David, closer to him than you realise. You’re his new discovery, his little star, he shows you something incredibly precious, shares it with you, this lost work he wants you to learn, a secret he keeps even from his wife.”

“I thought he didn’t have one.”

Verrine’s smile is undented. “Joking again. So let’s talk business. You’re young, pretty and talented. That’s a combination I like. But a career doesn’t simply happen, it has to be made. First thing we want is an endorsement, David’s won’t do because to be perfectly frank his opinion no longer carries the weight it used to. I’m thinking maybe Paul Morrow.”

“Send him a recording?”

“We set up a meeting and you play for him.”

She can’t believe this is real. “He’d honestly do that? Hear me play?”

“It’s exactly how he started, Pogorelich heard him at Steinway Hall.”

Paige can imagine it already, the instrument in front of her and Morrow just out of sight, can feel the pressure as she reaches for the keys. Her whole life resting on a single make-or-break performance, the verdict of one person.

“Well, Paige? Think you’d be up to it?”

“Mrs White would never let me.”

Verrine laughs. “Your teacher? What’s she got to do with it? It’s David who’ll be coaching you through this one, assuming we can find him. Though we won’t tell him the plan, of course. You’ll play for Morrow and if it’s a thumbs up I can guarantee we’ll be negotiating a recording contract within days. Better do something with your hair, though, and think about your wardrobe, I’m obviously no expert on that side of it but you’ve got a good figure, Paige, you should show it off. Bit of cleavage.”

It’s dizzying, this sudden vision of herself being wanted and admired. “Can I say anything about it to my parents?”

He shakes his head solemnly. “This is business, Paige, the big bad real world. Not a word to anyone, otherwise we risk blowing everything. What will you play for Morrow?”

“I suppose it would have to be Chopin.”

“No way,” Verrine says at once. “Forgive me, Paige, but to impress Paul Morrow with Chopin you’d need to be world class, and no matter how much David rates you, you’re not in that league. We’ve got to be realistic, it’s promise we’re selling, not achievement. It’s got to be a piece Morrow doesn’t already know, in fact I’m thinking it should be a piece that nobody knows.”

“Klauer?”

“Right on the money. So we drag David out of wherever he’s sulking, make sure he hasn’t turned the Klauer score into paper aeroplanes or roll-ups, get him to take you through it. You learn the whole thing, start to finish. When Morrow hears it, who knows, maybe a new star is born. Here’s to a beautiful collaboration, Paige.” He reaches across to shake her hand, the same firmness she registered at the start, only now the grip lasts longer, his palm is cool, she thinks hers must feel soft and wet. Then he gives her his card, elegantly printed and embossed, bearing what she assumes must be the name of the agency he works for.

“So there’s only one small problem,” Verrine adds as she puts the card away in her purse. “We need David. If he calls, as I’m sure he will, you know what to do. Arrange to meet him and tell me about it at once.”

Paige leaves the restaurant feeling elated at the prospect of playing for Morrow, yet despondent that it all still hinges on Conroy. Verrine calls a couple of times over the following days but on each occasion Paige’s report remains negative. She visits Morrow’s website, gets to know the rugged face she may never meet, Googles Chopin and checks what Verrine said about his heart, his eyes, it all matches, meaning it’s true, or that Verrine got his factoids from Wikipedia. The company name on his card turns out to be some kind of media conglomerate, the fancy site goes on about passion and mission without ever really specifying exactly what they do.

When Verrine next calls he tells her the meeting with Morrow is scheduled, still weeks away. He’s a busy man, Paige sees the filled diary in her head, imagines the powerful feeling of being acclaimed but feels the balancing weight of failure and rejection: Morrow is as hypothetical and unreal as his website. Again she tells Verrine she hasn’t heard from Conroy, and now his irritation shows. “We’ve got to find the fucker.”

“If I can’t get the score we’ll need an alternative.”

“There is no alternative,” Verrine says witheringly. “Get it or the meeting’s off.”

“But…”

“We only get one shot, Paige, and it has to be done right. Klauer or nothing.”

She can’t understand why he’s so adamant, there are plenty more unknown compositions in the world. Mrs White seems pleased with Paige’s progress, but while playing the Scherzo in C sharp minor for her later that week, the picture in Paige’s mind is of decomposing eyes, a rotting heart. During the customary break for tea and biscuits Paige asks with fake casualness about the issue that matters so much to her: has there been any news?

Mrs White nods. “He sent a resignation letter.”

“Then he’s all right.”

“From what I hear, it wasn’t the standard kind of resignation. Said he needed to stay hidden until he could defeat forces trying to destroy him. I’m not sure if he’s getting any kind of psychiatric treatment but he clearly needs it.”

“Does anyone know where he is?”

“I don’t think so. But he got in touch and that might mean he’s ready to look for help.”

A whole week goes by with no word from Verrine, then she gets a call.

“Paige?”

“Mr Verrine, I…”

“This is David Conroy.”

It’s what she’s been waiting for, though now that it’s happening she feels no relief. She’s been convincing herself that the audition with Morrow would be a waste of time, Conroy’s sick and best avoided.

“Are you alone, Paige? Can anyone hear us?”

“I’m on the bus.”

“Get off now, I’ll call again in five minutes.”

She’s on her way to a doctor’s appointment but does as he says, getting up in the swaying vehicle and alighting at the next stop, in a residential area she doesn’t know. She waits on a quiet corner, long enough to consider how she’ll handle it. When he rings back she asks at once, “Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you, it’s too dangerous. And don’t try calling this number, it won’t work.”

“You should come back to the college.”

“Everything’s wrong, Paige. Don’t you feel it? Didn’t you notice? The needle jumped, everyone’s mind was on something else.”

This is what a nervous breakdown sounds like and it’s not Paige’s fault, has nothing to do with her, but he’s trying to make her feel involved, and that’s the trouble, she is. “People want to help you.”

“I’m in the wrong life. None of this should be happening.”

“We all have moments like that.”

“Laura’s gone.”

“I know,” she says, playing along with the fantasy. “She walked out on you.”

He shouts, “The whole fucking world walked out!”

She waits silently until he calms down and apologises. All she wants is the score. “Are you at home?”

“I can’t go back there.”

“Then tell me where you’re staying. Or perhaps we could meet.” Immediately she realises this might sound too eager, she switches instead to flattery. “I preferred your lessons to Mrs White’s. Wish I could have seen more of that Klauer work you gave me.”

“Has anyone contacted you about it?”

“No.”

At Conroy’s end Paige can hear a sound she equates with thought, something like an indecisive sigh and the rubbing of his chin, while around her there’s birdsong from empty gardens, an occasional passing car. Eventually he says, “We can’t meet, it would be too much of a risk. The last thing I’d ever want would be for you to come to any harm.”

“You wanted to perform the Klauer.”

“It’ll never happen”

“Then it’s lost again?”

Another silence, she’s sure he suspects nothing. Right now, Paige feels real pity for this weak man who’s become fixated on her for no reason and is entirely the maker of his own misfortune. It’s not her duty to feel sorry: she owes him nothing.

“Send it to me,” she says, breaking into his hesitation.

“The score? But surely…”

“Mail it to me at the college. Nobody will know I have it. A perfect way to keep it safe. I really want to help you.”

She hears him struggling to find words. “Paige…”

“Just send it.”

“Guard it carefully. Tell no one. I know I can trust you.”