The Tooth Tattoo

14

The four were united again for the next rehearsal at the Michael Tippett Centre. As if to compensate for the day before, they had a spat-free session, rounding off with an hour’s bar-by-bar dissection of the ‘Grosse Fuge’ and then a run-through.

‘The best yet,’ Ivan said, resting his instrument on its case. ‘We can all improve our intonation, but that will come. Some of your playing was exquisite, Mel.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Some of it?’ Cat said, laughing. ‘Good in parts like the curate’s egg?’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ Ivan said.

‘He can take a joke.’ She turned to Mel. ‘I liked your sound, too, sunshine, and Anthony won’t say a word, but he was quietly purring at those last Arpeggios.’

‘Do we have a date for this recording?’ Mel asked, to steer the attention away from himself.

‘That’s up to us,’ Ivan said. ‘We’re not ready yet.’

‘The recording studio has its own terrors,’ Cat said. ‘Personally, I prefer performing in front of an audience.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Ivan said. ‘I always find I can bring out something extra.’

‘Is that one of your Ukrainian customs, bringing out something extra?’ Cat said. ‘Do that in public here, comrade, and you’ll get arrested.’

Ivan clicked his tongue. ‘Isn’t it possible to say anything serious in present company?’

Anthony stood up and packed his violin away, indifferent to the banter as usual.

Cat said to him, ‘Your turn to share a taxi with me and my cello, right? I’ll phone for one now. Want me to order a second one, guys?’

Ivan said he was staying on to teach a student, but Mel said he was ready to leave.

When they reached the foyer only a few minutes later, a cab was already outside.

‘Can’t be ours,’ Cat said. ‘It’s too quick.’

‘I’ll check,’ Mel said.

The driver lowered his window and when Mel asked who he was waiting for, he said, ‘Mr. Farran.’

‘That’s me,’ Mel said, surprised. ‘Is the other cab on its way?’

‘I wouldn’t know, mate. I was asked to pick up Mr. Farran, the viola player.’

‘Fair enough.’ He gestured through the window to the others that he’d got lucky.

It all happened so fast that the taxi was zooming along the road to Bath before he realised he hadn’t given his address. He must have used this driver before, he decided. Often at the end of a rehearsal he felt so wrung out that he wouldn’t have recognised his own father in the driver’s seat. They were heading in the right direction, so he relaxed and thought about his plans for the rest of the day. He’d need to fit in more practice. In spite of the praise from the others, he knew Ivan was right. His intonation — accuracy of pitch — could be improved. With such latitude possible in their creation of sound, string players had a huge advantage over anyone else in an orchestra, yet there were phases, say in a long legato line with open strings, when the pitch should be suppressed. He’d noted a couple of passages in the Beethoven when he needed to adapt better to the violins. Ivan would certainly speak up if there wasn’t an adjustment next time they practised.

The taxi forked left at Park Lane, heading directly north past Royal Victoria Park — an odd decision considering Mel’s lodgings were in Forester Road, north-east of the city. Cab drivers were a law unto themselves, so Mel didn’t question the route. Maybe the man knew about some obstruction along the way. Or maybe he was putting another half-mile on the clock. If so, it didn’t worry Mel, as all the fares went on the quartet’s account and were settled by their agent, Doug.

But when they slowed to a crawl for no obvious reason he tapped on the glass. ‘Hey, this isn’t where I live.’

‘All right, mate. It’s under control. I’m picking up another fare.’

‘What?’

‘Just ahead. Your lucky day, by the look of her.’

A woman was waiting opposite the entrance to the Botanic Garden, hand raised for the taxi to stop. People sometimes shared when cabs were in short supply at the station, but this woman was behaving as if she was hailing an empty one. Mel was on the point of objecting before he saw what a dream she was. She could have stepped off the style pages of a weekend magazine. Blonde, in a short white leather skirt and black top, she was smiling as if she knew exactly who Mel was, even though he was sure he’d never met her. She wasn’t in any way forgettable.

Mel was a ladies’ man. Any lingering thoughts of protest went out of the cab door when it opened and a tidal wave of cleavage almost engulfed him.

‘I’m Olga and you must be Mel.’

Distracted, he almost forgot to move his viola case from the seat beside him. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Relax. It’s all good news if you’re up for it.’

‘Up for what?’

She laughed. ‘Wait and see. It seems a bit cloak and dagger, but from now it’s champagne all the way.’

The taxi was already speeding along Weston Road. Mel had abandoned all thoughts of objecting to the extra passenger.

‘Heavy practice this morning?’ Olga asked. This close, her perfume was overpowering.

‘I’m used to it.’

‘But you’re new to the quartet.’

‘Newish. You seem to know a lot.’

‘Only the essentials.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘The Royal Crescent Hotel.’

The taxi took the turn to Marlborough Buildings and was soon rattling over the cobbles in front of Bath’s best known thirty houses, a five-hundred foot semi-elliptical terrace faced with Ionic columns. The crescent’s position, high above the park with views across lawns and trees to the city, was intrinsic to its glory. Three months into his stay in Bath, Mel hadn’t been here before. He was awed.

The famous hotel occupied the space for two houses at the centre, fitting unobtrusively into the architecture. From a distance the only way you could tell it wasn’t private dwellings was a pair of ornamental trees in tubs either side of the entrance.

A doorman in dark blue livery stepped forward and opened the cab.

Mel was in such a state that he almost forgot to reach for his viola, an unthinkable oversight ever since he’d been mugged that time in London. He snatched it up and stepped out.

In the front hall, it became obvious Olga knew where to go when she crossed the chequered floor to the staircase. Mel followed his new companion up the stairs as if her undulating bottom had hypnotic powers. Powers of some sort, for sure. Whatever she planned next he was unlikely to object.

The doors along the first floor corridor had the names of well known former residents of Bath. Olga stopped outside the John Wood suite.

‘We have the use of this for the afternoon.’

Which beat working on the Beethoven, he decided.

She opened the door.

The suite was spacious and honey-coloured, with a padded sofa and armchairs at the centre and walnut furniture. The windows facing the front were elegantly pelmeted and draped in a gold fabric. To the left, discreetly recessed behind a white wooden balustrade, was a kingsize bed.

At full stretch on it was a man.

Mel came to an abrupt halt. A threesome wasn’t in his thoughts, and certainly not a threesome in this combination.

Olga said, ‘Mel, this is Mr. Hamada. He doesn’t speak much English so I’ll need to translate.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Mel said. ‘You’ve got the wrong idea about me. I’m leaving.’ He turned towards the door.

‘No, please be reasonable.’ She put her hand on his arm.

Something sharp but unintelligible was said from across the room. Mel glanced back.

Mr. Hamada had sat up and removed himself from the bed. He was fully dressed in an expensive-looking suit. He stepped over the little balustrade, bowed solemnly and spoke some words in his own language.

Mel reached for the door handle.

Olga said, ‘Wait.’

There was such unexpected force in her voice that he froze.

She went on with more moderation, ‘Mr. Hamada apologises for all the inconvenience, the secretive way you were brought here. As a passionate lover of music he has been looking forward to meeting you.’

Mel hadn’t supposed this was about music, even though he was holding his viola in its case. After some hesitation he clasped the hand that was offered. Hamada had a strong grip. He was a short man, made shorter because he was in his socks. Mel guessed he was around thirty-five.

‘He has a musical matter to discuss with you,’ Olga went on, ‘but join us first in a drink.’

The bottle was waiting on ice in a silver cooler. The strong grip made short work of the cork. A flute of champagne was placed in Mel’s right hand.

‘You don’t have to hold on to your viola. You’re with friends here,’ Olga said.

‘I won’t be staying long.’

Hamada said something to Olga and she said, ‘He’s asking if he might see your instrument.’

‘No chance.’

‘He is very knowledgeable about them.’

‘Then it won’t interest him. It’s nothing special.’

‘But it plays well, obviously.’

‘I’m comfortable with it.’

‘Please allow him to see it. He’s not fooling. He’s a true connoisseur.’

‘I don’t care what he is. I was brought here under false pretences.’

‘Believe me, Mel,’ she said. ‘It’s very much in your interest to cooperate. This could be your lucky day.’

‘That’s what the taxi driver said before you got in. If this is luck, it’s not what I expected.’

She smiled. ‘You expected to be here alone with me? That was a little game and I’m sorry. Mr. Hamada is my employer. He has a wife and children. He came to Bath and reserved the suite specially to meet you.’

‘I can’t think why.’

‘Please indulge him. I’ll hold your glass.’ She must have noted the subtle softening of his protest.

Mel sighed. ‘He won’t think anything of this.’ He unfastened his case, removed the viola and handed it to Hamada, who gripped it by the neck and ran his hand lightly across the soundboard. Then he held it horizontally and examined the rib and the purfling along the edges. He studied the dark wood of the underside before speaking again to Olga.

‘He says it’s of English manufacture, early twentieth century.’

‘He’s right about that.’

Mel then heard Hamada say, ‘William Hill.’

‘Spot on,’ Mel said in surprise. ‘You do know your stuff.’

Saying you possessed a Hill viola could be embarrassing even among musicians if they weren’t specialists in stringed instruments. The name didn’t have the cachet of the great Italian instrument makers. Yet William E. Hill of Bond Street produced violins and violas of exceptional quality for fifty years as well as restoring a number of Stradivari instruments.

Nodding his approval, Hamada handed the viola back and spoke more words in Japanese.

‘He’s asking if you would be so good as to play something,’ Olga said.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Please don’t refuse. Just a few bars, to give him the measure of the instrument.’

With reluctance, Mel took the bow from his case, tuned the strings, and played the opening bars of Bach’s Chaconne from the Suite in D minor, but a fifth lower, in G minor. Just a snatch of the entire piece was sufficient to demonstrate the timbre of his viola.

Hamada nodded in approval and spoke again. Mel was getting the impression that this little man had a better understanding of English than he was letting on. The translation process kept him at a distance.

‘He compliments you on the sound of the instrument and the choice of piece,’ Olga said. ‘He says he doesn’t associate Bach with the viola.’

‘It was written for solo violin,’ Mel said, ‘and transposed by Lionel Tertis, the English master.’

Hamada nodded at the name and spoke some more.

‘He says Tertis, more than anyone in the world, raised the status of the viola. He played on an eighteenth century instrument of exceptional quality.’ She turned to Hamada to confirm the name.

‘Montagnana.’

A distinguished, but lesser known maker. Mel couldn’t any longer deny that the man was knowledgeable. ‘I wish I’d heard Tertis play. He lived to a great age, but he was before my time.’

Olga was translating for them both with apparent ease. She’d lured Mel here, but he still found her attractive. His playing of the Bach had been aimed more at her than her employer.

‘Mr. Hamada says when Tertis because of infirmity could no longer play to the standard he set for himself, he presented his precious viola to his pupil, Bernard Shore.’

‘I didn’t know that. How generous.’

This time Hamada didn’t wait for a translation of Mel’s response. He crossed the room to the wardrobe, opened the door and took a bulky object from the top shelf — an instrument case. He brought this to the middle of the room, placed it on the sofa and unzipped it. The case was modern, but the instrument inside was not. It was of viola length, at least the size of his own, but of lighter, thinly varnished wood, almost apricot in colour, obviously antique.

‘So is he a player?’ Mel asked Olga.

‘A collector. What do you think?’

‘It looks special.’

Hamada lifted out the viola and handed it to Mel.

The weight was lighter than his own fiddle.

Olga said, ‘He is inviting you to play the Bach piece again, using his instrument.’

Not unreasonable, Mel thought. If you own a fiddle, you want to hear it. Aside from that, he was curious to try it himself. He liked the feel. Now that it was in his hands he could tell it was a fraction longer than his own, but about the same weight. He ran his fingertips along the board. Using his own bow, he began the tuning process. Then he started playing another excerpt from the Chaconne.

The projecting power was a revelation, the depth and fullness of tone a joy. He knew at once that this was an experience to be savoured, so he continued moving through the daunting multiple stops of Bach’s composition for longer than he intended.

Hamada’s serious look had been supplanted by open-mouthed admiration. And when Mel finally lifted the bow away, Hamada clapped and said, ‘Bravo.’

His pulse racing from the experience, Mel did his best to appear calm. ‘Who is the maker?’

Olga asked the question, listened to the response, turned to Mel and didn’t give an answer. Instead she said, ‘If you would be so kind, he would love to hear you play some more. We both would.’

No hardship. Mel launched into Kreisler’s arrangement of a Tartini fugue written for piano and viola, yet possible to perform as a solo. He gave them the complete piece.

‘Now may I know the history of this instrument?’ he asked after finishing.

For the second time, Olga put the question to Hamada.

Mel listened keenly to the answer and wondered if he could believe his ears, or had confused the sounds.

Olga translated for him and confirmed the name of the maker. ‘It’s an Amati, from 1625.’

‘Christ Almighty — I thought it was special.’

Four generations of the Amati family of Cremona were making stringed instruments from at least 1560. Nicolò Amati was said to have taught the craft to Antonio Stradivari and Andrea Guarneri. Amati violas were particularly prized because of their rarity compared with violins. Mel had heard of a 1613 Amati selling at auction for half a million pounds.

With reverence he replaced the instrument in its case. ‘That was an experience I wouldn’t have missed.’

Olga’s eyes shone with amusement. ‘Twenty minutes ago you were ready to walk out of here.’

‘I had no idea what was coming. Any musician worthy of the name would kill to play a fiddle of that quality.’

‘I hope not. We don’t want bloodshed.’

‘Mr. Hamada must be a very rich man as well as a connoisseur.’

‘He’s both.’

‘May I ask what his business is?’

‘Shipping, mainly, but he has other companies as well. Your glass is empty.’

‘My head is spinning and it isn’t the champagne.’

Hamada took this as the cue to refill Mel’s glass. He started speaking to Olga and it lasted some time.

She turned to Mel. ‘He admires your playing. He says a great instrument needs to be played by a top musician. He arranged for you to come here because he wanted to hear the Amati played by an expert. Now he is certain you must have it.’

‘Have it?’

‘On permanent loan.’

Mel felt the hairs straighten on his skin. ‘That’s incredible.’

He knew millionaire patrons occasionally presented precious instruments to musicians. This was how rising artists came to play some of the finest fiddles in existence. He’d never imagined such an opportunity would come his way.

‘How does Mr. Hamada know about me?’

‘He knew you joined the Staccati Quartet. They are respected throughout the world. They wouldn’t play with an inferior artist. The instrument is insured, of course, and so well known to connoisseurs that it could not be stolen and sold on for anything like its true value, but he will expect you to take great care of it.’

‘I’m still coming to terms with this,’ Mel said. ‘He’s suggesting I take it away today?’

‘This was always his intention. Stringed instruments are not meant to be kept in glass cases. If they are not played regularly they can deteriorate.’

‘Believe me, this will be played every day if it’s in my care,’ Mel said.

A smile as thin as a stray horsehair briefly settled on Hamada’s lips.

‘Of course he reserves the right to reclaim it at any time,’ Olga said, and she was speaking without any obvious prompting from her employer. ‘But his view is that an instrument of such quality should be played, and by a leading player.’

‘What am I supposed to do — sign an agreement?’

She shook her head. ‘Mr. Hamada’s view is that even if you broke an agreement and failed to return the Amati, nothing you possess could compensate him. He is not interested in financial compensation. This must be a pact of honour. On your side, to value the instrument and play it to its capacity. On his side, to make it available to you free of charge, to treasure and maintain in good condition.’

‘That will be my privilege and pleasure.’

‘And one more thing must be observed,’ she said, still without obvious reference to Hamada. ‘The loan is confidential. He doesn’t like it known that he collects instruments or makes them available to top musicians. That’s why this meeting was arranged in secrecy.’

Mel immediately foresaw a problem. ‘Look, the other members of my quartet are sure to notice when I turn up with a new instrument and they’ll see at once that it’s very special.’

‘You can admit that you have it on loan. I dare say you would find if you asked that theirs are not their own. But you are not to tell anyone that Mr. Hamada is the owner. He would take that as a breach of faith.’

‘Understood. May I take it to rehearsals — or is it just to be used in the concert hall?’

‘I’ll ask him.’ After more consultation she said, ‘He says play on this viola and no other. Put in as many hours as you can. It can take several weeks to adjust to a new instrument.’

‘I know that from experience.’

‘And in addition the rehearsal process must require you to use the same instrument so that the other players can blend with your sound. Does that make sense musically?’

‘Perfect sense. I wanted to get the ground rules clear, so to speak. How will I stay in touch with you? Is there a contact number? Do you have a card, or something?’

‘Mr. Hamada will know where the quartet performs and practises. From time to time you may see him in the audience. Should it ever become necessary, we’ll contact you.’

‘Is there any time limit on this arrangement?’

‘None — for as long as you and he stay alive.’

‘We look to be about the same age.’

‘Stay fit, then.’ She added with a long, level look. ‘I believe he will.’

Mel faced Hamada again and gave a bow that would not have disgraced a Japanese ambassador. It was the best he could think of to demonstrate his thanks.

The same taxi was waiting in front of the hotel with the door open when Mel emerged carrying the two violas. In his state of unimaginable euphoria he climbed in. He continued to grip the handles, even when seated. He wouldn’t dare believe he possessed an Amati until he got the little darling home, took it from its case and played something.

The taxi started over the cobbles.

‘I haven’t told you where we’re going,’ he said to the driver.

‘It’s all right, mate. They know where you live.’

Just for a second it was if a cloud passed across the sun, but he didn’t let it trouble him.