The Tooth Tattoo

5

Two weeks passed and Mel heard nothing more from the “Famous Foursome,” Cat’s term for the mysterious string quartet. Thinking they may have decided he wasn’t the right choice for violist, he made up his mind not to lose any sleep over it. Sure, the money was tempting, but he didn’t care for their methods, acting like Cold War spies, obtaining his address, whisking him off for a secret meeting in a London club, refusing to say who they were and gatecrashing a private wedding party for a second look at him. Out of curiosity he’d Googled string quartets. Would a reputable, high-earning ensemble group be able to exist in the twenty-first century without its own website with pictures of the performers? Even if Ivan was a shadowy figure, the rumbustious Cat was not. He’d found more ensembles online than he had ever dreamed existed, plenty with female cellists and their pictures, too, but none looked like her. If he’d been able to supply a name for the quartet he might have had more success. After numerous tries he decided his time would be better spent practising.

He was starting to think the whole thing could be an elaborate hoax. Classical music wasn’t without its jokers, however solemn its reputation. Generally they struck in rehearsal sessions when fooling about was excusable. Most of it was at the level of sabotaging piano stools, music stands and sometimes even the instruments. On occasions the trickery was more sophisticated, involving players being sent wrong instructions. He’d heard of an unfortunate first violin led to believe everyone would be wearing a red bow-tie for a concert of Russian music. Then there was the percussionist tricked into moving his entire set of instruments into the royal box at the Albert Hall for a performance of the ‘1812 Overture’.

The more he thought about this leg-pull theory, the more plausible it became, but where it was leading? Presumably some kind of humiliation was in store. He’d be notified he was picked for the quartet, turn up somewhere for a rehearsal, open a door and be greeted by all his jeering mates. Was that the sting? It didn’t seem enough after such a build-up. Better think again.

There had to be a bigger pay-off.

With a sinking heart he recalled the Candid Camera show that had run for so many years taking advantage of unsuspecting members of the public. Surely that had disappeared from TV screens, along with its imitators? They’d spared no expense in staging elaborate cons. What if some crap TV company had decided to dust off the formula and serve it up again?

His comeuppance as mass entertainment? He didn’t want that.

Either way, he was obviously the fall guy. Why? He hadn’t been getting above himself, had he? He was an even-tempered, unassuming bloke, or so he liked to think. He didn’t go out of his way to annoy people.

Maybe he did, and was not aware of it.

Or he was a born sucker. He still recalled with pain the night he’d been robbed of his viola outside the Festival Hall.

If this was a con, he knew musicians were involved. Ivan could have been an actor, but Cat was not. She was a damn good cellist. Someone in the business must have persuaded her to join in the fun.

Next question: who, of all the players he knew, was devious enough to have picked on him? Actually, plenty. In his situation, filling in often for violists in ensemble groups and orchestras, there were hundreds who know him by name. Generally there’s some banter when you return to a bunch of people you’ve met before. A few might want to take it further.

His thoughts veered in another, darker direction. This could be a revenge thing. He’d once had sex with a flautist called Destiny who played for the Royal Opera, a haughty-looking lady with hidden lusts. She’d approached him first, literally put her arm around him and led him below stage at Covent Garden where they’d had a vigorous session on the single-ended sofa normally used for the dying Violetta in La Traviata. This didn’t inhibit Destiny in the least. Mel was left with soreness amidships and multiple scratches to arms and back. He’d vowed not to repeat the experience, but Destiny had other ideas. For the rest of Mel’s stint with the Opera orchestra she made sure everyone knew he’d scored with her and she was up for more. Months afterwards he was still getting phone calls and texts suggesting another session. Everyone in the music world seemed to know. He got weary of being asked when he was planning another date with Destiny.

Could she have hatched this plot? On reflection, probably not: she believed in the direct approach.

But once he’d started on this tack, he thought of other affairs with musicians. Playing in an orchestra tends to encourage close relationships. Sitting for hours in rehearsal with attractive, creative people, you find yourself becoming fascinated by physical details, how her hair is fastened to leave the nape of her neck exposed, or how she crosses her legs at the ankles. The discipline of the music means that in moments between playing, a glance, a smile, a raised eyebrow can convey more than it would outside. With a love of music in common and the shared experience of making it as near to the ideal as possible, responding to the conductor, to the harmonics, you already have everything in place for some flirting when the formalities end.

That was how Mel had scored a number of times. Some romances lasted longer than others, but all had come to an end, almost always with unhappiness on one side or the other. It was not impossible that some of the hurt had lingered. He tried to imagine which former girlfriends were capable of engineering a plot like this, designed to raise his expectations and then humiliate him, and he just couldn’t see it. What was happening to him called for a degree of organisation, of bringing in people to help, that didn’t square with any of the women he’d slept with.

Currently he was going out with Dolores, the redheaded fount of all knowledge from his local record shop. She didn’t play (or wouldn’t admit to it), but knew more than he did about all the great artists and ensembles. And while she had a quirky sense of humour that made her approachable, she was most unlikely to be behind what was currently happening to him.

Tonight they were drinking the house Merlot at the Coach and Horses on Kew Green and she looked at him over her rimless specs and said, ‘Something bugging you?’

‘Why?’

‘You’re miles away.’

He decided to tell all.

Dolores listened with increasing interest.

‘The thing is,’ Mel summed up, ‘I hate uncertainty. These people could be taking me for a ride, getting my hopes up about a well-paid job in a high-class quartet. If it’s a hoax, I need to know. But it’s just possible it’s on the level and I can’t afford to let a good opportunity pass by.’

‘How long is it since you met the cellist lady?’

‘Couple of weeks.’

‘Didn’t she give any clue what happens next?’

‘She was upbeat. Said something about seeing more of me soon.’

‘Suggestive.’

‘Just about everything she said was, but she can get away with it. She’s big, wall-to-wall. Have you heard of anyone like that?’

‘Playing cello in a string quartet? I can’t say I have.’

‘But you know all the top ensemble groups.’

‘On CD, yes. I haven’t watched them all perform. Sometimes they’re pictured on the cover, but not always. You said her name is Cat. Would that be short for Catherine?’

‘She didn’t say. Katrina? Kathleen? It may be a nickname.’

‘I’m trying to think of cellists,’ Dolores said.

He sipped the wine and waited.

She took a different tack. ‘You’ve met two of them. Logic suggests that the third will want to vet you soon.’

He nodded. ‘They’ve got me on a piece of string.’

‘Not necessarily. I expect they’re as nervous as you are. It’s a massive decision. Get someone who isn’t compatible and he could destroy the group in a very short time. Did they say what happened to their violist?’

‘That’s another mystery. I asked Ivan straight out if he died or is being given the push. He more or less told me to back off. He’s a hard man, is Ivan. There’s some East European in his manner as well as his name — if that is his name.’

‘Yet he was the first to approach you, and he told you he’d heard you play, so he must be on your side.’

‘You’re talking as if this is going to happen.’

‘I think it will,’ she said.

‘But you can’t identify the quartet. They’ve got to be famous if they’re earning the money Ivan spoke about.’

‘I’m not infallible, Mel. Yes, I may have heard them. I may even recognise their playing, but that doesn’t mean I’d know them if they walked in here this minute and bought us a drink.’

‘And do the personnel change much?’

‘In some groups, yes. Others stay together forever. The same four guys played in the Amadeus for forty years and the Guarneri weren’t far behind. Their cellist retired, but the others carried on. Four people coming together to play music can’t predict what life will throw at them. Someone gets ill or dies and the others have to decide whether to call it a day or look for a replacement.’

‘And is it blindingly obvious when someone new comes in?’

‘To me? I can usually hear the difference in a recording of the same piece. To the players I’m sure there are major adjustments.’

‘And some resentment, no doubt,’ he said, confiding yet another worry that had been gnawing away at his confidence. ‘I don’t particularly relish being the new boy. Comparisons are going to be made. I wouldn’t wish to ape the playing of the previous incumbent just to make the process easy for the others. I doubt if it’s possible, anyway.’

‘They’ll understand,’ Dolores said. ‘Everything I’ve heard about string quartets and the way they work suggests that there’s debate going on all the time in rehearsal. And sometimes in performance. I don’t need to tell you this. You’ve played in ensembles.’

‘Filling in isn’t the same as taking over for someone who has left,’ Mel said. ‘The two people I’ve met are formidable characters in their different ways. They’re not going to give me an easy ride.’

‘Would you want one?’

‘An easy ride?’ He smiled. ‘Of course not.’

Then his phone beeped.

‘D’you mind if I take this?’

‘Feel free.’

‘Mr. Farran?’ Mel tensed. The voice was Ivan’s, the same Beechamesque tone as if he was speaking to an audience. ‘We spoke before, about the quartet.’

‘Yes.’

‘We’d like to arrange an opportunity for you to play with us.’

‘In concert?’

‘No, in more of a soirée situation, a private house, with the three of us and possibly our manager.’

‘Where is this?’

‘We will send a car, as before. Would next Sunday afternoon suit you?’

‘I suppose.’ His brain was racing. He almost forgot to ask the basic question: ‘What are we playing?’

‘Are you familiar with Beethoven’s Opus 131?’

He took a deep breath. The Quartet in C sharp minor is one of the most challenging in the repertoire, a forty minute masterpiece. He’d have five days to prepare. ‘I wouldn’t say familiar. I’ve played it.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ Ivan said. ‘Be sure to bring your best instrument. We need to hear the sound.’

‘Is this an audition, then?’

‘Don’t think of it as such. Treat it as an afternoon of making music. The car will pick you up at two. Do you eat smoked salmon?’

‘When I get the chance, yes.’

‘We’ll have some for tea. Oh, and there’s no need to dress up this time. Come in your weekend attire, whatever that may be.’ This was Ivan at his most human. Apparently deciding he’d gone overboard, he abruptly ended the call.

‘I’m about to find out if this is genuine,’ Mel told Dolores. ‘Sunday afternoon, Beethoven Opus 131. In at the deep end.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Think of it as—’

‘An afternoon of making music?’

‘Exactly.’