The Concert Pianist by Conrad Williams Page B

abstractly at the corners of roads, wondering where to go next. Busy hordes milled past him. Traffic thundered by. On roads and pavements everything was bustle and purpose. Existence without energetic direction, he realised, was a kind of sleep. Simply to breathe, to walk, to drift, was hardly to live at all.
    Around four-thirty he came to, and found himself sitting in a side-street cafe. His mind was working furiously now, breaking down the waves of guilt, marshalling arguments, trying to find some thread of justification. Explanations were required, apologies. He had done the worst thing, for himself and everyone else. All that he could say was that suddenly on stage he knew it was impossible. What those pieces cost he could not pay. His life had been parasitised by an unsustainable perfectionism and enough was enough. The old Philip Morahan had made an executive decision not to be mediocre and now, as he sat with his teaspoon and a crumbling Amoretti between fingers, the bravery of that decision amazed him.
    The pressure of thoughts was suddenly unbearable. Grand gestures begat new crises. He was alone with his music, but more alone without it. How could a man reconstruct his life at fifty-two? What remained but drift and boredom when obsession failed? A failed artist had nowhere to go. Music, already, was a kind of last resort.
    He wondered in a panic how quickly he could clear this up. All kinds of prostrations and grovelling were imperative to get John back on side. Bulmanion was a write-off but, if he could just pull himself together and do the next two concerts, he would have a life. The Royal Academy would let him off. Pupils would understand. He could return to routine at a lower level of ambition, holding on to what he had and not expecting much. The past would lead to the future and this episode might soon be forgotten.
    He ached. His feet ached. His head throbbed. He sat at the metal table breathing the trafficky air, listening to the warble of city pigeons, and it seemed to him then as he lit another cigarette that thinking itself was pointless. Thinking would not contribute.
    Mid-evening he was back in Chiswick. Walking along the pave ment to his house he felt like going to bed and sleeping for ever. Reaching for the keys in his pocket, he pushed through the front garden gate and rose up the step to his porch. He worked the key in the lock and was about to go in when somebody called his name. He looked over his shoulder.
    â€˜Philip!’
    Ursula stood on the pavement. She stared at him timidly.
    He looked at her in astonishment.
    She came closer, almost cradling herself.
    â€˜Are you all right?’
    His heart beat hard. He had not banked on seeing anyone.
    â€˜Sorry to . . . I’ve been waiting for hours.’
    â€˜Waiting?’
    â€˜In the car. Over there.’
    â€˜Did John send you?’
    She was distressed by the idea. ‘You’re not answering calls.’
    He stared at her.
    She looked at him almost bravely, as if to show the depth of her concern. She was flushed with agitation and a kind of embarrassment.
    â€˜I wanted to see that you were OK,’ she said.
    He nodded vacantly.
    She smiled with painful relief.
    He was not at ease with her concern.
    â€˜I’m OK.’
    â€˜Can we talk?’
    â€˜Don’t worry.’
    â€˜Philip!’
    â€˜I can’t talk, really.’
    â€˜Of course.’ She stepped towards him. ‘Of course.’
    She was tall, almost precarious, her neck willowy under the weight of thick hair, tucked inside her collar.
    â€˜I’m not here because I’m your agent.’
    He stared at her.
    She came even closer.
    They exchanged a look.
    â€˜Please!’ she said.
    He tried saying something but had no will to resist her. He turned, twisting the key in the lock, and let her into the house. Once inside, he gestured her into the front room, catching the smell of her leather jacket as she passed. He followed her in,