château's atmosphere, sonically speaking. Julian had removed the television from the public domain and carried it upstairs in his arms, claiming that if he was going to endure another sleepless night he needed something to keep him from going gaga. And, indeed, by midnight Catherine was hearing, from her own bed, the muted sounds of argument and tender Dutch reconciliation coming through the wall. It was a change from the uncanny silence, but not necessarily a welcome one.
This morning, although she couldn't hear any identifiable television sounds filtering down into the kitchen, Catherine had a feeling it was probably still chattering away to Julian in his room, because the purity seemed to have been taken out of the silence somehow. There was an inaudible fuzz, like the sonic equivalent of haze from burning toast, obscuring Catherine's access to the acoustic immensity of the forest. She would have to go out there soon, and leave that haze behind.
Inconveniently, Dagmar didn't want to go for a cycle. Looking fed up and underslept, she came into the kitchen with no discernible purpose except to check that Julian hadn't touched the eggs in the fridge.
'My nipples are cracking up,' she grouched, causing Ben to blush crimson over his
havermout
behind her. 'First, one was still OK, now it's both of them. Today, it must rainâmust, must, must. And I don't understand why you people let that asshole Wim Waafels go without hurting him.'
Having run out of non sequiturs, she slammed the door of the refrigerator and tramped out of the kitchen.
Catherine and Ben sat in silence as they heard Dagmar ambush Roger in the next room and start an argument with him. The German girl's voice came through loud and clear, an angry contralto of penetrating musicality. Roger's baritone was more muted, his words of pained defence losing some of their clarity as they passed through the walls.
'There was never any suggestion,' he was saying, 'that we had any choiceâ¦'
'I'm a singer,' Dagmar reminded him. 'Not a doll for nutcases to play with.'
Roger's voice droned reasonably: 'â¦multimedia event ⦠we are only one of those media ⦠problem with all collaborations ⦠compromise ⦠I'm not a Catholic, but I sing settings of the Latin Massâ¦'
'This is the Dresden Staatsoper all over again!'
On and on they went, until the listeners ceased to take in the words. Instead, Catherine and Ben let the sound of the arguers' voices wallow in the background, an avant-garde farrago of
Sprechstimme.
By and by, Julian came downstairs and, smelling blood, gave mere coffee and toast a miss and joined the fray instead.
This was too much for Roger: fearing unfair odds, he called a meeting of the Consort as a whole, and the five of them sat in the front room where they had sung
Partitum Mutante
so endlessly, and bickered.
'The way to stop this sort of fiasco ever happening again,' declared Julian, 'is to price ourselves right out of the loony market.'
'What on earth do you mean by that, Julian?' sighed Roger.
'Sing much more popular repertoire and command higher ticket prices. Do more recordings, get our pretty faces known far and wide. Then, whenever we're offered a commission, we pick and choose. And keep some sort of right of veto. No Italian arms dealers, no gynaecology buffs.'
'But,' Roger winced, 'hasn't our strength always lain in our courage?âthat is, our ⦠um ⦠willingness to be open to new things?'
Catherine started giggling, thinking of the yawning vulva that was waiting to 'enfelope' them all.
'Perhaps Kate is, in her own way, reminding us of the need for a sense of humour,' Roger suggested rather desperately.
'No, no, I was just ⦠never mind,' said Catherine, still chortling into the back of her hand. Roger was staring at her mistrustfully, imploringly: she knew very well he was trying to decide how crazy she was at this moment, how badly she might let him down. He needed her to be on his
This morning, although she couldn't hear any identifiable television sounds filtering down into the kitchen, Catherine had a feeling it was probably still chattering away to Julian in his room, because the purity seemed to have been taken out of the silence somehow. There was an inaudible fuzz, like the sonic equivalent of haze from burning toast, obscuring Catherine's access to the acoustic immensity of the forest. She would have to go out there soon, and leave that haze behind.
Inconveniently, Dagmar didn't want to go for a cycle. Looking fed up and underslept, she came into the kitchen with no discernible purpose except to check that Julian hadn't touched the eggs in the fridge.
'My nipples are cracking up,' she grouched, causing Ben to blush crimson over his
havermout
behind her. 'First, one was still OK, now it's both of them. Today, it must rainâmust, must, must. And I don't understand why you people let that asshole Wim Waafels go without hurting him.'
Having run out of non sequiturs, she slammed the door of the refrigerator and tramped out of the kitchen.
Catherine and Ben sat in silence as they heard Dagmar ambush Roger in the next room and start an argument with him. The German girl's voice came through loud and clear, an angry contralto of penetrating musicality. Roger's baritone was more muted, his words of pained defence losing some of their clarity as they passed through the walls.
'There was never any suggestion,' he was saying, 'that we had any choiceâ¦'
'I'm a singer,' Dagmar reminded him. 'Not a doll for nutcases to play with.'
Roger's voice droned reasonably: 'â¦multimedia event ⦠we are only one of those media ⦠problem with all collaborations ⦠compromise ⦠I'm not a Catholic, but I sing settings of the Latin Massâ¦'
'This is the Dresden Staatsoper all over again!'
On and on they went, until the listeners ceased to take in the words. Instead, Catherine and Ben let the sound of the arguers' voices wallow in the background, an avant-garde farrago of
Sprechstimme.
By and by, Julian came downstairs and, smelling blood, gave mere coffee and toast a miss and joined the fray instead.
This was too much for Roger: fearing unfair odds, he called a meeting of the Consort as a whole, and the five of them sat in the front room where they had sung
Partitum Mutante
so endlessly, and bickered.
'The way to stop this sort of fiasco ever happening again,' declared Julian, 'is to price ourselves right out of the loony market.'
'What on earth do you mean by that, Julian?' sighed Roger.
'Sing much more popular repertoire and command higher ticket prices. Do more recordings, get our pretty faces known far and wide. Then, whenever we're offered a commission, we pick and choose. And keep some sort of right of veto. No Italian arms dealers, no gynaecology buffs.'
'But,' Roger winced, 'hasn't our strength always lain in our courage?âthat is, our ⦠um ⦠willingness to be open to new things?'
Catherine started giggling, thinking of the yawning vulva that was waiting to 'enfelope' them all.
'Perhaps Kate is, in her own way, reminding us of the need for a sense of humour,' Roger suggested rather desperately.
'No, no, I was just ⦠never mind,' said Catherine, still chortling into the back of her hand. Roger was staring at her mistrustfully, imploringly: she knew very well he was trying to decide how crazy she was at this moment, how badly she might let him down. He needed her to be on his
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