with so much more power than he ever remembered classical music doing for him before.
‘Fingal’s Cave’ was about to play again for the fifth or sixth time and Noah switched the system off with his remote as he leaned back in the black leather chair and swivelled round to face the desk again. He picked up the CD box and pulled out the liner notes. They were succinct. Just credits.
He had to look twice to learn the name of the violin player.
A woman.
Summer Zahova.
The name rang a faint bell, but he had never followed the classical scene closely.
Someone who’d had her hour of fame some years back, he thought.
He delved into the old files, buried somewhere in his computer’s memory, those concerning this set of recordings. Damn, she wasn’t signed to the label! Had been a free agent at the time, allowed by her own record label, an essentially classical outfit owned by a rival corporation, to play with Viggo and the guys as a one-off against a minor participation in any of the recording’s profits. Which, of course, had not been forthcoming.
Was she still signed with them, he wondered?
He returned home to his Maida Vale flat. Called for a takeaway sashimi. The music he had been listening to still reverberated inside his head, in turn full of languor or aggressive and savage. Mad thoughts ran in conflicting streams through his mind. Reissue the album with some serious money behind it? Contact the artist and lure her to his label, work with her on something new and equally powerful?
He pulled out his laptop. Searched for her. Found hundreds of hits. Rather than open up random links, which mostly appeared to be reviews of concerts, Noah called up images. Expecting a staid-looking matron in evening dress, he felt his throat tighten when a page full of photographs of Summer Zahova materialised. Each image featured a striking splash of red. The Medusa-like curls of her long hair always the centre of gravity, often matching the russet colour of the violins she was holding or playing.
She was no middle-aged typical classical artist. She was young and marketable. Undoubtedly. In most of the images of Summer playing on stage, she was wearing short black dresses, barely reaching her knees. Long legs tense, body captured in trance, her gaze distant as she played. Even when she was wearing demure evening gowns, her provocative playing stance was unmistakably sexual.
Noah felt his throat go dry.
That flaming hair.
Those eyes, so full of craving and, he also felt, unnameable sadness.
The way that, in every picture, she stood taut, unsmiling, remote, every invisible nerve in her system on alert, in quiet provocation, her body lacking in self-consciousness, screaming out its availability, a willing captive of the music she was playing.
Just as he had felt listening to her on the CD earlier.
A further search established that she had issued a handful of albums, all purely classical. It had been some years since the last, though. Why?
He quickly proceeded to download them all.
Noah managed to make contact with Summer’s label and discovered she was, as he hoped, no longer under contract to them. She had, it appeared, not been willing to renew beyond the initial number of albums she had committed to.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Wanted a break from recording. A difficult young woman, she was.’
‘I can’t find any trace of any public concert appearances since, either,’ Noah continued. ‘Just retired?’
‘I think she got involved in some experimental theatre, a play that enjoyed a short run. But it was all a bit hush-hush,’ his interlocutor added. ‘Nothing was recorded, to the best of my knowledge. I heard there was something a bit off about the whole thing, though. She was part of the play as well as its musical director. There was a whiff of scandal in the papers, some reviewers thought it sordid. Tell you what, we were a bit relieved that she went her own way. Always felt there was something of an
‘Fingal’s Cave’ was about to play again for the fifth or sixth time and Noah switched the system off with his remote as he leaned back in the black leather chair and swivelled round to face the desk again. He picked up the CD box and pulled out the liner notes. They were succinct. Just credits.
He had to look twice to learn the name of the violin player.
A woman.
Summer Zahova.
The name rang a faint bell, but he had never followed the classical scene closely.
Someone who’d had her hour of fame some years back, he thought.
He delved into the old files, buried somewhere in his computer’s memory, those concerning this set of recordings. Damn, she wasn’t signed to the label! Had been a free agent at the time, allowed by her own record label, an essentially classical outfit owned by a rival corporation, to play with Viggo and the guys as a one-off against a minor participation in any of the recording’s profits. Which, of course, had not been forthcoming.
Was she still signed with them, he wondered?
He returned home to his Maida Vale flat. Called for a takeaway sashimi. The music he had been listening to still reverberated inside his head, in turn full of languor or aggressive and savage. Mad thoughts ran in conflicting streams through his mind. Reissue the album with some serious money behind it? Contact the artist and lure her to his label, work with her on something new and equally powerful?
He pulled out his laptop. Searched for her. Found hundreds of hits. Rather than open up random links, which mostly appeared to be reviews of concerts, Noah called up images. Expecting a staid-looking matron in evening dress, he felt his throat tighten when a page full of photographs of Summer Zahova materialised. Each image featured a striking splash of red. The Medusa-like curls of her long hair always the centre of gravity, often matching the russet colour of the violins she was holding or playing.
She was no middle-aged typical classical artist. She was young and marketable. Undoubtedly. In most of the images of Summer playing on stage, she was wearing short black dresses, barely reaching her knees. Long legs tense, body captured in trance, her gaze distant as she played. Even when she was wearing demure evening gowns, her provocative playing stance was unmistakably sexual.
Noah felt his throat go dry.
That flaming hair.
Those eyes, so full of craving and, he also felt, unnameable sadness.
The way that, in every picture, she stood taut, unsmiling, remote, every invisible nerve in her system on alert, in quiet provocation, her body lacking in self-consciousness, screaming out its availability, a willing captive of the music she was playing.
Just as he had felt listening to her on the CD earlier.
A further search established that she had issued a handful of albums, all purely classical. It had been some years since the last, though. Why?
He quickly proceeded to download them all.
Noah managed to make contact with Summer’s label and discovered she was, as he hoped, no longer under contract to them. She had, it appeared, not been willing to renew beyond the initial number of albums she had committed to.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Wanted a break from recording. A difficult young woman, she was.’
‘I can’t find any trace of any public concert appearances since, either,’ Noah continued. ‘Just retired?’
‘I think she got involved in some experimental theatre, a play that enjoyed a short run. But it was all a bit hush-hush,’ his interlocutor added. ‘Nothing was recorded, to the best of my knowledge. I heard there was something a bit off about the whole thing, though. She was part of the play as well as its musical director. There was a whiff of scandal in the papers, some reviewers thought it sordid. Tell you what, we were a bit relieved that she went her own way. Always felt there was something of an
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