typewriter – and then of typing the Factory Gate Fables .
‘Just give it time,’ I said. ‘You’re young.’
‘Not much younger than you were when you wrote The Orphans of Neustadt. ’ She smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter, really. Playing the right notes is all that’s required of the viola, nine times out of ten. That’s enough of a headache, as you may have noticed.’
I didn’t believe her, as it happened, but at that moment a particularly strong gust of wind barrelled down the street, giving me an excuse to offer her my arm. After a moment’s hesitation she took it.
We drank our coffee the Russian way. That is to say we had vodka before it and vodka afterwards. I could tell Theresa was not a seasoned drinker from the way she screwed up her face as each gulp went down. But that didn’t stop her. Once the first shot was warming her insides, she was happy to accept the refills. As the hour wore on, I detected a touch of recklessness, an affected decadence, in the way she sat, leaning on one elbow, the glass dangling from her fingertips. I attributed this to the after-effects of nervous tension. Her performance had been an important event, as well as an exhausting one. It also occurred to me that perhaps she wanted to seem more worldly and despoiled than she felt, because that made her a more suitable companion for me.
She came from a small town near Linz. I asked her why she had chosen to study at the Carl Maria von Weber; why she hadn’t completed her studies at a music school in the West.
‘I couldn’t get a place’, she said simply. ‘Too much competition.’
It was also a question of money. Everything cost less in the East.
‘In the West I had to take a job to pay my way,’ she said. ‘Here I can study full time. That makes quite a difference. I’m never short of time to practise.’
She left it at that. What she’d said made some sense. Students from the non-socialist abroad were rare but not unknown. The dangers of ideological contamination were outweighed by the requirement for hard currency. All the same, I sensed in this brisk explanation a degree of brittleness. Perhaps the vetting procedure had been more rigorous than she implied.
‘Your parents didn’t mind?’ I asked. ‘Your being so far away?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m twenty-five next birthday. Besides, my father works for the metal workers’ union. He thinks it’s good for me to see how the other half lives. He thinks I might learn something.’
This was credible too. Though Western labour unions had a long track record of collusion with the forces of capital, still there was always hope that they would one day rediscover their idealism and take up the cause of revolution. In the meantime their hard currency was as good as anyone else’s.
An available place, a financial saving, paternal approval: why did I have the impression there was more to it than that?
‘So what happens when you’re done here?’ I asked.
The table where we sat was very small. When we leaned on it, our arms touched. It meant we didn’t have to shout.
‘I feel happiest playing chamber music,’ Theresa said, ‘but I’ll have to join an orchestra first. If I can find one that’ll have me. It isn’t going to be easy.’
I insisted she could have the pick of the orchestras, judging from what I’d just heard, but she scoffed at that.
‘If only there were a viola players’ convention somewhere. I could sneak in there and poison their food. Cyanide or something. If half of them dropped dead, then I could take my pick.’
‘And what would your pick be?’
She didn’t answer at once. She seemed suddenly lost in thought. Was it something I’d said – or something she’d said?
‘Berlin. I’d like to play for the Berlin Phil. If we’re talking pipedreams.’
I refilled her glass. Up until that point we hadn’t mentioned Wolfgang Richter, but I knew we’d have to, at least once; if we didn’t he would loom even larger in our
‘Just give it time,’ I said. ‘You’re young.’
‘Not much younger than you were when you wrote The Orphans of Neustadt. ’ She smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter, really. Playing the right notes is all that’s required of the viola, nine times out of ten. That’s enough of a headache, as you may have noticed.’
I didn’t believe her, as it happened, but at that moment a particularly strong gust of wind barrelled down the street, giving me an excuse to offer her my arm. After a moment’s hesitation she took it.
We drank our coffee the Russian way. That is to say we had vodka before it and vodka afterwards. I could tell Theresa was not a seasoned drinker from the way she screwed up her face as each gulp went down. But that didn’t stop her. Once the first shot was warming her insides, she was happy to accept the refills. As the hour wore on, I detected a touch of recklessness, an affected decadence, in the way she sat, leaning on one elbow, the glass dangling from her fingertips. I attributed this to the after-effects of nervous tension. Her performance had been an important event, as well as an exhausting one. It also occurred to me that perhaps she wanted to seem more worldly and despoiled than she felt, because that made her a more suitable companion for me.
She came from a small town near Linz. I asked her why she had chosen to study at the Carl Maria von Weber; why she hadn’t completed her studies at a music school in the West.
‘I couldn’t get a place’, she said simply. ‘Too much competition.’
It was also a question of money. Everything cost less in the East.
‘In the West I had to take a job to pay my way,’ she said. ‘Here I can study full time. That makes quite a difference. I’m never short of time to practise.’
She left it at that. What she’d said made some sense. Students from the non-socialist abroad were rare but not unknown. The dangers of ideological contamination were outweighed by the requirement for hard currency. All the same, I sensed in this brisk explanation a degree of brittleness. Perhaps the vetting procedure had been more rigorous than she implied.
‘Your parents didn’t mind?’ I asked. ‘Your being so far away?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m twenty-five next birthday. Besides, my father works for the metal workers’ union. He thinks it’s good for me to see how the other half lives. He thinks I might learn something.’
This was credible too. Though Western labour unions had a long track record of collusion with the forces of capital, still there was always hope that they would one day rediscover their idealism and take up the cause of revolution. In the meantime their hard currency was as good as anyone else’s.
An available place, a financial saving, paternal approval: why did I have the impression there was more to it than that?
‘So what happens when you’re done here?’ I asked.
The table where we sat was very small. When we leaned on it, our arms touched. It meant we didn’t have to shout.
‘I feel happiest playing chamber music,’ Theresa said, ‘but I’ll have to join an orchestra first. If I can find one that’ll have me. It isn’t going to be easy.’
I insisted she could have the pick of the orchestras, judging from what I’d just heard, but she scoffed at that.
‘If only there were a viola players’ convention somewhere. I could sneak in there and poison their food. Cyanide or something. If half of them dropped dead, then I could take my pick.’
‘And what would your pick be?’
She didn’t answer at once. She seemed suddenly lost in thought. Was it something I’d said – or something she’d said?
‘Berlin. I’d like to play for the Berlin Phil. If we’re talking pipedreams.’
I refilled her glass. Up until that point we hadn’t mentioned Wolfgang Richter, but I knew we’d have to, at least once; if we didn’t he would loom even larger in our
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