The Pyramid Page 11

  “I’m not. No. I warn you, Mother—”

  “And of course a gipsy plays to them and it’s then they fall in love—”

  “No!”

  I noticed that my father would not look at either of us but was inspecting his cup as if he were reading his fortune in it.

  “Just imagine,” said my mother. “He plays and they have this most moving conversation and after the king’s given him a purse of gold he goes out; and very softly the orchestra takes up what the gipsy played and he—the king I mean—starts to sing at the table close to her”—and my excited mother began to sing, with immense passion—“‘Morning is dawning, dear child, in my heart—’”

  “I won’t!”

  “Now, Oliver,” said my mother, her passion calming, “don’t be trying. We’ve had young Smith as a gipsy with silk strings and father playing for him but he’s no good. He simply can’t move his bow in time with the music. So I promised Mr. De Tracy. For the last performance tomorrow, I said, my son Oliver will be glad to play—”

  I grabbed desperately at a straw.

  “Look, Mother! I don’t play the wretched instrument nowadays! And I couldn’t learn anything for tomorrow if I tried.”

  “You don’t have to, dear.”

  “What does this gipsy do then? Carry a music stand and Augener’s Edition round with him?”

  “It’s that music you were playing before you went up to Oxford,” said my mother. “You remember how much you liked it, dear, because you played it all day and every day for three weeks! I thought you played it very nicely.”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. I looked accusingly at my father but he was still inspecting his cup. I looked accusingly at my mother; but she was placid again, smiling and triumphant.

  *

  On Saturday morning, next day, I went resignedly with my mother to the Town Hall. We entered from the big doors at the west end, and three people were waiting for us. Mr. Claymore and Imogen were seated at a small table on the stage. I was mercifully saved from an official introduction because when I followed my mother who was walking busily up the hall, the latch of my violin case came undone and I spilt the lot on the floor. Retrieving this took me all my time, so that I was standing, bow in one hand and violin in the other, before anyone paid any attention to me. I looked at Imogen and she gave me her wonderful crinkly smile but said nothing because Mr. Claymore was talking, with his voice that sounded always to me like a finger nail scratching frosted glass.

  “He’s here, Evelyn. We shan’t need to do more than run through just that bit of dialogue, shall we?”

  I thought hazily at first that this itself must be part of the play because the figure that emerged from the wings on my left was in costume.

  “Mr. De Tracy,” said my mother. “This is my son, Oliver, Oliver, dear, this is Mr. Evelyn De Tracy.”

  Mr. De Tracy bowed very low but did not say anything. He simply smiled down at me from the stage and waited. He was very tall and thin. He wore check trousers without cuffs and a jacket so longskirted it came almost to the knee. He also wore a wing collar and a black stock above an embroidered waistcoat. I wondered what such a figure was doing in Hungary or Ruritania. It was good of him to act as well as produce.

  But Mr. Claymore was getting restless, which was surprising on a Saturday morning. He went to press on Thursday night. My mother turned to me.

  “Are you in tune, dear?”

  I got round the green baize curtain that separated the orchestra from the audience and took an A from the piano. While I tuned, Mr. Claymore talked to Mr. De Tracy.

  “Shall I do this, Evelyn, or will you?”

  I noticed then a curious thing about Mr De Tracy. He shook. He did not alter the expression on his long face which always wore a moony smile, an invariable smile with lips slightly parted, but his long body shook, three or four shakes and was still again. This shaking included his legs, which had a tendency to move sideways at the knee.

  “You, Norman, I think. What a professional you’d have been!”

  Mr. Claymore swelled.

  “Just to save you trouble, Evelyn old man.”

  “And an old pro like me is always willing to learn, Norman. You have an undoubted flair.”

  Mr. Claymore smiled with gratification.

  “I don’t deny that I’ve sometimes wondered—However. Let me think for a moment.”

  He thought, receding chin on white hand. Mr. De Tracy continued to gaze down on me with his moony smile. His eyes were large and like a pair of old billiard balls, with minute pupils so that the balls seemed both to be marked for Spot. His hair was gone on top except for a tiny black tuft that was trained slanting back. His smile was enigmatic and friendly.

  Mr. Claymore sat up.

  “Righty ho! Hop up here, laddy!”

  I climbed on the platform and stood within a yard of Imogen.

  “Now here’s the scene,” said the gnatlike voice. “You see wealthy customers and you steal your music closer and closer until you’re playing—here. You can play the umpty-tum bit until I speak. Then you have to cut right down, getting softer and softer until I throw this bag of gold to you. You bow to me very low, very low and back out. Understand?”

  Imogen was wearing an orange pullover and a light green skirt. I could see the gold band under the sparkling engagement ring.

  “My God! The boy’s not been listening! Now see here, young Olly—”

  “Very difficult, coming in like this,” said Mr. De Tracy softly from behind me. “I expect he’s a bit diffident. I know I should be.”

  “Did you hear all I said?”

  “Yes, Mr. Claymore.”

  “Norman, I think, don’t you? He ought to know where to enter. It would be a help, wouldn’t it?”

  “He’ll come in where that oaf Smith came in, of course.”

  Mr. De Tracy’s voice was beautifully clear and gentle and he used it slowly, drop by drop, as if he knew how precious it was.

  “Perhaps—perhaps he doesn’t know that Smith entered through here, up stage, centre.”

  Mr. Claymore laid a fist on his forehead and shut his eyes.

  “He wasn’t in front last night, then!”

  My mother spoke from the hall.

  “He came back from Oxford very late. It was his Don Rag you know! They were very pleased with him, weren’t they, Oliver?”

  Mr. Claymore placed his fist on the table and opened his eyes.

  “I was assured he would be in front, to get the feel of the thing!”

  Mr. De Tracy vibrated and was still.

  “We must do the best we can, Norman, old man.”

  “Righty ho. Now then, young Oliver. You start playing when I say, ‘I’m beginning to find it the most enchanting place in the world.’ Understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. Claymore.”

  “And when I say, ‘The music tells you what I cannot—what I dare not tell you!’ Then you cut right down.”

  “Yes, Mr. Claymore.”

  I went and stood behind a canvas flat. There was eighteen inches between it and the cloth hung up as a cyclorama. Imogen spoke with her lovely voice.

  “It is a strange, a haunted place. It frightens me!”

  “I’m beginning to find it the most enchanting—no, hold it. I’m beginning to find it the most enchanting place in the world!”

  I walked on to the platform and began to play, but stopped soon, because Mr. Claymore had stood up and was waving his arms.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  Mr. De Tracy had his arm round my shoulders and was patting my right elbow.

  “Norman old man. I think you should leave this to me. Solely to conserve your voice and your strength for tonight. Um?”

  Mr. Claymore collapsed in the chair and laughed sarcastically.

  “If you say so, Evelyn!”

  He drummed with his fingers on the table until Imogen laid her hand over his and looked at him understandingly. But Mr. De Tracy was dropping his clear, gentl
e words in my ear.

  “You play so beautifully, dear boy, that we must get this exactly right. Mustn’t we? Um? Now if you come in with those splendid strides, you’ll be right down here, within six inches of the orchestra pit before you’ve played a note to the king and the princess who are back there. On the other hand, if you only take one splendid stride”—and all the time his hand patted gently—“you won’t look like a properly servile, obsequious, deferential gipsy musician, now will you? Um?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Call me Evelyn, dear boy. Everybody does. And I shall call you Oliver. Um? Now let’s just practise the entrance once or twice—yes. You see you must take a lot of little steps, almost putting your feet down in the same place; and that will make the stage look bigger, to the audience—believe it or not. Splendid!”

  By now I was crouched so low I had a good view of Mr. De Tracy’s knees and marvelled at the way the joints could move sideways so freely and quickly.

  “Oliver, dear boy, don’t tell me! You’ve acted before! Um?”

  “No I haven’t. Honestly.”

  “Not at school, even?”

  “They tried me, but I break things.”

  “Madam, I congratulate you on your son.”

  My mother laughed invisibly from the hall.

  “Oh Mr. De Tracy! I’m sure—”

  “A natural talent, in addition to his splendid playing—Now. Are we all ready?”

  Mr. Claymore laughed sarcastically again.

  “We’ve been ready for some time!”

  “Right, Oliver, dear boy.”

  “‘I’m beginning to find it the most enchanting place in the world!’”

  I entered with tiny steps and played, waiting for the cue to go pianissimo but it did not come. Instead, Mr. Claymore stood up again and began to wave his arms about. I stopped.

  “But it’s impossible! Quite impossible! Oh, my God!”

  “I was waiting for you to say—”

  “But I said it! I shouted it!”

  This time, Mr. De Tracy had his arm round Mr. Claymore’s shoulder.

  “Norman, old man, I’m going to bully you. And you can take it, can’t you?”

  “My God, My God!”

  “It’s temperament, you see. Calm down, old man. Better?”

  “My God—”

  There was a long silence while Mr. De Tracy patted. Mr. Claymore took his fist from his forehead and opened his eyes. Imogen gave him her wonderful, crinkly smile. Mr. Claymore dropped his head towards Mr. De Tracy’s shoulder, gripped his left biceps and squeezed hard.

  “Sorry, Evelyn, old man.”

  “That’s all right, Norman, old man. I wonder. Should we break?”

  “No, no.”

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t—”

  “No.”

  Mr. Claymore flung back his head, smoothed back his hair and processed to his seat.

  Once more, Imogen put her hand over his. Mr. De Tracy turned smiling to me.

  “Somehow or other, laddy, we must—scale down. We must—how shall I say?”

  He put one hand to his chin, and the spots on his yellow billiard balls stared into the darkness of the hall.

  “We must—” He took his hand away from his chin and holding it out in the air, rotated it in a half circle, all the time holding something invisible between his finger and thumb—“turn down the volume!”

  The gnat voice sang from the table.

  “His father has a whatd’youmecallit on his fiddle.”

  Mr. De Tracy spread his arms wide.

  “What was I thinking of? A mute! The very thing!”

  “Oh no indeed,” cried my mother from the darkness. “Oliver couldn’t possibly use a mute! Why, I never heard such foolishness in my life!”

  “Look, Mother—”

  “Gently, Norman, gently. Let me handle this. You save your strength for the performance. Now Madam—” and Mr. De Tracy smiled moonily down the hall, his face on one side, “—pray why should your son not use a mute?”

  My mother’s voice came tartly up at us.

  “Because he’ll be up there, and everybody will see it!”

  “It’s a point, Norman, old man.”

  “They won’t notice, Evelyn, old man, they’d be looking at the king and the princess. He’s entirely incidental.”

  “Of course they’ll be looking at Oliver, Mr. Claymore! And listening to him! I must say, if you can’t speak loudly enough to be heard above a single violin played at the very back of the stage—”

  “A single violin,” sang Mr. Claymore. “The boy sounds like a brass band!”

  “He’s kindly consented to play for you and I will not have him—”

  “Gently, Norman, old man. Sit down. You too, Imogen, dearest lady. Madam—”

  “There’s far too little consideration shown to the musicians in this production!”

  Mr. Claymore struck his forehead then slumped on the table.

  “I’m so tired. God. So tired.”

  We were all silent. Looking down, embarrassed, I saw how widely and rapidly Mr. De Tracy’s knees were opening and shutting and wondered if he was about to fall. I spoke a bit sheepishly and hesitantly.

  “I was thinking—there’s—a trick—”

  Mr. De Tracy continued to smile, mouth slightly open, spot balls looking deeply down into my eyes.

  “Yes, laddy? Oliver?”

  “It’s just a trick, you see. Only—if I use a penny. An old one’s best. Yes, this’ll do. Between the bridge and the tail. You see if I—I’ll have to let the strings down a bit. Then if I—like this. Wedge the penny over the A string, then under the D and over the G again—There. Like that. Then tune again, of course. It won’t affect the E string much, but I don’t use it much in this—stuff. There. Wait a moment while I get tuned up.”

  “They won’t see it, Mr. Claymore. I hope you’re satisfied. Now nobody will hear Oliver at all.”

  Mr. De Tracy gazed at me reverently.

  “Genius. Sheer genius.”

  “So tired. God.”

  “Evelyn, I do think Norman has had enough—”

  “Imogen, dearest lady, sweet friend—the play’s the thing. Norman, old man, I’m going to bully you again. Once more; and then—nice drinkies. Ready, Oliver, laddy?”

  “‘I’m beginning to find it the most enchanting place in the world!’”

  By turning my head sideways on the rest so that my ear was practically among the strings, I could just make out a thread of sound. My other ear could just hear Mr. Claymore. We were a couple of gnats. I began to get interested in the phenomenon of this ghostly playing, but before I had finished, Mr. Claymore plucked a small bag from his pocket and tossed it high into the air in my direction.

  “You’ll have to catch it, laddy,” said Mr. De Tracy, his natural voice, gentle as it was, booming among the gnats. “And if you miss it you’ll have to grovel.”

  “Yes sir. Was that all right?”

  “Perfect. Exquisite.”

  “I couldn’t hear him at all,” cried my mother from the back of the hall. “Not one note!”

  Mr. Claymore glared into the darkness.

  “This is an intimate scene,” he sang. “You’ll be saying you can’t hear me next!”

  My mother laughed, gaily.

  “Well to tell you the truth—”

  “Evelyn, old man! An idea! We can use him! To dress the big scene—just before the Great Duet! You remember?”

  “Of course, old man. But he can hardly be a gipsy, can he? Not at the palace!”

  I stood silent, holding my bow and violin, while they settled my future.

  “Cries out for it! After all there were at least a dozen pairs of courtiers, lords and ladies, in the original production—”

  “It’s an idea, old man, an undoubted idea.”

  “He could be a guard. Standing at attention, sword drawn. Salute and withdraw.”

  “Where would you have him?”

  �
��Here? No—there! Or up stage, centre, in front of the french window?”

  “I think—down stage, right. Stand there, would you, laddy?”

  “Evelyn, old man, when I saw Ivor play this part he dismissed the court with a gesture like that. But with one guard, I’d better say something, hadn’t I? What d’you think?”

  “We’ll come to that, Norman. There’s a technical point, though. What will he wear?”

  “He ought to be a guardsman,” said my mother. “He’d look splendid in one of those helmets.”

  “He would indeed, madam; but alas! All five uniforms are required by the chorus; and they will be lined up on the stair with the ladies, waiting for the finale.”

  Mr. De Tracy spread his arms again, head on one side and smiled at each of us in turn. He shrugged very slightly.

  “Nothing to be done.”

  I breathed again; but then I heard my mother hurrying up the hall to the green baize curtain.

  “Surely Mr. De Tracy, we can find something!”

  “Look, Mother—”

  “Ah, madam, if only we could—”

  Mr. Claymore struck his forehead lightly.

  “An idea. A thought.”

  “Yes Norman, old man?”

  “I happen to have—I showed you my notice for Essex?”

  “You did, old man.”

  “It was the Barchester Pageant,” said Imogen, with a touch of animation. “A Thousand Years of History. Norman looked wonderful!”

  “Now you see! I could lend him that and we could make a beefeater of him!”

  “I quite see doublet and hose would fit a beefeater. But there’s the hat, old man. Remember the hat.”

  “I have the very thing, Mr. De Tracy! An old, black, wide-brimmed hat of mine!

  “Look, Mother, I don’t think I—”

  “Just a moment, Oliver. I could put cracker paper round it this afternoon and a rosette.”

  “Perfect. Quite perfect!”

  Mr. Claymore was drumming again.

  “Should we clear this with Wardrobe?”

  “There’s the colour too, old man. Shouldn’t a beefeater be black and red?”

  Mr. Claymore laughed.

  “After all, we’re in Hungary, aren’t we? You wouldn’t expect a Hungarian bodyguard to be the same colour as an English beefeater!”