And, of course, the love of my life, Alex. We share a couple of rooms and a private bathroom at the very top of the house, overlooking the garden at the back.
We are the privileged few.
Postcards from all over the world regularly filter in from previous tenants, along with invitations for Bunny to visit them in Rome, Paris, New York, BerlinIve known a few of them myself over the years. As Bunny says, Evie, if this goes on much longer, one of us is going to have to propose!
And shes right. I should get myself together and move on. But its never quite as easy as it sounds. Whole years have evaporated, just waiting for the kettle to boil. Maybe one day Ill be the one sending postcards, even if I only get as far as south London.
But right now, Im just grateful to be home.
Dumping my bag and coat down on the reindeer antler coat-stand in the front hallway (the work of a Norwegian furniture designer who lived here two years ago and now designs plastic chairs for Habitat), I make my way down to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a ferret around the fridge, only to find Allyson and Piotr arguing about lieder.
They barely notice me as I fill up the kettle and switch it on. Both are fairly formidable; its like a scene from Twilight of the Gods. Piotr is incredibly tall and slender; he moves with a confident, swaggering ease, unusual for a man of his height. His dark hairs cut quite short at the back but still manages to tumble into his eyes, which are a particularly warm shade of brown; the concentrated golden walnut of a tigers eyes and equally intense. However, his hands are his most remarkable feature. Theyre Rachmaninov hands, vast and powerful; each one easily the size of a grown mans face. Hes only been here a week and Ive never heard him say more than three words together. So its quite a surprise to hear him speak in full sentences.
Allyson, on the other hand, is going through her Maria Callas stage. If Piotrs hands are his most distinguishing feature, Allysons cheekbones are hers. Theyre like two evenly spaced shelves upon which her heavily made-up, green-grey eyes are balanced. Her long auburn hair is scraped back into a perfect chignon and shes solidly, dramatically, emphatically curvy or, as she puts it, ample yet agile (the world of opera being much more image conscious than it used to be). But despite her impeccably groomed exterior, she possesses the mouth of a merchant sailor. After struggling in England for three years now, shes just beginning to cover roles at Covent Garden and sing a few major parts for Opera North and the Welsh National. That, along with a steady stream of young students, keeps her permanently occupied. But her real chance is coming next month. Shes due to perform a recital of lieder at St Johns Smith Square and has had her heart set on being able to rehearse with Piotr. But now it looks like shell have to rehearse alone.
(This is one of the few advantages to shared housing: not all the dramas are your own.)
I move silently to the draining board and retrieve a mug.
But why? Allyson gestures wildly to the heavens; a move she used to great effect in a regional production of Tosca last March. Give me one reason why not? For fucks sake! Ill pay you whatever you like!
Piotr leans against the kitchen counter, his hands in his jeans pockets, amused. Ive already explained to you. German is not a language that anyone should be singing! Ever! Italian, yes. French, OK. Russian, perfect! But German? Sounds likelike a noise you make when you, you know, spit! And he demonstrates the noise.
I put the mug down. Maybe Ill give the tea a miss.
A slice of toast pops up in the toaster.
But you play German music! You play Beethoven, Mozart, Liszt Allyson continues.
Piotr tosses the toast onto a plate, opening drawer after drawer in search of a knife.
I hand him one.
Thank you. Liszt is not German.
He looks around.
Dont be so pedantic! Allyson accuses, pushing the butter dish across to him.
He sighs, spreading the butter thick. When I play Beethoven or Mozart, I dont have to listen to German. I listen to music. When I have to listen to German, theres no longer any music. And he shrugs his shoulders; a rolling, slow-motion version thats somehow distinctly Eastern European. Im sorry
Allyson turns away, unable to combat this curious logic with anything but a stream of obscenities.
Piotr, apparently oblivious, turns to me instead, munching his toast. How was your class?
An old man walked out on me, I confess, sidestepping Allyson, whos spluttering under her breath in the corner. He only ever wants to read one poem. One incredibly long poem.
Good for him! So important to stick to your ideals, dont you think?
He grins. Allyson growls threateningly.
And you? When are we going to see you perform?
I laugh, a nervous, high-pitched little trill. Suddenly Im wrong-footed; an intruder in this conversation of artistic preferences and ideals. Oh, no, II dont really do a lot of performing any more. Im really just a teacher now
He raises an eyebrow.
I fumble about with a box of tea bags. Even without looking up, I know hes staring at me.
Im too old for all that nonsense, I say at last. I gave it up long ago. Or rather, it gave up on me.
And how is that? He takes another bite.
Its far too late at night to unfold the facts of my failed acting career in front of a stranger.
But I make the stupid mistake of trying anyway.
Well, acting isnt like music, Piotr. I mean, there are so very few jobs and so many people
He throws back his head and roars. Ah, thats true! There are hardly any classical musicians in the world!
Im blushing. Im sorry, thats not what I meant. I just meant thatoh, I dont know what I mean I start again. Well, I never got to play any of the parts I dreamt about. Never even got near them. I just ended up making B-rated horror films, a few commercials
You were an actress. He shrugs his shoulders again. Thats what actresses do.
No, thats what unsuccessful actresses do, Piotr.
No. He smiles. Thats also what successful actresses do. Its all the same thing, really
Like Allyson, Ive come smack up against the World According to Piotr Pawlokowski. The rules are different here.
Well, no I fumble, trying to articulate a yet unformed argument.
Youre American, he diagnoses my deficiency with a single wave of his massive hand. You make too much of this idea of success. No artist sees life as success or failure, profit or loss, good or bad. The point of art is lost if you measure it in commercial terms.
I blink at him.
But it was awful, I bleat weakly.
He frowns, popping the last bite into his mouth. And you believed it would be fun?
Theres a long silence.
Id never thought about it that way before.
Yes, I admit. I expected it to be much more fun than working in an office or teaching pensioners oror anything else, really
He laughs. Where did you get that idea?
Because thats the way it used to be. I cant help but smile to myself at the memory. It always used to be more fun than anything else on the face of the earth.
Dont you enjoy playing the piano? Allyson comes to my defence.
Theres that shrug again. Sometimes. But fun isnt a word to describe a relationship with an art form thats embraced every aspect of the human experience for centuries. He looks at me sadly. You Americans, Im afraid, are like childrenyou dont like to grow up. What is it? The pursuit of happiness. What is that? To be happy. Where is the nobility in a life devoted to happiness? Its a shabby little goal.
Lighten up, mate. Allyson moves next to me; she loves confrontation. No need to pick on her just because shes American!
Im not picking on you. Piotr glances at me, then back to Allyson. But there you go again! Lighten up! Nothing must be serious. Everything must be small, fastlight! He prowls the floor in frustration, reaching for the words as if theyre hovering in the air around him. You are the hero of your lifeespecially in art! Without adversity, obstacles, wheres the heros adventure? Whats the point? Of course you do bad movies! Stupid commercials! So what? Theyre your dragons; you slay them, you move on. Youre bigger than those things! He spins round. What do you have to offer people, what experience, if life is only fun?
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
Its late; Im overly sensitive. Instead, I focus on stacking the tea boxes in neat little rows. The silence builds, piling up between the three of us.
That wasnt the only reason, I say. My happiness wasnt the only consideration.
God, Piotr! Allyson shakes her head. Could you be any more rude if you tried?
Rude? He turns to her, baffled. Were just talking. A conversation, right? And he laughs, resting his hands against the counter. What do you want? That we should stand here and flatter one another all night?
Theres a long pause.
Oh. I see. His voice is sharp. Of course. I didnt mean to offend you. For a moment his eyes meet mine. Im startled by the kindness in them.
He turns away. I forget how important it is that we agree about everything all the time. Ill stick with the piano. Good night, ladies. He nods his head to each of us, a formal, slightly sardonic gesture, before heading up the steps easily, two at a time.
Allyson launches forward, nicking the mug I just put down and filling it with boiled water. Well! Fuck me!
The whole exchange has left me disorientated. I open the cupboard door, looking for something to eat. I guess he has a right to his
God! She slams the mug down on the counter, half its contents splashing out over the sides. I thought it would be brilliant to have a pianist in my own home to work with but Ive never, not in my whole life, met anyone so fucking difficult! Plucking a knife off the carving board, she begins hacking at a fresh lemon, throwing it into the water along with a large dollop of honey. What a fucking diva! And what was all that about? Americans and happiness andJesus! I wouldve hit him!
I need to go shopping. I close the cupboard door.
His English is good
Should be! He studied at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. Still bloody rude!
Thing is, Ally, Ive been here so long
Tits! I think Im getting a cold! She wheels round, glaring at me accusingly. Does Alex have a cold? Id better not be getting a cold, Evie.
I shake my head no, relinquishing any hope of actually finishing a sentence.
Its the stress. The stress is outrageous! This concert is doing my nut in! Look at my glands, will you?
I cant tell you how many times a week I have to look at Allysons glands.
She sticks her tongue out. Do you see anything? Is my throat red? Splotchy?
No one is more paranoid about her health than Allyson. The kitchen counter is lined with vitamin bottles and herbal tinctures; her room emits a steamy, Arthurian mist from under the door, the result of a humidifier churning away constantly in a corner, and she sleeps more hours a day than a cat. Still, all her effort pays off: she has one of the clearest, most powerful singing voices Ive ever heard.
I take a peek. No, darling. Its fine.
Thanks. Oh God, Evie! What am I going to do?
Well. I pick up another mug from the draining board. You could always
Balls! Ill have to call Junko again. But shes like a robot; she understands nothing of the power and passion I need for these pieces! She looks at me. You have heard about Piotr, havent you?
I shake my head and she leans forward, her voice uncharacteristically low.
Hes the one who walked out in the middle of the final rounds of the Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow a few years ago!
She stares at me eagerly.
Ive no idea what shes talking about.
Its the most famous piano competition in the world, Evie! He just stopped playing in the middle of his second concerto and left! When he was on the verge of winning!
But why?
It wasnt good enoughhe didnt like the way he was playing. She rolls her eyes. Allys competitive nature is so keenly honed that the idea is clearly anathema. I find it quite intriguing. Hes crazy, Evie! Insane! He was playing Prokofiev Three, with a full orchestra and suddenly he just stands up and walks away!
So if hes crazy, Ally, why are you so keen on working with him?
Have you heard him? He was playing Gaspard de la Nuit yesterday and I thought I would faint it was so heart-breakingOh fuckity fuck fuck fuck! She collapses her head into her hands. (If Puccini had been composing for Allyson, One Fine Day wouldve become Where the Hell Is He?.)
I take a piece of cheese out of the fridge, turning this new information around in my mind.
And now he teaches at the Royal Academy
But he couldve been huge! she mumbles.
We sit a moment.
Eventually, she looks up. You know what we should do? We should go out, you and I; just the girls! We could go dancing or something!
Every couple of months she does this; she launches into a campaign to force me into socializing, usually just after shes finished some big job.
Well, maybe. I dont know, Ally. I think Im a bit old for dancing.
Im older than you are, she reminds me.
Yes, but youre, you know, trendy
You could be trendy. Lets go shopping. It would be fun!
Shes staring at me with those huge, unflinching diva eyes.
Ill think about it.
You always say that. If I had your face and your figure
Ally! Stop it! Why am I so embarrassed?
Youre not even wearing make-up, are you?
Please! I shake my head.
Im just saying its a waste! Im going to stop asking one of these days and then youll be sorry! Opening one of the dozen bottles, she tosses a few pills into her mouth. So the old fart walked out on you, did he? Youve mentioned him beforewhats his name?
Mr Hastings.
Poor Mr Hastings.
Actually, hes a very difficult character, I point out, suddenly defensive.
Yes, but you would be difficult too, wouldnt you? If youd never lived out your dreams. Makes people crazy, Evie. She retrieves her drink and kisses me on the top of my head. Night, darling.