October the First Is Too Late

Chapter Four: Tempo di Minuetto

I lay awake for a little while that night. A remarkable conclusion had obviously been pieced together from the simplest fragments, like a crushing position in a chess game built by a master from a series of seemingly trifling moves. It was the pattern, the sequence, that really counted, not the intrinsic difficulty of any particular step. The data John had used were no doubt well known to hundreds of people, if not to thousands, but the relevant facts had been embedded in a million-and-one irrelevancies.

No doubt entirely due to chance I had become involved in a tremendous situation. It hardly needed special knowledge to understand the implication of what I had heard. Every single one of the men involved in tonight’s discussion had sought an alibi, either in understatement or in flippancy. They were trying to avoid the significance of the situation. Not of course permanently but to get themselves used to it by slow stages.

The following day I received a cheque for $1,500, paid on account, through the University of California. I turned it straightaway into travellers’ cheques. I hired a car from a local agency. The next two days I spent driving along the coast and into the back country. Possession of the car gave me a new dimension of freedom. The effects of the journey, particularly of the time switch, were passing off now. In short I was beginning to enjoy myself.

On the third day I was asked to present myself at ten thirty the following morning at such-and-such a building on the university campus. I was shown to a pleasant office overlooking the sea. It was rather like looking down from the Cornish cliffs, except the light was stronger here. John came in with a man of about fifty-five. I was asked to describe exactly what had happened on our trip to Scotland.

I gave a simple factual account, answered a few questions, and that was that. John went out with the man. A few minutes later he returned alone.

‘Sorry, Dick, I’ve been so much occupied. We’ll meet for dinner tonight. Not here, in Los Angeles. Let’s say half past six. You’ve got a car?’

I nodded.

He produced a map. ‘This is the place here, at the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevards.’

I drove to Los Angeles during the afternoon. It would have been quicker by the inland freeway but I decided to keep on the coast road through Long Beach. I wanted to see the various coastal places I had read about. They didn’t live up to my expectations. I was glad by the time I reached Santa Monica.

I wasn’t familiar with the district or with the traffic conditions. Yet it was less bewildering than I would have expected. Without too much trouble I reached the restaurant. John was late but not grossly so. Yet to be late at all was unusual for him.

‘We’ll get away from science for one night,’ he said as we sat down at a table, which he had apparently booked beforehand.

‘I’ve been pretty hard at it ever since we got into New York. To be frank I’m damn tired.’

‘What’s the general pitch?’

‘Well, it’s obvious we need a new vehicle out there with special instrumentation. There’s nothing difficult in it at all. Not experimentally I mean. But it’s the devil to get anything unusual done. The whole space programme is going ahead like some enormous juggernaut. Only with the highest priority can you get anything changed.’

‘I suppose if you know exactly what you want to do that’s the most efficient way.’

‘If you know what you want to do, beforehand. Which of course means you’re not going to find anything of very much interest.’

‘Did you get your way?’

‘Yes, with Art’s help. We’ve been up at JPL—the Jet Propulsion Lab all day, arguing. Once they were convinced, everything went smoothly, but they took some convincing.’

‘When’s it going to happen?’

‘More or less immediately. A new vehicle was practically ready for launching. It was designed to go a long way out so it’s got pretty sensitive controls. It’ll do our job very easily. The problem is to get the right packages ready in time.’

‘The right black boxes?’

‘Yes. The lads will be working night and day on it. Here’s the point as it affects you. We’re going to use the big receiving dish out in Hawaii. It’s out in the islands because there’s not much man-made interference. Would you like a trip?’

I said I’d be delighted to make a trip to Hawaii. Then a waiter bore down on our table with a multitude of dishes.

Conversation was somewhat spasmodic for the next half-hour. The meal, an excellent one, deserved justice.

Over the coffee I asked, ‘Is this Hawaii trip a joy ride or is it strictly necessary?’

‘Not strictly, if by that you mean absolutely essential. But well worthwhile from my point of view. We’ll get the data hot off the line. Art’s coming with us. The station on Hawaii is his show.’

‘When do we take off?’

‘I was planning to travel the day after tomorrow. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go on earlier if you want to. By the way I’ve got an invitation for tonight.’

‘More science?’

‘God forbid, I’m in need of a rest. This is a friend of a friend of a friend, out in Beverly Hills. We can always leave early if we get bored.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘I’ve got a motel back in Pasadena. You might as well stay over here by the sea though, it’s quite a bit cooler.’

‘Then I suppose I’d better find a place before we go to Beverly Hills.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t bother. The motels are open all night. You can get one any time. Besides you never know where you’ll end up.’

On this remark John paid the bill. We went out to the parking place.

‘You’d better follow me, we might as well take both cars. I’m not exactly sure of where to go but I know the general direction.’

I kept faithfully on John’s tail through a succession of boulevards and streets. Then we were in a twisting mass of side-roads among large houses. We both came to a halt. John was muttering imprecations. It seemed he was more disturbed by not being able to find the place than he had been by the scientific situation. We started off again. After two more tries we at last drew up outside a prosperous looking domicile. A dozen cars were parked in the roadway outside. Inside, a good-looking woman pressed two large drinks on us, with a welcoming smile, and no questions asked.

We pushed our way into a large room. Perhaps thirty people were in there, talking loudly. I had the impression it would have been possible for almost anybody to have walked in.

In the general bedlam of a cocktail party I am lucky to have something of an advantage over my fellow men. My hearing is abnormally acute so I can still make out what is being said at a stage where the average person is pretty well deafened. I plunged fairly confidently into the morass.

After a quick, not inexpert, survey of the female company a dark-haired girl caught my attention. I thought her face the most interesting of the female element. It was a face of some considerable character. I moved over into her general environment. Because I could just make out what people were trying to say, I soon found a place in the local conversation. The girl I judged to be in her mid-twenties, a few years younger than I was. There came a lull during which a man, who was probably the host, got himself launched into a description of how he had just bought an estate of vast acreage up near Ojai.

I was able to get the dark-haired girl away to myself. Our talk was trivial in the extreme as it was bound to be. I said I was just out from Britain, a simple, not very effective ploy. Her attention became a little warmer, however, when I told her that I was a musician. It seemed I was on the way to Chopin waltzes and mazurkas again.

We were joined by an older, rather handsome woman. The girl drifted away at the first opportunity, perhaps because she was glad to be rescued or because she didn’t like the handsome woman. The woman took me on one side, saying confidentially, ‘Have you met her before, Lena I mean?’

‘No, but I’ve seen her somewhere I’m sure. Who is she?’

‘Do you mean you don’t know?’

‘Cross my heart.’

‘Helena Summers. She was in the film, The Passionate.’

‘The passionate what?’

The woman laughed, ‘No wisecracks.’ Then she became still more confidential. Taking my arm she murmured, ‘Lena’s in bad shape, plenty trouble there.’

There was no opportunity to ask what the plenty trouble was because a handsome, virile man of about my own age suddenly held the stage. I had seen him before so I was pretty sure he must be in the acting world too. He not only had the attention of the others, he had mine too. Astonishingly, he was talking about the effect of Chopin waltzes on young women.

There were two open pianos back-to-back at one end of the big room. The man began to look through a pile of music evidently with the intention of playing himself. I was becoming combative now, rather like a dog whose territory has been infringed. He started on the big Chopin waltz in A flat Major. The interpretation was quite good, the technique somewhat faulty. I found myself appreciably irritated to see the women crowding around the piano.

Then I had the good sense to feel rather ashamed. After all, a lot of practice was needed to play as well as that, which showed my handsome friend must have a very genuine affection for music. Yet I found it difficult not to be jaundiced by the way he switched in a flash to Beethoven’s short E Minor sonata. I resisted entering the discussion that followed. But then the girl Lena broke in with the remark that I was a musician. So I was thrown into the pool. I was introduced to the man. His name, Roger Berard, was just about as vaguely familiar as his face. I did my best to pretend to know it well for anything less would have seemed impolite.

‘How about playing four hands? Mozart?’

I said that would be excellent. But they couldn’t find the right music. Berard picked up the score of Mozart’s K488 concerto. ‘Do you think we could manage this?’ he asked.

I said we’d have to use both pianos.

Two experts with an understanding between them could have managed on one piano. We would have got ourselves into a hopeless tangle of hands and feet.

‘There’s only one copy. You haven’t got another?’ my partner asked the man I had guessed to be the host. ‘Why the hell should I keep two. I can’t even play one.’ This brought a chorus of after-dinner laughter.

‘We can use both pianos,’ I said. ‘If you take the solo part, I think I can manage the orchestration.’ This was more vicious than it may sound. I knew Berard was in a show-off mood. I suspected he was interested in one of the girls, not apparently the dark girl. By choosing the orchestral accompaniment I naturally had the heavier part. Besides, this was the music I cut my teeth on.

It went as I had expected up to a point. I omitted the orchestral introduction, letting him lead off with the solo part. He began aggressively but with the volume of tone I was able to roll out it must soon have become clear that there was no profit at all for him in a competition. About half-way through the first movement he stopped the nonsense. He began to listen to what he was playing. Then the whole thing went off reasonably well. On a concert platform a four-hands performance is never very attractive. Yet under casual circumstances like this it can be quite exciting, especially if it is unrehearsed. Nobody minds the hesitations and misunderstandings between the two players. It all adds to the fun. We were pressed to continue.

Surprisingly, Berard wanted me to play solo. He got out a volume of Beethoven sonatas talking avidly the while about the late ones. His instinct for music was genuine enough. I saw the artificiality of his earlier remarks really came from the society in which he was living. The world is full of frustrated musicians, people who would have liked to be musicians but who by ill chance had been forced into some other profession. I’ve met scores of them. They have one characteristic in common. By not being musicians they’ve done far better for themselves in all material respects than they’d have done as musicians.

I played the Opus 111. There wasn’t a great deal of applause at the end but the warmth was obvious. They spoke now in quiet voices, not at all like the uproar that had been going on when John and I came in earlier. It was clear they wanted me to go on but it wasn’t easy to think of anything to play after the Opus 111. Almost idly I rattled off the waltz theme of the Diabelli variations. Then I was into the variations proper. There was no turning back now. Once again my memory, or perhaps the thought of the dark girl with plenty trouble, served me well. I got through to No 33 with a sprinkling of wrong notes but without serious mishap. It was more than enough. They were overwhelmed, crushed. Well they might be. Given the slightest musical sense it is impossible not to be staggered emotionally by the greatest works played at close range. This was the way, at close range, in which the old composers intended their solo works to be heard, intimately, not from the platform in a large hall. More and more, I have come to realize just how unsatisfactory public performances on a piano are. Even the most exquisite playing comes over weakly, attenuated, and thin. It is all rather like eating a well-cooked dinner with a strong smell of antiseptic in the air.

Emotionally I had had enough now, at any rate on the piano. We got into small talk of no concern. John whispered discreetly in my ear, ‘Great stuff, Dicky. This is my phone number, give me a call tomorrow morning.’ Then he was away. At last I got a chance to talk to Lena. Her face was animated and responsive now. Odd the way it goes, I thought, mazurkas at eighteen, Beethoven sonatas at twenty-five. I wondered what the trick would be at fifty—aleatoricism? More or less spontaneously we decided to leave. This was a community in which you arrived when you pleased and left when you pleased. It would have suited Alex Hamilton. The hostess—I still didn’t know her name—asked me to call up any time I was free. It was all aboveboard and genuine. She kissed me as I left. I thought of poor John on his solitary way back to Pasadena or to wherever he was going. There was nothing like science for the good clean life.

Outside, I took Lena’s arm. She said, ‘Can I drive you somewhere?’

‘Yes, I’m looking for some place to sleep.’

‘How am I intended to take that?’

‘Quite genuinely. I’ve got to find a motel.’

‘There are plenty.’

She guided the car with a sure hand through the labyrinth of small roads. I was glad I hadn’t been left to make my way out at this time of night. It was warm, the car was open, there was a pleasant fragrance in the air. She said, ‘I’d like to drive by the sea.’

We parked at the top of a cliff. Below us the sea spread out in a huge luminous phosphorescent arc. I turned to Lena. She smiled at my inquiring look.

I remember very little of where we went, of slipping out of the car into the house, or of the trivia of the bedroom. But I do remember lying there afterwards listening to the roar of the sea. I remember that enough light came through a long window for me to see Lena’s face. There were tears standing on her eyelashes. When I brushed them away she smiled. A moment later she was asleep. I lay awake for a little while more, at peace, still listening to the sea, before I too fell asleep.

It was late the following morning when we woke. The house was built very close by the water. The beach was fairly steeply sloping, the sand was good. A few minutes after getting out of bed I was tumbling in the surf. After a quick dry off I padded into the kitchen for breakfast. I had decided I wasn’t going to Hawaii, not unless Lena would come too. There seemed no point in my tagging along with the scientists like a camp follower. Over coffee I asked Lena if she had any wish to go out to the islands. ‘I’d like to go, but next week I’m working. If you’re going to be there for some time I could join you later.’ This seemed to be the right compromise.

I rang John during the morning to say I’d prefer not to travel with him the following day but rather come on by myself at the end of the week. There seemed no point in my hanging around in Los Angeles once Lena started at the studios.

The next few days passed all too quickly. We drove around, we swam, and made love and made music. Neither of us had any reason to feel there was anything unique about those days. I was not a soldier going to the wars, someone who might never return. After all, we would meet again in a week or two, if not in Hawaii, in Los Angeles. Yet we parted one morning at the airport with sudden sadness.

The mood lasted with me all the way to the islands. Three hours later I saw them standing up boldly out of a blue sea. I took a taxi from the airport into Honolulu. Soon I was booked into an hotel at Waikiki, close to the sea.

From there I put a call through to John who I knew would be on the island of Hawaii itself. I didn’t reach him first shot so I had to leave a message to have him call me back. This forced me to hang around the hotel. When John at last came through, quite a while later, he said it would be best if I made the island hop the following morning. Why didn’t I hire a car and take a look around Oahu? I said this was fine by me. It was mid-afternoon by the time I had the car which meant there wasn’t a great deal of the day left for sightseeing. I asked at the hotel desk which was the most spectacular beach. The girl suggested I might like to go to the north side of the island to Sunset Beach.

It was warm and sticky as I drove over the twisting mountain road. The beach itself was tremendous, yet somehow I couldn’t really get interested. I wondered if this was the way you became old, nothing excited you any more. I drove back by the east coast. After checking my car, I had an early dinner and then went straight to bed. I couldn’t sleep. I lay wide awake for an hour, then I got up, dressed, and walked out to the sea.

As I strolled along the flat sand I was in the grip of a fit of loneliness such as I had rarely, if ever, experienced before. It came gradually upon me how much loneliness was increasing in our modern society. I realized it had been a dominating factor in almost all the people I had played to the other night.

I wandered back along the beach wondering whether these ideas, which had a deep validity, I was convinced, could somehow be expressed in sound. Anything new, for it to be worthwhile, must come out of my inner feelings. It couldn’t be developed as a mere logical plan. The grandeur of Bach’s music came out of his religious impulses, not from his technique. He worked to develop the technique because of the inner convictions, not the other way round.

To the west, away from the city, stars filled the sky. As I looked up to them my senses were suddenly acute and overwhelmingly strong. Reason suggests there could be nothing to it. Yet, knowing now what was to happen, I sometimes wonder whether the future at that moment did not touch me like a cold wind across the face.