The ticketing arrangements looked simple enough to me, so after going through them a few times I emerged from the box office to stretch my legs. By now I’d managed to locate the Professor of Music’s study. It was over in the far corner of the foyer, and I resolved to keep one eye on the door.
Positioned close to the box office was a noticeboard, its purpose presumably being to advertise upcoming events at the concert hall. For some reason it was completely bare at present, and I was just pondering this fact when the professor’s door opened. Through it came Greylag.
His appearance had changed since our last encounter. Instead of his olive drab uniform he was now wearing a formal tail coat. As he came wandering into the foyer I experienced an odd sinking feeling. After all, Greylag was the individual on whom I now depended for my reference and travel permit. Quickly my mind ran back over the previous few months as I tried to remember exactly how I’d treated him. Had I been kind to him, unkind, or indifferent? If I had been unkind, would Greylag now be vengeful? I really couldn’t tell. He had no knowledge of my failed attempts to purchase sweets for him and the other musicians. All he knew was that I’d allowed him to be transported to the City of Scoffers; and now the tables were well and truly turned.
I was relieved, therefore, when suddenly he recognised me and spoke in a friendly manner.
‘Oh hello, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s very nice to see you.’
‘It’s very nice to see you too,’ I replied (I nearly added ‘Professor Greylag’, but I thought better of it).
In the same instant I realised that his mind was on far more important matters than vengeance. He had an orchestra to rehearse, and as always that was his priority. Furthermore, it occurred to me that Greylag’s situation had changed much more drastically than mine. Only yesterday he’d been a serf in the Empire of Greater Fallowfields. Now he was Professor of Music in a rich and powerful city. No wonder, then, that he looked a little distracted.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ he answered, ‘but I’m afraid this professorship is taking some getting used to. I don’t know anything about organising performances, selling tickets and so on. I’m just a musician, plain and simple.’
‘Well, don’t you worry about anything except the music,’ I assured him. ‘We’ll take care of everything else.’
It gave me a nice feeling to be able to say this to Greylag, and he seemed slightly more at ease after our brief conversation. All the same I sensed that something else was troubling him. With regret I realised that I was hardly in a position to delve further. I was a humble booking clerk and he was my superior, so for the time being I would have to mind my own business.
Not long afterwards Greylag headed into the auditorium. Soon I heard the orchestra striking up, and I knew that for the moment at least he would be happy in his work.
For me, though, there was another revelation in store. Once Greylag had left me I resumed my duties in the box office. I’d been busy for about half an hour arranging the tickets according to their different colours when I happened to look out of the window. To my surprise I saw Sanderling at the top of the steps. He stood perfectly still, facing the street, with his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing his dandy coat, and the buttons were fastened all the way up to the collar. I dashed straight outside to speak to him.
‘Sanderling!’ I said with glee.
‘Greetings,’ he replied.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Front of house,’ he said. ‘They thought I looked the part.’
‘Who did?’
‘The people at the employment exchange.’
‘Well, yes,’ I said, glancing at his tightly buttoned coat, ‘now you come to mention it you do.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How much are they paying you?’
‘An anvil a day.’
‘Same here,’ I said.
Thus we were united in poverty.
However, it turned out we weren’t as poor as we first imagined: our wages included free board and lodging. The accommodation was in an annexe at the rear of the concert hall, and a little later we went to have a look.
It was all rather disappointing. Priority had been given to members of the orchestra; Sanderling and I were a mere afterthought. Personally, I thought that the musicians were being unduly mollycoddled. They each had a private room with hot and cold running water and a view over the city. Sanderling and I, by contrast, had to share a kind of broom cupboard fitted with bunk beds. Also, we soon discovered that a tram went past our window every ten minutes. Despite these drawbacks, Sanderling was enthusiastic.
‘We used to have bunk beds at the admiralty,’ he said. ‘They’re great fun!’
Maybe so, but I suspected Sanderling was the sort of person who fidgeted about in bed. I had a feeling that if he lay in his bunk all night dreaming of dancing girls, it would be me who didn’t get any sleep.
Over the next few days it became evident that there were influences bearing down on Greylag over which he had no control. He may have been Professor of Music but he did not have a completely free rein; quite the opposite in fact.
One morning there appeared on the noticeboard a programme of forthcoming performances. Apparently the orchestra would be playing the entire works of a composer who happened to be a former resident of the city. It was the centenary of his birth and the citizens wished to celebrate it with a music festival in his name.
Now this was all very well on the face of it: they were clearly proud of this man and regarded him as their greatest (perhaps only) composer. Nonetheless, as soon as I read the notice I began to have misgivings. This was the same composer whom Greylag had described to me as a ‘fake’ all those months ago. I remembered that he’d been totally dismissive of his first symphony and even suggested he’d made it up as he went along. Now Greylag was being asked to perform all of his works: the programme included nine symphonies, seven overtures, five quartets and three sonatas for piano and violin; also a tone poem and an orchestral concerto. Poor Greylag! He must have been in turmoil! Privately I conjectured that this was the real cause of his disquiet.
Even so, he gave the outward impression of someone who had embraced the festival wholeheartedly. First of all he researched and collated all the composer’s manuscripts. He spent hours locked away in his study examining the relevant scores and preparing them for performance. Then he set about rehearsing the orchestra. It was going to take several weeks to work through the whole series, but by employing his usual thorough methods he was soon fully into his stride and the festival promised to be a success.
We received frequent visits from senior local figures, including Merganser, Gadwall and Grosbeak. They constantly enquired about the progress that Greylag was making; they asked if he was happy with conditions in the concert hall; and they reminded him that if there was anything he required he only needed to ask. By thus encouraging Greylag I speculated whether they were seeking reflected glory, in the way I had unashamedly in the recent past, or if they indeed believed in the talents of their home-grown composer. He was, after all, fairly famous; we even knew his name in Greater Fallowfields.
Personally, I quite liked some of the tunes I heard in rehearsals, but I’d learned during my tenure at the cake that tunes alone were not enough. Greylag’s search for melodic discipline had taken him far beyond mere ‘tunes’. His compositions allowed much more generous living space for his melodies, and this was the difference between his work and the collection currently on offer. I noticed at the beginning of each rehearsal that Greylag drew a deep breath as if bracing himself against what was to come. It was plain to me that he underwent a kind of torture whenever he performed these pieces, but his patrons never guessed a thing. Occasionally they looked in at practice sessions, standing inconspicuously (or so they thought) in the shadows. Afterwards, when they departed, they never failed to give nods of approval.