Sanderling, by contrast, was very much on edge.
‘All those people streaming in,’ he said. ‘How can I possibly check their tickets and show them to their seats?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I advised. ‘Most people sort their seats out themselves.’
Fortunately for Sanderling, I was proved right. The matinée audience arrived punctually and remained in good order as they filed into the auditorium. I half-expected the occasion to be marked by a speech, delivered perhaps by Grosbeak or Merganser. They were both present, as was Gadwall, but apparently they weren’t interested in any flummery. The orchestra was already in position, and at precisely three o’clock the concert started without any announcements. Just as the lights dimmed I slid in at the back to watch Greylag in action. As usual he displayed perfect control over the orchestra. Interestingly enough, this first symphony matched exactly the verbal description he’d given me all those months before. It was a little unsettling to watch him perform it so flawlessly, knowing that all the while he held it in such disdain. When the music finally ended he gave a bow, the audience applauded and the concert hall emptied.
The second performance went equally smoothly, but afterwards Sanderling was completely exhausted and had to be revived with a bottle of wine. We’d discovered during our short time in the city that you could buy anything if you had the money, so we’d decided initially on this shared bottle.
‘I really ought to save up,’ he said. ‘I don’t intend to drink all my wages away.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘nor me.’
We agreed mutually that fairly soon we should consider rationing ourselves. In the meantime we would try to be as useful as possible, thereby ensuring our continued employment.
Following the introductory back-to-back concerts, the festival reverted to a more leisurely programme of two performances a week. Obviously, the orchestra needed to rehearse each piece thoroughly, but there was also time for Greylag to resume work on his own compositions. Occasionally I would enter the auditorium and recognise snatches I hadn’t heard since we were at the cake. It was gratifying to know that Greylag was still pushing at the boundaries, as befitted an appointed Professor of Music.
So it was that our existence gradually evolved into a regular cycle. The orchestra rehearsed, practised and performed; the audiences came and went; Sanderling and I sold tickets and took care of the concert hall as it filled and emptied again. At the end of each day we drank a bottle of wine and then went to bed.
I soon noticed that Sanderling was starting to take an active interest in the performances themselves. Often I saw him chatting to Greylag during recesses, and it turned out he was enquiring about the differing musical forms that were being showcased during the festival. After a while he commenced taking notes, firstly for his own clarification, but later for the enlightenment of others. On subsequent concert evenings he could be observed imparting his newly acquired knowledge to chosen members of the audience. Clearly he was enjoying his role as ‘front of house’. Each afternoon between two and four he slipped away, having presumably found somewhere quiet to revise his notes.
Eventually, with the final symphony approaching, I began to wonder what we were supposed to do when the festival was over. Hopefully there were many future programmes in prospect, but the City of Scoffers was now in the depths of winter and I had a feeling they wouldn’t come to fruition until the spring. The skies darkened and the days were cold. New arrivals at the central station appeared half-perished, yet still they kept pouring in. The city’s flags fluttered and became ragged in the bitter easterly wind.
For the time being, though, life remained satisfactory. After all, the concert hall was comparatively cosy. Soft pink chandeliers glowed all day long while the orchestra rehearsed, and Greylag was as fully absorbed as ever. The ninth symphony was the longest of the works he was performing; hence he spent many hours labouring over its four movements. Then, at last, he was ready.
Tickets for the closing concert had been sold out days earlier. On the evening of the performance there were crowds gathering at the door long before dusk. Sanderling was there keeping order and telling people what they already knew: that this was their cherished composer’s most well-known symphony. Finished only days before he died, it was generally considered his departing masterpiece. The anticipation of the audience was palpable. By eight o’clock we had them all sitting comfortably inside. The orchestra was waiting; the lights were dimmed and Greylag made his entrance. At the last moment a latecomer sidled into the only empty seat. Sanderling and I took up our positions standing at the rear of the house.
I sometimes thought Greylag was rather cruel in his assessment of this composer. While I was quite aware of his own exacting standards, it seemed to me that he gave insufficient quarter to rival composers, especially this one. As I stood listening to the ninth symphony I heard only pleasant tunes, dynamic phrases and an overarching theme that was hardly forgettable. Sadly, I concluded that Greylag’s years in serfdom must have shaped his opinion of others.
By now the symphony was moving towards its finale. I knew from rehearsals that it didn’t end with a climactic eruption as with most similar works. Instead the fourth movement petered out quietly, leaving the listener to reflect on what had gone before. When the last notes faded away the audience sat in silence for a few seconds; then they responded with thunderous applause. Greylag turned towards them, bowed, and left the podium.
Hitherto during the festival there had been no encores. Apparently they weren’t customary in the City of Scoffers. I had witnessed the occasional standing ovation, usually after the more famous pieces, but that was more or less the extent of their enthusiasm. These were serious people: they were not given to prolonged bouts of floor-stamping.
Tonight, however, was different. Maybe it was because the music had been so powerful, or simply that this was the final performance of the festivaclass="underline" whatever the reason, the audience demanded an encore. The applause continued unabated until Greylag reappeared at last. He even received a muted cheer from one or two people down at the front. Then everyone fell silent.
Evidently he’d chosen the purest course of action: he proceeded to play the fourth movement once again. This was most agreeable. We’d only heard it a few minutes before, yet in Greylag’s hands it sounded as fresh as if it had just been written. Towards the end, though, some sort of change had been made: not to the music itself, but to the instrumentation. The main theme from the first movement had returned and the whole orchestra was in full flight when suddenly all the cellos stopped playing. As the other musicians continued, the cellists packed away their instruments and left the arena. After a few more bars, the entire brass section did exactly the same thing; but Greylag went on conducting as if nothing had happened. I glanced at Sanderling and he raised his eyebrows; then we carried on watching in fascination. Slowly but surely, different parts of the orchestra began to disappear, each musician carefully putting his instrument in its case prior to departing. The oboes went next, then some of the percussion, then the rest of the woodwind. The dwindling orchestra played on as the symphony’s conclusion drew gradually closer. Soon there were only a half dozen violins remaining; then three; then only two. In the original piece the entire ensemble had delivered the last few bars very quietly. This time we were carried to the end by a lone violin. He finished playing and packed away his instrument. Then he, too, vanished. Finally, Greylag turned to the audience, gave a bow and left his podium.