Eventually, though, I gave Greylag the signal to stop, and after another few bars the music ceased.
‘Thank you, Greylag,’ I said, stepping down from the podium. ‘That was very good.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ I continued. ‘Is there any other music apart from the imperial anthem and its variations?’
‘Well, we do have the other composers, sir. Which one would you like?’
‘Who’ve you got?’
‘All of them, sir.’
‘All the famous ones?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Greylag went to the antechamber and opened a cupboard, returning a minute later with a stack of manuscripts.
‘Here we are, sir,’ he said, and began leafing through the papers, one by one. ‘We have the joyous composer, the innovative composer, the outlandish composer, the dreary composer, the child prodigy, the charlatan, the. .’
‘Just a second,’ I said. ‘Which one’s the charlatan?’
Greylag handed me the manuscript and at once I recognised the name of the composer in question.
‘Oh, I quite like his music,’ I said. ‘Why do you call him a charlatan?’
Greylag stood awkwardly before me, but said nothing.
‘Come on,’ I urged. ‘Don’t be shy.’
‘Well, sir,’ he said after a pause. ‘In the humble opinion of the orchestra, he’s a complete fake.’
As usual all the other musicians were sitting around us in silent rows, their instruments perched on their laps. I’d become accustomed to Greylag acting as their spokesman and the rest of them remaining mute. This last utterance, however, caused a low murmur of assent to pass through their ranks.
‘A fake, eh?’ I said. ‘How do you mean exactly?’
‘We consider his compositions to be laboured,’ said Greylag. ‘They lack any lightness of touch, which is the sure sign of a true artist. Take his first symphony, for example. We start off skipping through the flowery fields; then suddenly we’re crawling through hell’s cauldron; then we’re back in the flowers again; then there’s an angry bit; then a quiet bit; then another angry bit. None of it seems to have any proper meaning. As I said before, sir, a complete fake. Writing a symphony should be like constructing a universe. You can’t simply make it up as you go along.’
After he’d reached his conclusion, Greylag reddened somewhat and bowed his head, perhaps thinking that he’d overstepped the mark a little.
I puffed out my cheeks. ‘Well, Greylag,’ I said, ‘you obviously have very strong views on the subject.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly.
‘And what about these variations?’ I asked. ‘Who composed them?’
‘They’re all ascribed to you, sir.’
‘Me?’ I said, astounded. ‘How can I have composed them? I’ve only been here a week and a half!’
‘As Principal Composer to the Imperial Court, sir, all new works are ascribed to you.’
‘Yes, but who actually writes them?’
Once again Greylag appeared overcome by reticence, and once again I had to drag the answer out of him.
‘Who writes them, Greylag?’ I repeated.
‘I do, sir.’
‘Every one of them?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I see.’
For a minute I stood silently absorbing the implications of what I’d just heard. Then suddenly I was struck by a remarkable thought. Judging by the quality of his musicianship, Greylag had the ability to turn me into one of the greatest composers the court had ever seen. All I needed to do was look and learn, and bide my time.
‘Was there anything else, sir?’ enquired Greylag.
‘Not for the moment,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps we should have another variation.’
‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘Would you like to hear the seventh?’
‘That will do nicely, Greylag, but I think we’ll try something slightly different today.’ I handed him the baton and pointed towards the podium. ‘You can conduct from up there for a change.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Greylag. ‘I think you’ll like this one. It goes at quite a gallop.’
The entire orchestra stirred with anticipation as Greylag headed for the podium and mounted the steps.
‘All right, everyone,’ he said, tapping the rail with his baton. ‘This time I want to hear the hooves of the imperial cavalry!’
Yet again they launched headlong into the anthem, and now they were playing one of ‘my’ compositions! I watched and listened with pride as the music soared up into the highest corners of the auditorium. I could see plainly that the podium was the natural place for Greylag to be, and I determined to allow him a much freer hand in future.
This seventh variation definitely went at ‘quite a gallop’, and the theme had already come back round to the beginning when I noticed someone standing up at the rear of the hall, just along from the main doorway. The figure was half-concealed in the gloom, but after some moments I realised it was Wryneck. He appeared to be watching the proceedings intently, but the instant he saw me looking he turned and walked towards the door.
‘Wryneck!’ I called, but my voice was drowned out by the orchestra.
I signalled Greylag to carry on, and then walked swiftly up the centre aisle. By the time I reached the door and looked outside Wryneck was striding away across the park.
‘Wryneck!’
Again there was no response, and he had soon disappeared into the distance. Inside the cake, the orchestra played on. Meanwhile, the trees rustled in the rising breeze. Another afternoon was fading towards twilight. For a few minutes I stood in the doorway pondering Wryneck’s unheralded visit. I decided it was quite rude of him to leave without even acknowledging me, but after that I thought no more of it. The time had arrived for me to go on a certain errand.
During my earlier explorations of the royal quarter I had made an interesting find. Just around the corner from the Maypole I’d noticed a shop with the word HOBBY painted in large letters above its front window. This was no ordinary ‘hobby’ shop, however. Hobby was the name of its proprietor, and what it sold was all kinds of confectionery. The window was filled, row upon row, with neatly labelled jars of sweets.
I arrived about half past five and gazed through the leaded glass at yellow pear drops, pink marshmallows and golden sticks of barley sugar. There were sherbet fizzers, peppermints, liquorice comfits and the proprietor’s very own dolly mixture. Further back I could see fruit pastilles, fondant creams, caramel fudge, everlasting toffee, coconut ice, butterscotch, chocolate nougat, hearts-of-violet, strawberry shrimps, bulls-eyes, broken rock, lemon crystals, jelly babies, rhubarb-and-custard, alphabet candies, black jacks and gunpowder lozenges. A small bell rang as I opened the door and entered the shop. Instantly I detected the scent of aniseed, vanilla, cinnamon and sarsaparilla. Yet more jars lined seemingly endless shelves. Outside, the sun was gradually sinking, and as it did the light appeared to refract through these colourful jars so that the whole shop was immersed in a soft, reddish gleam.
I was just peering at a jarful of ‘lions and tigers’ when suddenly I heard a voice behind me.
‘Had a good look, have you, sir?’
I turned to see a man emerging from the dimness at the back of the shop. He was wearing a white linen coat.
‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied. ‘I see you’ve got a very extensive range.’
‘Indeed we have, sir. Indeed we have.’
‘So I’d like to buy some of your wares.’
My comment evidently came as something of a surprise to the shopkeeper. He raised his eyebrows and gave me a quizzical look before moving behind the counter. This was equipped with a pair of scales.