‘Can you tell us what it’s about?’
The twisting and scraping was going deeper and deeper. She could hear Dr Watts breathing through his nose, close to her ear, in that way men did when they were concentrating on something, or when they lay on top of her in the grass. ‘It’s about a teddy bear.’
‘And what happens to him?’
‘He doesn’t have a brain.’
‘What else?’
‘He likes honey.’
‘Go on.’
‘He lives in the Hundred Acre Wood. It rained a lot, and he had to float in an umbrella to rescue Piglet. And he wanted to give Eeyore a pot of honey, but he ate it all, and so he – he just gave him the empty pot instead—’
‘That’s very good, Rosemary.’ His voice lost its purring tone as he spoke to the others. ‘We’re separating the frontal lobes from the rest of the brain now. As you can see, the patient is conscious and lucid through the procedure. She feels no pain, and only minimal discomfort. She will emerge from this free of depression or other negative moods, her emotions under her own control, and able to resume a normal life within a few weeks.’ The instrument was twisting and slicing deep inside her head now. ‘Rosemary, can you count backwards from twenty for us?’
‘Twenty,’ she said. ‘Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Fifteen.’
‘You left out sixteen,’ Dr Freeman chuckled.
‘Sixteen. Fifteen.’
But she couldn’t remember what came after fifteen. There was flashing in her eyes, and she couldn’t see anything past the flashing. Sounds were coming out of her mouth, but they weren’t numbers, or even words. They were just sounds. Nor could she understand what Dr Freeman was saying to her now. She tried to push herself to say the numbers out loud, but it was like there wasn’t a Rosemary there to say anything any more. Rosemary was being switched off, like a radio going into silence, like a light going into darkness. She knew that something terrible was happening, but she didn’t know what.
Los Angeles
Stravinsky sat transfixed in the darkness of the movie theatre. The music was his, but there was no virgin dancing herself to death. The images were new and extraordinary.
As the familiar movements of The Rite of Spring rolled from the speakers, he watched volcanoes erupting, the molten lava pouring and swirling, rolling into the sea with fantastic eruptions of steam and foam. In the depths of the oceans, tiny protozoa and amoebas coalesced, growing eyes and legs, becoming fish, crawling on to the land.
The fish became lizards that nibbled on the lush vegetation, then evolved into mighty dinosaurs that roared and lumbered through the swamps. Tyrannosaurus rex and Stegosaurus battled to the death in primeval rain. Spikes and claws and teeth tore at one another. Pterodactyls soared into a lurid sky.
The rain ceased. The climate changed. Now he was seeing herds of dying dinosaurs trudging across a desert landscape, searching hopelessly for water, their pools and rivers drying up, their mighty limbs becoming trapped in mud. Despairing, skeletal, dying, they raised their monstrous heads to an orange sky, where a fatal sun bloomed.
And then, whirling from the depths of outer space, a meteorite collided with the earth. The movie theatre shook with the rumble of the impact. Eyes were dazzled by the blinding flash which destroyed all life, levelling mountains and emptying seas.
Stravinsky’s mouth was open. His fingers gripped the arms of his seat. It had taken a great deal to get him to come here to see Fantasia today, but he was experiencing a revelation.
This music – his music – had worked on the minds of others to produce images that were very different from the ones he himself had had half a century ago, when he’d written the Rite; but they were extraordinary images, images shot through with fire and brilliance and – yes, with genius.
It was a new kind of genius, flickering and evanescent. But was not all art flickering and evanescent? Did not music itself appear from the depths of darkness, flash like a comet across the brain, and then vanish into silence? Was that not the fate of every human soul?
Sitting beside him, Vera put her lips close to his ear.
‘Do you forgive them, Igor?’
‘It is extraordinary,’ he replied, so loudly that people in the audience turned to hush him. ‘It is extraordinary,’ he repeated in a lowered voice. ‘They have reinvented the Rite.’
‘So you approve?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether I approve or not,’ he replied, his round spectacles reflecting the restless shimmering of the screen. ‘They have reinvented me, too.’
He heard her soft laughter.
New York
Arturo Toscanini said goodbye to his wife, Carla, at the door of their apartment. It was a chilly New York day, the wind whistling down the canyons of Broadway, bringing with it the cold smell of the Hudson River. She fussed over him with wifely solicitude, tucking his scarf around his throat, making sure his fur-trimmed coat was properly buttoned, adjusting his kid-leather gloves.
‘Don’t get yourself into a temper today,’ she admonished him, ‘and start screaming like a madman. You know what the American doctor said about your blood pressure.’
‘I know what the doctor said,’ he agreed, patting her cheek fondly. ‘Don’t worry about me, carissima.’
‘And don’t be late for supper. I’m making one of your favourites.’
‘Mozzarella in carozza?’
‘Something else.’
‘Cozze e vongole?’
‘Stop guessing. Just come early.’
‘Tell me,’ he implored. ‘It will give me something to look forward to while I deal with those idiots.’
Carla relented. ‘Zitoni toscani.’
His eyes gleamed. The long pasta tubes garnished with spicy Tuscan sausage and biting, salty pecorino were indeed among his favourite dishes. ‘You are an angel. I love you with my whole heart and stomach.’
She beamed at him. He kissed her hand, put on his fedora hat and hurried down the stairs. Her gaze followed him fondly.
In the street outside, the Cadillac was waiting to take him to the afternoon rehearsal of the New York Philharmonic. There was also a little group of admirers who had braved the cold in the hopes of seeing the maestro emerge. A ragged cheer rose up as he appeared. The bolder members of the group rushed forward now, holding out autograph albums and record covers for him to sign. Since appearing on the cover of LIFE magazine (he had been on the cover of Time twice) his adoring public had been even more enraptured with him. The series of photographs of him playing with his little granddaughter had done much to counteract his professional reputation as a foul-mouthed and filthy-tempered old tyrant dreaded by orchestras and soloists alike.
He paused to scribble his autograph a few times, nodding and smiling, then hurried to the waiting limousine. He hopped in briskly. It pulled away from the kerb. He looked up out of the window at the building he had just left, his whiskers and dark eyes giving him something of the appearance of a raccoon peering from its burrow. He had always been happy in New York, but now he had an added reason to love the city where he had enjoyed so much success.
A few blocks from his apartment, he leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Let me out here.’
The driver, who was familiar with the maestro’s habits by now, pulled over. ‘Pick you up in an hour?’ he asked.
Toscanini checked his watch. The rehearsal was not due to start until four. ‘One hour and a quarter.’