The Line of Beauty - Alan Hollinghurst [108]
There was a strange rough breath from Norman Kent, who was crying steadily—making rather a thing of it perhaps, pulling off his glasses and swiping his face with his hand. Nick admired the spirit of it, the defiant sensitivity, and also felt put out, since he often cried at music himself but on this occasion hadn't managed to do so. Penny rested her hand on her father's shoulder, and braved this familiar embarrassment. Nick saw she was blushing, which she easily did. Then the music turned on a sixpence, and the light-headed rush of the finale began. The marvellous marking, Vivacissi-mamente, was a red rag to Nina, and the music flashed by in delirious chirrups and stampings. Nick seemed to see Beethoven, or rather Nina herself, striding up and down some sonorous wooden-floored room in frenzied impatience for the joyful return. Norman made a grunt of rueful amusement, and Penny twisted round, as if freed by the optimistic turn of events, and looked gently, and still blushing, at Gerald, who caught her eye, lowered his gaze and coloured slightly also. Well, there was such an old tension between the two men, on stubborn matters of principle; for years it had been only Rachel's stubbornness that could make them forget their principles enough to meet, and nod at each other, and exchange doggish banter. Of course it was painful for Penny, and now perhaps she was making her own plea for reconciliation. Typing up Gerald's diary from the tape each day she must have a useful sense of his feelings.
The sonata finished and firm applause broke out, given a new edge of enthusiasm by the fact of its being the end—the whole experience was suddenly seen in a brighter light, it was time for a drink, they'd all done rather well. Norman Kent clapped with his hands above his head when Nina came back in, Catherine called out a hectic "Bravo," and Jasper imitated her and grinned as if he'd made a joke in class. For a second or two Nina stood there stiffly, then she sat down without a word and played Rachmaninov's Prelude in C-sharp minor. It was a piece the older members of the audience tended to know well, and though they didn't specially want to hear it, they indulged it and exchanged distracted smiles. After that there was very decisive applause, the piece had gone on for quite a while, one or two people looked round at the drinks table and the exit and started talking, and Nina came back in and played Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor, in the famous Busoni transcription. At this Lady Kimbolton looked at her watch as if she was virtually blind, holding her arm up to the light, and a number of people started fanning themselves with their programme sheets. This caught on as a form of mutiny, with the associated jiggling of bracelets. When Nina came back the next time Gerald had stood up and was saying, "Um . . . aah," as if amiably bringing a meeting to order, but she sat down anyway and played the Sabre Dance by Khachaturian. It all seemed quite natural to Nick, she must have been told to have three encores ready, but there was still a possibility that she had four, so at a sign from Gerald he went out after her and congratulated her and asked her to stop. She stood on the landing and gazed down the pompous curve of the stairs as the applause pattered quickly to a close and the greedy roar of the party began.
"Hello, Judy!"
"My dear." Lady Partridge stood rigid while he kissed her rosy cheek—Nick never knew if she regarded a kiss as a homage or a liberty. He grinned at her, as if she was having as much fun as he was. "You seem very cheerful," she said.
Nick looked in the mirror where he did appear bright-eyed, sharing a rich secret with himself. "Well, a successful recital, I thought."
"Did you," said Lady Partridge; and then, merely to be agreeable, "I liked the last piece she played. I think I've heard it before."
"Oh, the Khachaturian."
She gave him a very dry look. "Got a swing to it."
"Mm, it certainly has"—Nick laughed quietly and delightedly, and after a second Lady