Read Online The Courage Consort by Michel Faber - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michel Faber
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forever. Johann Strauss. Herman's Hermits. Father Abraham and the Smurfs. These things will never die, even if we put a lot of effort into killing them. But for bad serious music, we don't need to do anything. It just sinks into the ground and it's gone.'
'But Jan, what do
you
think of
Partitum Mutante?
' asked Roger.
'I haven't heard it yet.'
'You've seen the score, surely.'
The director gratefully accepted the steaming cup of coffee being handed to him by Mrs. Courage.
'I am a facilitator of musical events,' he explained carefully. 'I read budget sheets. There are enough crescendos there, I promise you.' His face was solemn as he said this, though there was a twinkle in his eyes.
Dagmar excused herself and the conversation moved on to more general matters, like the château and its facilities. Were the Consort enjoying their stay? How was the environment suiting them?
The big fat man called Ben Lamb, sitting in the far corner of the room, made a small gesture indicating no complaints. Roger Courage said something to the effect that concentration on a musical project made the outside world cease to exist, but that during the brief moments when his Consort was not beavering away at
Partitum Mutante,
the Château de Luth and its setting were very attractive indeed. Julian Hind deflected the question, preferring to discuss with the director the feasibility of a hire-car from Antwerp or Brussels.
'I was wondering,' Catherine said, when Julian, appalled at the high cost of Netherlandish living, had retreated to his room. 'You've had many artists staying in this château over the years, haven't you?'
'Very many,' affirmed the director.
'Have any of them ever mentioned strange noises in the night?'
'What kind of noises?'
'Oh ⦠cries from the forest, perhaps.'
'Human cries?'
'Mmm, yes, possibly.'
She and Roger were sitting together on the sofa. On the pretence of bending down to fetch his plate of cake off the floor, Roger knocked his knee sharply against hers.
'Excuse me, dear,' he warned, trying to pull her back from whatever brink she was dawdling towards.
Unexpectedly, however, the director had no difficulty with her claims of mysterious cries in the night; in fact, he went pensive, as if faced with something that genuinely might lie outside the scope of art and arithmetic.
'This is a story I have heard before, yes,' he said. 'In fact, it is a kind of legend about the forest here.'
'Really,' breathed Catherine, gazing at him over the top of her steaming coffee mug. Roger was already fading away next to her.
'It began, I think, at the end of the war. Aâ¦' Jan van Hoeidonck paused, checking the Dutch-English dictionary in his head. 'A mental defective mother ⦠can you say this in English?'
'It's all right,' said Catherine, loath to explain political correctness to a foreigner. 'Go on.'
'A mental defective mother ran away from Martinekerke with her baby, when the army, the liberating army, was coming. She didn't understand these soldiers were not going to kill her. So she ran away, and nobody could find her. For all the years since that time, there are reports that a baby is crying in the forest, or a ⦠a spirit, yes?'
'Fascinating,' said Catherine, bending forward to put her cup down on the floor without taking her eyes off Jan van Hoeidonck. His own gaze dropped slightly, and she realised, with some surprise, that he was looking at her breasts.
I'm a woman,
she thought.
Roger spoke up, pulling the conversation back towards Pino Fugazza and his place in contemporary European music. Had the director, in fact, heard
anything
by the composer?
'I heard his first major piece,' Jan replied, unenthusiastically. '
Precipice,
for voices and percussionâthe one that won the Prix d'Italia. I don't remember it so well, because all the other Prix d'Italia entries were played on the same night, and they also were for voices and percussion. Except one from the former Soviet Union, for
'But Jan, what do
you
think of
Partitum Mutante?
' asked Roger.
'I haven't heard it yet.'
'You've seen the score, surely.'
The director gratefully accepted the steaming cup of coffee being handed to him by Mrs. Courage.
'I am a facilitator of musical events,' he explained carefully. 'I read budget sheets. There are enough crescendos there, I promise you.' His face was solemn as he said this, though there was a twinkle in his eyes.
Dagmar excused herself and the conversation moved on to more general matters, like the château and its facilities. Were the Consort enjoying their stay? How was the environment suiting them?
The big fat man called Ben Lamb, sitting in the far corner of the room, made a small gesture indicating no complaints. Roger Courage said something to the effect that concentration on a musical project made the outside world cease to exist, but that during the brief moments when his Consort was not beavering away at
Partitum Mutante,
the Château de Luth and its setting were very attractive indeed. Julian Hind deflected the question, preferring to discuss with the director the feasibility of a hire-car from Antwerp or Brussels.
'I was wondering,' Catherine said, when Julian, appalled at the high cost of Netherlandish living, had retreated to his room. 'You've had many artists staying in this château over the years, haven't you?'
'Very many,' affirmed the director.
'Have any of them ever mentioned strange noises in the night?'
'What kind of noises?'
'Oh ⦠cries from the forest, perhaps.'
'Human cries?'
'Mmm, yes, possibly.'
She and Roger were sitting together on the sofa. On the pretence of bending down to fetch his plate of cake off the floor, Roger knocked his knee sharply against hers.
'Excuse me, dear,' he warned, trying to pull her back from whatever brink she was dawdling towards.
Unexpectedly, however, the director had no difficulty with her claims of mysterious cries in the night; in fact, he went pensive, as if faced with something that genuinely might lie outside the scope of art and arithmetic.
'This is a story I have heard before, yes,' he said. 'In fact, it is a kind of legend about the forest here.'
'Really,' breathed Catherine, gazing at him over the top of her steaming coffee mug. Roger was already fading away next to her.
'It began, I think, at the end of the war. Aâ¦' Jan van Hoeidonck paused, checking the Dutch-English dictionary in his head. 'A mental defective mother ⦠can you say this in English?'
'It's all right,' said Catherine, loath to explain political correctness to a foreigner. 'Go on.'
'A mental defective mother ran away from Martinekerke with her baby, when the army, the liberating army, was coming. She didn't understand these soldiers were not going to kill her. So she ran away, and nobody could find her. For all the years since that time, there are reports that a baby is crying in the forest, or a ⦠a spirit, yes?'
'Fascinating,' said Catherine, bending forward to put her cup down on the floor without taking her eyes off Jan van Hoeidonck. His own gaze dropped slightly, and she realised, with some surprise, that he was looking at her breasts.
I'm a woman,
she thought.
Roger spoke up, pulling the conversation back towards Pino Fugazza and his place in contemporary European music. Had the director, in fact, heard
anything
by the composer?
'I heard his first major piece,' Jan replied, unenthusiastically. '
Precipice,
for voices and percussionâthe one that won the Prix d'Italia. I don't remember it so well, because all the other Prix d'Italia entries were played on the same night, and they also were for voices and percussion. Except one from the former Soviet Union, for
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