Read Online The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me by Lucy Robinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lucy Robinson
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kid,’ he said, more gently, and I heard his soft Huddersfield accent. ‘Just come and register, OK? Get to know the place. You won’t have to sing today.’
‘I won’t?’ A slender ray of hope.
‘Nope, no singing,’ he confirmed. We were nearing the entrance again and I noticed that the hobbling man was walking directly towards us. ‘Jan!’ Brian cried merrily. ‘My fine fellow! You made it!’
Jan was a short, angry-looking man with hair swept forward from the crown of his head into a dramatic curtain around his face. He looked like something from my VHS recording of
La Bohème
actually; one of the smelly art students in Café Momus during Act Two. He was wearing a long torn coat and what looked suspiciously like nineteenth-century trousers. His collar was cravated (no! No no no!) and a grubby handkerchief poked out of his front pocket alongside a fat old Nokia. Oh, and he was wearing only one shoe. In fact, as he bounced forward to shake Brian’s hand, I realized that he wasn’t hobbling. He was simply wearing one shoe and so was completely unbalanced.
For real?
my head thought. ‘For real?’ my mouth said,before I knew what was happening. Fortunately my rudeness was lost in Brian’s effusive greeting.
‘Welcome!’ he enthused. ‘Welcome to the Royal College! To London! To England! Excellent work getting here, Jan!’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Jan, in a strong Eastern European accent. ‘It take me many days. Now I am here! I am student!’
‘And so you are!’ Brian cried. They shook hands again. Jan’s face still looked furious, even though he was clearly very happy. I learned quickly that his ‘furious’ look covered a wide range of emotions.
I stood like a fat moron on the edges of Brian and Jan’s greeting ceremony and wondered if I could sneak off.
Brian was having none of it. ‘Sally Howlett, meet your classmate Jan Borsos,’ he said, stepping back to allow us to shake hands.
I decided on the spot that I liked him. Jan Borsos was even more out of place than I was, standing lopsidedly outside that vast, Hogwarts-like building. I held my hand out to him but he rejected it, choosing instead to bow deeply towards his shoeless foot.
‘Mrs Sally,’ he said respectfully. ‘Jan Borsos. I am from Pzjhkjhkjbjbjkbhjb in Hungary.’
‘Hi, er, Mr Borsos,’ I replied, with what I hoped was the right amount of respect. ‘Call me Sally. I’m … I’m, er, from Stourbridge. In the West Midlands. Where did you say you were from?’
Brian ushered us through the door, the cunning bastard, while Jan repeated himself. ‘I am from Pusztaszabolcs,’ he said very slowly, ‘south of Budapest. I studied at theBudapest Opera School until the age of sixteen when I married with beautiful Russian
répétiteur
. I was young and stupid and I pause my studies for love, but we divorced ourselves one years later and I did study opera at the St Petersburg Conservatory. I wrote letter to the great master László Polgár and he said, “Yes, Jan, I will teach you in Switzerland, you come to me soon.” I did study him for two years before he was dying.’
Jan stopped talking and his face clouded with sadness. I stared at him in amazement. I hadn’t been expecting a life story but I was impressed by it: it sounded like an opera in itself. ‘Wow,’ I said brightly. ‘So what have you been doing since then?’
‘It was a small two years ago,’ Jan whispered. ‘László did die and then I travelled to Budapest to grief. I sing for two years in church for no money but I knew I must continue my study. So I come here to London. I hope not to fall in love with any more beautiful
répétiteur
. For me they are dangerous. Today is my twenty-three birthday.’
Before I had time to wonder what a
répétiteur
was, or to panic about being on a course with a twenty-three-year-old, I realized I was now standing in the reception area of the Royal College of Music. Auditions had been so terrifying that
‘I won’t?’ A slender ray of hope.
‘Nope, no singing,’ he confirmed. We were nearing the entrance again and I noticed that the hobbling man was walking directly towards us. ‘Jan!’ Brian cried merrily. ‘My fine fellow! You made it!’
Jan was a short, angry-looking man with hair swept forward from the crown of his head into a dramatic curtain around his face. He looked like something from my VHS recording of
La Bohème
actually; one of the smelly art students in Café Momus during Act Two. He was wearing a long torn coat and what looked suspiciously like nineteenth-century trousers. His collar was cravated (no! No no no!) and a grubby handkerchief poked out of his front pocket alongside a fat old Nokia. Oh, and he was wearing only one shoe. In fact, as he bounced forward to shake Brian’s hand, I realized that he wasn’t hobbling. He was simply wearing one shoe and so was completely unbalanced.
For real?
my head thought. ‘For real?’ my mouth said,before I knew what was happening. Fortunately my rudeness was lost in Brian’s effusive greeting.
‘Welcome!’ he enthused. ‘Welcome to the Royal College! To London! To England! Excellent work getting here, Jan!’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Jan, in a strong Eastern European accent. ‘It take me many days. Now I am here! I am student!’
‘And so you are!’ Brian cried. They shook hands again. Jan’s face still looked furious, even though he was clearly very happy. I learned quickly that his ‘furious’ look covered a wide range of emotions.
I stood like a fat moron on the edges of Brian and Jan’s greeting ceremony and wondered if I could sneak off.
Brian was having none of it. ‘Sally Howlett, meet your classmate Jan Borsos,’ he said, stepping back to allow us to shake hands.
I decided on the spot that I liked him. Jan Borsos was even more out of place than I was, standing lopsidedly outside that vast, Hogwarts-like building. I held my hand out to him but he rejected it, choosing instead to bow deeply towards his shoeless foot.
‘Mrs Sally,’ he said respectfully. ‘Jan Borsos. I am from Pzjhkjhkjbjbjkbhjb in Hungary.’
‘Hi, er, Mr Borsos,’ I replied, with what I hoped was the right amount of respect. ‘Call me Sally. I’m … I’m, er, from Stourbridge. In the West Midlands. Where did you say you were from?’
Brian ushered us through the door, the cunning bastard, while Jan repeated himself. ‘I am from Pusztaszabolcs,’ he said very slowly, ‘south of Budapest. I studied at theBudapest Opera School until the age of sixteen when I married with beautiful Russian
répétiteur
. I was young and stupid and I pause my studies for love, but we divorced ourselves one years later and I did study opera at the St Petersburg Conservatory. I wrote letter to the great master László Polgár and he said, “Yes, Jan, I will teach you in Switzerland, you come to me soon.” I did study him for two years before he was dying.’
Jan stopped talking and his face clouded with sadness. I stared at him in amazement. I hadn’t been expecting a life story but I was impressed by it: it sounded like an opera in itself. ‘Wow,’ I said brightly. ‘So what have you been doing since then?’
‘It was a small two years ago,’ Jan whispered. ‘László did die and then I travelled to Budapest to grief. I sing for two years in church for no money but I knew I must continue my study. So I come here to London. I hope not to fall in love with any more beautiful
répétiteur
. For me they are dangerous. Today is my twenty-three birthday.’
Before I had time to wonder what a
répétiteur
was, or to panic about being on a course with a twenty-three-year-old, I realized I was now standing in the reception area of the Royal College of Music. Auditions had been so terrifying that
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