Free The Concert Pianist by Conrad Williams Page B

every branch of the arts there are great talents unjustly on the fringe, awaiting their moment of motorway access to the brand-name freeway. Then suddenly the time arrives when a talent can be slipped into the zeitgeist, because the opening is there, and the talent fits the opening.’ Bulmanion regarded him with a profound expression. ‘Once on the freeway you have irreversible fame, an asset nobody can take from you, and the inherent value of what you do is disseminated to the widest audience. Philip, it’s my perception that your time has truly come. I see it as my role to create that access.’
    There was a moment of silence in which John waited respectfully and appreciatively, Ursula’s melting gaze swung from Frank to Philip, and Philip sat inertly, hands clamped to the ends of his chair arms.
    The comparison with Solomon he found suffocating, unbearable. He looked askance. He was not a pianist any more. That was the problem. He was a distressed fifty-two-year-old man with nothing in his life to cling on to. They might have been talking about someone else.
    â€˜Maybe. . Ursula was hesitant. Her hands moved gracefully, as if to break in an idea before it was uttered. ‘I totally agree with what Frank says, but I think that maybe Philip is worried that we are trying to canonise - to use Frank’s word - recordings that haven’t earned their reputation yet. Which puts pressure on Philip.’ She looked at Philip, collecting her thoughts. ‘I mean, Myra Hess didn’t worry about ending up in the Great Pianist series every time she recorded a Beethoven piano sonata. If Frank is right, Philip will have a brilliant posterity on the strength of his occasional recordings, rather than absolutely everything he commits to disc under a new label . . .’
    He stared at her. She was beautiful. She was articulate. It got worse and worse.
    â€˜Correct,’ said Bulmanion, adroitly incorporating Ursula at once, and suggesting a dialectical process of evaluation so conscientious that Philip did not need to think for himself. ‘My concern is to be on call when Philip is doing his best stuff. Retrospectively every pianist has a golden period. Look at Solomon in the early fifties. Richter in the sixties. Pollini in the seventies.’
    â€˜Maybe I’ve had mine.’
    â€˜I think you’re there now.’
    Philip’s face creased up. This was too much. Their words were hurting him.
    â€˜Is my view completely irrelevant?’
    John tensed.
    â€˜Of course not,’ said Bulmanion more gently.
    â€˜God,’ Philip gasped. ‘I really admire people like you! You have to deal with hard cases like me.’
    â€˜That’s because there’s more at stake than pretty conversation,’ said the financier. ‘You have great talent.’
    â€˜Philip!’ said John breathily. ‘Frank wants to record the three concerts as the basis for a CD sequence on the great sonatas. I think it’s a fantastic idea, nobody’s ever done it before, a themed sonata series, mixed composers, mixed eras, with maybe a biennial concert series and a tour to drive the releases.’
    â€˜One small problem,’ said Philip, looking away.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I’m going to cancel the concerts.’
    John’s head turned slowly.
    â€˜I don’t think I can play next Wednesday.’
    There was a silence, a snapshot of nothing.
    â€˜We’ve got to talk.’ He covered his face. ‘I’m going to have to cancel.’
    Ursula’s hand slid from her thigh on to the sofa cushion.
    â€˜Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.’ Frank rose from his seat. ‘I’ll be with you in a second.’
    He pulled the door shut behind him. They heard him calling someone in the corridor.
    John glanced over his shoulder at the door. Then he looked at Philip with an expression of needling incredulity.
    Philip remained embedded in the armchair. His