Chapter 31
The following week I’m out in Leicester, directing my film. Let’s say that again, I’m directing a film. The armourer is scarier than his guns, and the actors really do ask me about their motivation. I don’t get a minute’s sleep in my hotel bed, because I’m so busy working out my shot lists for day two. Despite exhaustion, I manage to stumble towards the wrap and Bill says he’s sure it’s all in the can, “Well done, kid.”
Six months later, I find time to slip in to the opening of Dave’s new show. He’s found this little gallery space in Stoke Newington for his photographs of the Hasidic community. It’s a little shop front. Where the greengrocer used to sell cabbages and carrots from stands covered in artificial grass, they’ve painted the walls brilliant white. The stills are set on cream mounts in aluminium frames, several of which bear little red stickers meaning they’ve been sold. There are a handful of frummers there, and the kind of arty crowd Dave’s always hung out with. It’s perfect synthesis of both the worlds that he inhabits now.
I told him about the miscarriage, and about Jon, as soon as I could. That’s not why we split up though. Well, not the only reason. He tells me about the classes he’s doing, and the way he manages to fit daily religious observance round his work. And as he walks away, I notice the white tassels hanging down from under his shirt. It’s not for me, it’s for him.
Mutti has moved back in to her house in Rhiwbina. When she’s had time to settle in, I go to visit. As the engine stills, I catch some faint notes of violin music floating in the atmosphere. I open the car door, and sit listening. Street sounds, a front door banging closed, birdsong and the distant bark of a lawn mower. Then a rising arpeggio cuts through the static, a fragile wisp of a thing, clinging on to the air. I think that’s Mendelssohn’s violin concerto. Can’t be Mutti, surely? It stops, and then starts again, repeating a phrase several times, before sweeping on. But she hasn’t got an instrument.
I let myself into the house, and the playing gets louder. Coming from upstairs. Then it’s suddenly interrupted by a noise from the kitchen. The staccato whirring of an electric mixer, in short compulsive bursts. I find Mutti at the Kenwood, surrounded by flour, butter and piles of rich yellow apricots.
“Who’s playing the violin?” I ask, as she kisses me hello.
“I’m making B&B. I told you.”
“Yes, yes, Mrs Llewellyn is helping you with the advert. You told me, but that doesn’t explain the music.”
“She tells me special place for advert, WNO.”
“What is WNO?
“You know. Welsh National.”
“Welsh National what?”
“Opera. What you think? Opera!”
“But don’t their musicians have a home already?”
“Guest artistes for violin section.” She scrapes cake mixture off the side of the bowl with a large red spatula, and sweeps a fingerful into her mouth.
“Mmm delicious. Needs drop of vanilla. Must practise four hours a day.” As she bustles into the larder, there are footsteps on the stairs, and a young man with a blond beard appears.
“Hi, I’m Hugo.” I shake his hand as gently as I can. I don’t want to be the person who mangles his virtuosity.
“Can I help with something, Mrs M?” he asks as Mutti emerges from the larder.
Hugo and I lay the table together for late lunch, as he has a performance tonight. Mutti insists on an embroidered tablecloth that was part of her trousseau. While she is kneading the galuskas, and fine-slicing the cucumbers, she begs him to bring down his instrument. He demurs. Mutti begs him.
“Please. Would make me so happy.”
He says, “Look, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I must think of my performance.” And I think, oh no, let’s not be responsible for ruining tonight’s recital. Let alone tomorrow’s. Think of all the people who have paid exorbitant sums for tickets. Can this man really withstand the rigours of Mutti’s hospitality? Let’s hope she doesn’t decide he needs a spot of arm-wrestling as a warm up. But he suddenly caves in, “OK, OK,” and I realise it’s an elaborate game they’ve been playing with each other.
He’s teasing her and she’s lying there on her back having her tummy tickled. In the metaphorical sense. Hugo sets up his music stand in the middle of the kitchen, playing a ravishing mazurka, with Mutti singing along and conducting as she scatters dill over the cucumber salad in time to the music.
“The auction’s next Wednesday,” I say. “Are you coming down to London?”
“Of course,” she replies. “I wear my mink.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, sweeping in dressed to kill and ending up disappointed. You know what the lady at Sotheby’s said. It’s impossible to predict what kind of price we are going to get for any of them.”
“I don’t care. Maybe I don’t sell after all. I have paintings all around the house. I make special artistic B&B with priceless art collection.” She flourishes the salad server around her head in time to the music.
One painting has been hung in pride of place in the dining room. It’s not going to the auction – an oil painting of a beautiful young woman in a red silk dress, playing the violin. A portrait of a young Mutti. It watches over us as we eat dinner.
Hugo eats with enthusiasm, complimenting each dish. For Mutti, that would be reward enough. But, to my astonishment, he appears able to discuss the finer points of Hungarian cuisine. That’s something even Dad wasn’t up to. He wonders if Mutti favours the sweet paprika or the strong one for a gulyas. What is her view of caraway seeds? She glows, as I have never seen her glow before.
For dessert, Mutti carves out three generous tranches of apricot kuchen. Through the ripples in Hugo’s beard, I discern a look of satisfied anticipation. She dollops a heavy spoonful of schlagsahne on top of one piece, and hands it to him. She cuts another slice, sinking the silver ladle back into the cream and scoops it up. As it is poised over the cake, she turns to me.
“So,” she says. “How’s Jonathan?”
“He’s fine,” I reply. “Jon’s fine.” And you know what? It’s not code for anything.