A Bewitching Compulsion

Tim thrust one warm little hand into hers.

'Perhaps not, but you will be as soon as you stop moving. At least get out of those damp shoes and towel your hair before you get out your violin.'

'OK, Mum.' Tim was eager to obey now that he had proved his point. With a beseeching look at David to hurry, he scampered off towards the lodge.

'You can't keep him wrapped in cotton wool forever, Clare,' David murmured as she turned to follow. 'If you coddle the boy too much, he'll never stand on his own two feet… if that's what you want.'

Clare whipped around, hands on hips, all too ready to argue. 'I don't consider taking reasonable precautions with his health 'coddling'. Since he was ill last year, Tim has been very susceptible to infections. Couldn't you hear him wheezing? And if he's in poor health he can hardly take a serious interest in the violin, can he, considering the endurance and fitness it requires?'

'I'm sorry, I didn't know he'd been ill. Does he suffer from asthma?' David asked quietly, defusing her anger somewhat.

Clare nodded. 'Not badly, but enough to complicate common chest infections. For a while after Lee died he used to get regular attacks, but I think they were more psychological than physical. He used to worry that he was going to stop breathing when he went to sleep. Lee lapsed into unconsciousness before he died, and although Tim read all about leukaemia and seemed to understand, I think he became overly aware of his own physiology.' She smiled faintly. 'The curse of a very active imagination.'

'Better to have too much than too little. It is getting a little chilly out here. We were so engrossed, I didn't notice. I have a great tolerance for it…my arctic Russian blood, I suppose.'

'I thought Russians were hot-blooded,' slipped out involuntarily, and Clare began walking, hoping the small exertion would excuse her flush.

'It depends on the circumstances,' he said with a grin as he fell in beside her.

'Do you consider yourself Russian rather than a New Zealander?' asked Clare steadily. 'I notice your publicity always calls you a 'New Zealand-born Russian.'

'That's Efrem's psychology. He claims everyone expects the best musicians to have Russian ancestry, and being born here removes the taint of communism that US audiences find suspicious. I have been to Russia— once—during a brief thaw in the political ice-wall. You know my parents were refugees? Well, my father continued to be an active, vocal critic of Russian politics right up until the day he died… particularly as it involved the repression of creative free-thinking in the arts. He was considered a traitor, and I, as the son of a traitor, was only issued a visa under sufferance. I was visiting my mother's only sister who was dying, exchanging messages. I have no doubt I was kept under surveillance, and I wasn't allowed to perform, but even so I felt a certain sense of homecoming. Perhaps, with the advent of glasnost, I may be able to play there one day. I'd certainly like to see more of the people and the country, but I'm a child of democracy, of freedom, and the illusion of homecoming was just that, an illusion, prompted no doubt by all the nostalgic tales my parents and their friends fed me. There's nothing more Russian than an expatriate Russian, even a dissenting one.'

'So where is home?'

'Physically, nowhere. I have properties in London and New York where I spend so much time, but I usually prefer staying in hotels, so that I don't have to be concerned with domestic details. Emotionally, it must be here, at the school. I have a house in the grounds and that's where I live when I'm not performing, so I suppose you could call that my home, Certainly it is my link between past and future, my gift, if you like, to this country for offering my parents refuge and safe citizenship. We Deverenkos like to repay our debts.'

'But you didn't really live here very long, did you? I mean, you went to America when you were still quite young.'

'To learn to become a musician, not to learn to become an American. It is the first blissful memories of childhood that always grip us most. I like the climate here, I like the gentle pace of life, the peace, the safety that comes from belonging to a small, isolated country far distant from the embattled turmoil of the superpowers. I shall retire here when I am old and grey, and surround myself with the new generation of musicians to sustain me in my decline,' he announced whimsically.

'I can't imagine you in a decline.' The thought made Clare's rare, sweet smile surface. 'More likely you'll grow more arrogant and demanding than ever as an eminence grise worshipped by all those young, unquestioning minds.'

He laughed. 'If you think that young musicians worship blindly at the altar of experience, you have a sad awakening ahead of you. Young musicians are every bit as arrogant and opinionated as old ones, once they have a little learning under their belts. That is the danger. When I was in my late teens I was sure that I knew better than all my teachers, I thought I could do anything and the critics seemed to agree with me. But while I enjoyed the temptations of the high life, basking in all the adulation I was receiving, my playing suffered. In anyone else the flaws might not have been remarked upon, but the standards by which the critics judged me were, after all, my own… or had been. Music was my life, but it had chosen me…how could I betray the honour? So I came back here and shut myself away for a while and re-learned the lesson of humility: there is no music without discipline and dedication. One plays a piece, but one thinks it also. That was the beginning of my maturity, I think, both as an artist and as a man. Shortly afterwards, when I rejoined the concert circuit, I met Nina and the maturing process was completed. She, too, had a serious sense of vocation and understood the pressures that drove me. Loving Nina provided me with emotional depths that until then I had lacked. That had been the only suggestion of criticism—that my playing was too cold, too perfect. Mastery of your instrument is not enough, you see…a brilliant technique is an empty vessel if it contains no subtle nuances to tease the listener, to provide the musical revelation.'

Fascinated by the dreamy seriousness of his expression, Clare stumbled over a rough piece of ground and might have fallen if David hadn't whipped out a hand and steadied her. He saw the look in her smoke-grey eyes and made a sound in the back of his throat.

'Ah, Clare, don't look at me like that.'

'Like what?' She blinked, removing the arm around her waist so that she could walk on. In spite of the explosive speed with which he had moved, the hand which had caught her had been gentle, unsettlingly so. Aggressive vitality and gentleness; it was a potent combination.

'As if I am some alien species that you don't know whether to fear or trust—or care to do either.'

'But you are… an alien species, I mean,' said Clare, shaken that he should read her so well. 'I can't even begin to understand you or your world.' She sighed with relief as they gained the stone steps.

'Why don't you come and sit in on this practice with Tim? Perhaps that will help dispel some of the mystery.'

'I…' For some reason the offer disturbed her even more than his touch. 'I have the menu to type.'

'It will only take half an hour of your time. You can give Tim that, can't you?'

It was very cunning of him. Her eyes flashed. 'I can give Tim all the time he needs.'

'Good.' He smoothly steered her past her office towards the small room, with piano, that Tim used to practise in when there were no guests to disturb.

'I… Cheryl doesn't believe that parents should interfere with a child's practice,' she protested weakly as David sat her in a chair and turned to Tim, who had sorted out his written assignment from his music case and was rubbing rosin into his bow.

'You're not going to interfere, you're going to appreciate. I agree that critical judgement from a parent can be counter-productive, but as a source of moral support there's no substitute for a mother's smile.'