Mozart's Wig

Mozart's Wig

(c) Graham Buchan 2003

2049 words

Harry, Principal Oboe, made his way through the shrubbery of chairs and
music stands and took his familiar position in the middle ground of the
orchestra. Clement, his friend and Second Clarinet, was already
seated.
'So what are we playing tonight?' asked Harry.
'A piece by young Mr Mozart,' said Clement. They always liked to engage
in this sort of banter.
'Oh, good. I do like his tunes,' said Harry.
'Yes, it's an overture. To The Marriage of Figaro.'
'Oh, that is a nice piece. That's the one we rehearsed this afternoon,
isn't it?'
'The very same,' answered Clement.
'Well, let's hope we do it justice.'

The audience had been filing in for quarter of an hour and the hall
promised to be about two thirds full. To Harry's left Susan, one of the
cellists, also took her seat. Harry had a passion for Susan. But he had
always had a passion for female cellists. It stemmed from his student
days at the Royal Northern College, where he had had a brief fling with
Elise. Elise was a student cellist. They had flirted, and after a
bottle of wine in her tiny flat Elise had explained the problem faced
by some lady cellists. It depended on the size of one's bust. Where do
you put it? If it is large, you either push it into the back of the
cello, where it is forced uncomfortably downwards, or you try to
arrange it perched along the top, where it hampers your bowing action.
With Elise the problem was severe. She had a very big bust. She had
offered to demonstrate, and Harry had eagerly volunteered his
manipulative hands to assist in the permutations. The had a single
night of passion. In the morning, despite their lust, it was apparent
they didn't have that much in common. But lady cellists, gripping their
instrument with their spread knees, pushing or perching their bosom....
they still bothered Harry. In fact female flesh still bothered Harry.
He was sixty-four, and wished it didn't. He looked across at Susan. She
was more of a pusher than a percher.
'And what do we play after the Mozart?' asked Harry.
Clement uttered the words more loathed than any others by orchestral
musicians throughout the country: 'We're playing a new work by a
contemporary British composer.'
'Oh.'
No matter how well received by the critics, or how resoundingly
applauded by the more enlightened sections of the audience, the troops
in the orchestra had a universal belief that they would make a better
noise shoving their instruments down the escalator at Leicester Square
tube station, than by playing most modern music.
'Oh yes. We rehearsed that too,' intoned Harry.
'Indeed. Over the last three days.'

Because of the new piece a guest conductor from Eastern Europe had been
flown in. A young man with wild hair given to extravagant podium
gestures. In rehearsal the composer, a thin gaunt man - Professor of
Composition at Warwick University - sat like a silent bird as his piece
was assembled before him. He nodded sagely as the conductor - they had
met at some forgotten music festival and must have found some kind of
empathy - he nodded sagely as the conductor offered more and more
interpretative suggestions.
'You know Carl, I sfink in ziss tutti, a little accelarando. To stress
ze tragedy, no?'
The pinched bird gestured mute acquiescence with his hands. Harry
suspected he was grateful to have his awful piece performed at
all.

But Harry himself had slight cause to be thankful. The piece had what
amounted to a solo for oboe in the central section. All players like a
solo - it appeals to the ego - but this one was a tortuous twelve bars
with no tonal centre. Harry would be completely exposed, accompanied
only by the odd strumming on harp and double bass. 'Still,' he thought,
'if I do cock it up the audience won't know the difference, and Mr
Guest Maestro is on a plane back to Bratislava early tomorrow
morning.'

'And after the interval?' asked Harry.
'Orchestral excerpts from Wagner's Ring,' offered Clement.
'Ahhh, the bleeding chunks. Very good.' Orchestral musicians know that
audiences generally do not like Wagner operas - they are the equivalent
of running the marathon through the caverns of hell - but cut him down
to size, take away the sopranos and the silly scenery, and Wagner left
you with jolly good tunes. A sure fire way of ending a concert. And
Harry knew he would have the enduring pleasure of seeing Susan, in the
more animated passages, sawing away like a carpenter. Female flesh. Why
did it still bother him?

The concert went well. Mozart provided a lively ap?ritif, and at the
end of the new piece the wild man singled out Harry to take a bow for
his solo. Warily he rose to his feet in embarrassment. The maestro was
beaming, but around his eyes there was a little grimace. 'I heard you
go sharp on that trill,' he seemed to be saying. 'Oh, well,' thought
Harry. After the final chords of the Wagner the audience stood and
cheered. Harry was always suspicious of this behaviour. He wondered
whether they were really applauding themselves for just being there,
for parading their cultural pretensions. Audiences were ignorant. They
followed fads, they succumbed to the critics, but most of all they
liked loud noise. That's what gave them their money's worth. Harry
often observed the suits and their ladies in the more expensive seats.
They pored over the glossy programmes, trying to make sense of the
impenetrable notes written by some unknown musicologist. Doubtless they
listened to Classic FM - what Harry thought of as the chocolate box
music station - and doubtless they displayed Nigel Kennedy's CD's
prominently on their shelves. Nigel Kennedy. He had guested with them
once. One of the second violins had coined an acronym: WATWAJ. What a
talent; what a jerk.

Harry would be the first to admit that his musical tastes were narrow.
He liked some of Bach, nearly all of Mozart, some of Haydn. Beethoven,
who he had adored as a young man, he now thought of as a bullying
psychopath. And he had to admit that Schubert wrote some delicious
melodies. But after that? The long procession of nineteenth century
romantics left him cold, culminating in that miserable sod Mahler who
elevated self-pity into high art. Then the twentieth century: the
atonalists, the serialists, the brutalists and the neo-classicists. The
pastoralists, the social realists, the deconstructivists and now, God
help us all, the holy bloody minimalists. All striving for effect.
No-one blessed with innate genius. Surely, no-one was ever loved by God
as much as Wolfgang Amadeus.

To save expense Harry sometimes shared a taxi home with Susan who lived
in the same direction. They did so this evening. Harry did not know
very much about Susan. She was quite an attractive woman, but with a
sad look of resignation about her eyes. He guessed she was about
thirty-eight, and knew she had been married to a jazz trumpeter, but
had been divorced for a few years. After a while in the cab she said,
'You're quiet tonight Harry. Are you thinking about your solo?'
'Oh.... no.'
'So what are you thinking about?'
He paused. 'What am I thinking about? What am I thinking about?' He
checked that the glass partition to the driver was fully closed. 'I'm
thinking that I'm sixty-four years old, and I'd really love to hold
your breasts.'
There was a gulped pause. 'I think times have changed, Harry.' It
seemed a perceptive comment, but then he wondered what it actually
meant.
'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I shouldn't have been so rude. That was awful. I
am sorry.'
As the taxi stopped outside her flat Harry offered to help Susan with
her cello.
'No need, Harry. Thanks anyway.'
'So... goodnight, then.' Harry was driven away, and he felt acutely
embarrassed. 'What an idiot!' he admonished himself.

It was a further ten minutes to Harry's home. Ruth was in her room. Her
regular snoring was reassuringly audible. After nearly forty years they
were still reasonably good friends, still shared their routines and
their holidays, but there was no intimacy or passion. They had had
separate rooms for the last five years. Even through the walls her
snoring forced him to stuff his ears. A lot of musicians marry other
musicians but Harry had looked elsewhere. He didn't want to talk shop
at home. Ruth had worked at the Trustee Savings Bank, until it was
privatised and she left in disgust. She was a socialist and Harry
admired her for her principles. They had holidayed in Cuba and Russia.
Despite the obvious shortcomings and the meanness of life which they
saw, she still stuck to her principles, and he still admired her. He
undressed quietly and washed. As he settled down the light from the
street lamp took up its familiar angle against the wardrobe.

Susan's breasts were full and firm. Her nipples were long and taut.
Young Mr Mozart, in his grimy frock coat, was splayed across her,
licking and slobbering frenetically. In between sucks he uttered
furious imprecations. 'Don't go with Beethoven! He's mad, he's virgin!
And mind Schubert! He's got the clap!'
Susan was transported. Her body heaved. She held Mozart's little head
firmly to her breasts, and as she did so his filthy wig came away in
her hands. Harry sat up suddenly. 'Oh Jesus.' It took him time to come
round and for his eyes to see through the gloom. 'Oh Jesus.' He had an
aching erection. He groaned. Sixty-four years old and still as horny as
a teenager. He couldn't be bothered to relieve himself. He turned over
onto his front to crush his member into submission. He slowly slipped
back into sleep, and dreamt of nothing.

At rehearsal the next day Harry made straight for Susan.
'I do apologise,' he said, 'I was very rude.'
'No matter, really Harry,' she said.
'I shouldn't have spoken like that.'
'It's alright Harry,' she smiled. Susan thought back to their little
exchange. The truth was that as soon as she had closed her flat door
behind her she had put down her cello and had held her own breasts, and
she had rather wished it had been Harry, or indeed, anyone.

The orchestra left London for a short tour of the provinces. It would
seem like an adventure, being away from home with so many work
colleagues, except that they had all done it so often in the past. The
brass section tended to do some serious drinking, but most of the
orchestra retired to their rooms to read or watch television. Some of
the younger ones surely engaged in brief affairs. Whilst away Harry was
reluctant to make any overtures towards Susan. He drank the occasional
pint with Clement. The weather was lousy. After ten days the orchestra
returned to the capital and settled into the usual routine.

After the next concert - Haydn, Stravinsky and Dvorak - Harry and Susan
shared the taxi home. As it approached her road Susan said, 'Why don't
you come in?'
'Oh, thanks,' He carried her cello up the stairs. She undid her coat
and stood directly in front of him.
'I think we should have a sexual relationship.'
'Oh,' said Harry.
She spoke quickly in a businesslike way, as if listing the items on an
agenda.
'About once a week; not any more; here in my flat.'
'Oh,' said Harry.
'So you can do anything you like.'
'Oh.'
'And of course I will do anything I like.'
'Oh, of course.'
She unzipped his trousers and rummaged for his thing. It was warm and
stiffening to attention like a war veteran. She knelt down to take a
closer look.
'Aaron's Rod.'
'Pardon?'
'It's a book,' she said, 'DH Lawrence. It's good.'
'Oh.'
She started to tug on it.
'And another thing. No sentiment. For Christ's sake no presents, no
flowers. Okay? No romance.'
He looked down at her. She was holding the end of his willy about two
inches from her mouth.
'So.... no music,' he said.
'Oh God!,' she exclaimed, 'no fucking music!' and they both
laughed.