The lost symphony, p.3
The Lost Symphony, page 3
‘Certainly,’ said Jack, appreciating Alexandra’s tact, and reached for the bottle.
‘When are you leaving?’
‘As soon as I can arrange a flight, which won’t be easy with all the tourists in town at the moment, but Katerina and I have a promise to keep ...’
‘To plant a memory tree?’ ventured Alexandra quietly.
Jack looked thoughtfully across the harbour glistening in the afternoon sunlight and nodded – a distant look on his face – as a strange, yet familiar feeling washed over him. Some of the most exciting stories and adventures always seemed to find him in the most unexpected ways. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Jack sensed this could well be such a moment.
2
Madame Petrova’s Memory Trees: New Year’s Eve 2016
Due to the popular Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race, obtaining an airline ticket to Europe turned out to be almost impossible. It had taken all of Jack’s ingenuity and contacts and several hours on the phone to finally secure a business class seat on Qantas. The breakthrough came when one of the booking clerks took pity on him after he had explained his situation over and over, pleading compassionate hardship.
Jack’s plane was late, but François – Countess Kuragin’s butler-cum-gardener and chauffeur – met him at the airport in Paris, greeted him like a long-lost friend and took him straight to the Kuragin chateau. Despite a ferocious snowstorm, when the car finally reached the familiar bridge and crossed the moat, Jack began to relax.
To a restless rolling stone like Jack, who had lived in many places without calling any of them home, the Kuragin chateau came as close to a notion of home as Jack had ever experienced since leaving the family farm in Queensland as a teenager during a dreadful drought that almost destroyed his father. This was in no small way due to the fact that after Jack found her lost daughter, Anna, in the unforgiving Australian outback six years earlier, Countess Kuragin had opened her heart and her home to Jack, and made him part of her family.
This had a wonderful, stabilising effect on Jack, who spent several months a year at the chateau, writing and sharing precious time with Tristan, who had grown into a formidable young man after the countess had taken him under her wing. Jack had brought Tristan to the chateau after the tragic death of his Maori mother, Cassandra. Tristan and Anna had forged a close bond and were able to communicate in strange, unexpected ways that didn’t require words or even gestures. They just seemed to be able to read each other’s thoughts and moods. Jack was used to this, and often joined them while Anna was painting in her studio with her little boy by her side, and Tristan was doing his school homework.
On those occasions, they sat for hours in total silence, but they were never alone. Because writing is such a solitary endeavour, Jack found this unusual arrangement calming and relaxing, allowing him to focus on his writing without having to withdraw from the affairs of the world and lock himself away.
After a hearty dinner down in the basement kitchen next to the old samovar, and a good night’s sleep in his familiar room overlooking the now-frozen pond, Jack rose early. Feeling energised and refreshed after the long, tiring flight, he was sitting in his favourite chair in the warm conservatory, surrounded by ferns and palms and enjoying his first strong coffee of the day, when he heard footsteps approaching from behind.
‘I thought I would find you here,’ said the countess and sat down next to Jack. ‘Isn’t this beautiful? Look at you. Sitting in the tropics surrounded by exotic plants, watching the snow falling outside? I love the tracery of the tree branches over there, don’t you? And look at the pine trees: bearded old men in white fur coats; straight out of Lord of the Rings. It’s going to be a harsh winter, I think. Heavy snow like this around Christmas is always a sign.’
‘When I left Sydney, it was thirty-two degrees. Hard to believe looking at this winter wonderland,’ said Jack. ‘I find international travel on this scale almost too fast. The body is already here, but the mind still needs a little more time to catch up and do the same.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said the countess and poured herself a cup of coffee. ‘You were late.’
‘The plane was delayed in Singapore. Put us back three hours.’
‘So much for spending New Year’s Eve on Sydney Harbour watching the fireworks. You’ll be watching them here on TV instead, I’m afraid.’
Jack reached for the countess’s hand and squeezed it. ‘No matter, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. And besides, a promise is a promise.’
‘I know. Are you ready to do this today?’
‘I am. On the last day of the old year. Quite appropriate, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I suppose it is. How about noon? It may be a little warmer by then.’
‘I doubt it, but noon sounds fine.’
‘I will ask François to make the necessary arrangements.’
‘There isn’t much to do, surely?’
‘No, not much. Just a few things. Leave it to me,’ said the countess.
‘Just you and me?’
‘Yes, I think that would be best.’
‘I agree.’
For a long moment, Jack and the countess sat in silence, lost in thought, and looked out into the garden and watched the large snowflakes drift slowly past the windowpanes. They both remembered Madame Petrova and the promise they had made to a remarkable old lady who had finally joined the many friends who had gone before her into the great unknown.
At twelve pm sharp, François pulled up outside in the old Bentley. He had gone to the retirement home earlier that morning to make the necessary arrangements for what was to come.
‘Wow!’ said Jack, as he held the back door open for the countess. Wearing a stunning, full-length fur coat that had belonged to her mother, and a matching Russian fur hat, the countess looked like a celebrity who was about to attend a reception at the tsar’s Winter Palace in St Petersburg. The only things missing were the horse-drawn sleigh and uniformed guards.
‘You make me feel decidedly underdressed.’ Jack pointed to his well-worn leather bomber jacket and thick woollen scarf he had wound around his neck in a hurry before stepping outside. ‘You look absolutely stunning!’
‘I rarely get to wear this stuff. So I thought, why not send the old lady off in style? She would certainly have liked that, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely! Let’s go.’
Despite treacherous black ice and snow covering the road, the drive to the retirement home only took half an hour. Jack smiled as they drove through the ornate iron gates leading into the extensive, park-like grounds now covered in a blanket of heavy snow. The gates brought back memories of his first encounter with Madame Petrova four years earlier.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ asked the countess, turning to Jack sitting next to her. ‘An old sweater that has definitely seen better days, that infernal leather jacket, a scarf and a slouch hat? You look like the spy who came in from the cold.’
‘Straight out of the John le Carré novel. I can live with that.’
‘Is that the best you could come up with?’ teased the countess, ignoring the remark.
Jack shrugged. ‘You know me. Clothes are definitely not my forte. And I came out of a hot summer Down Under, not in from the cold, remember? As for being cold, I have you to keep me warm. This fur coat is big enough for both of us.’
‘There is no doubt about it,’ said the countess, raising an eyebrow. ‘It’s definitely true what they say about you.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘That you are an incorrigible rascal.’
‘Not that old chestnut again, please!’
‘Look, we are almost there,’ said the countess, changing the subject, and pointed out the window as François pulled up in front of the entrance.
‘Don’t we need some, you know, stuff to do this?’
‘Don’t worry, François has arranged everything; haven’t you, François?’
‘I certainly have,’ replied François. ‘Everything’s ready.’
‘And I have the important bit with me right in here,’ said the countess and pointed to the muff on her lap.
‘In that case, let’s go,’ said Jack and opened the door.
The short walk through pristine snow to Madame Petrova’s memory trees at the back of the chateau only took a few minutes. François stayed behind and would be waiting for them in the car. The snow clouds had parted, revealing a blue sky so bright it made the eyes water.
‘This reminds me of something you said the first time we met,’ said Jack.
‘Oh? What?’
‘As I recall it, we were sitting down in the old kitchen in the chateau. It was late at night, and you had just explained to me what a samovar was and where it came from. I think you called it a tea urn that warmed generations.’
‘I do remember,’ said the countess, a smile creasing the corners of her mouth.
‘And then you said something I have never forgotten. You told me that the kitchen was your grandmother’s favourite place and that you sat there with her often as a girl, listening to stories of long Russian winters and sleigh rides through magic forests frozen in time.’
‘That’s right. You have a good memory.’
‘Somehow, this place here, right now, reminds me of that wonderful image.’
‘Ah, those memories, they are the precious echoes of the past,’ said the countess, linking arms with Jack.
‘There’s certainly nothing sad about this,’ said Jack as he remembered pushing Madame Petrova’s wheelchair along the same path four years earlier towards that fateful moment of destiny which had revealed so much about the family he didn’t know he had.
‘Here we are,’ said the countess as they approached a grove of oak trees covered in snow. ‘Madame Petrova’s memory trees.’
Jack looked at two trees set a little apart from the others and remembered what Madame Petrova had told him about them. Both had been planted by her: one for her sister and one for her niece, Jack’s mother. ‘What’s that?’ he said and pointed to a small wrought-iron table with a marble top, which had been placed under the two trees. ‘An ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and two glasses, and a crystal vase with fresh flowers? Is that what François has been up to? We are having a party?’
‘Kind of,’ replied the countess, smiling. ‘A little touch I added to what we are about to do. I’m sure she would have liked this.’
‘Champagne?’
‘Her favourite.’
‘And what’s this?’ asked Jack, pointing to a small, twig-like tree without leaves in a wooden tub.
‘What do you think? Madame Petrova’s memory tree, of course.’
‘An oak?’
‘Yes, a very young one as you can see.’
‘We are not going to plant it now, in the middle of winter, surely?’
‘Of course not; we’ll do that later when the weather is kinder, but for now, it will do. Could you please open the champagne?’
‘Certainly.’ Jack let the cork pop, filled up the two glasses and looked at the countess. ‘What now?’
The countess pulled a small, ornate silver box out of her muff and placed it on the table next to the flowers.
‘Is that what I think it is?’
The countess nodded, tears in her eyes. ‘Yes, her ashes. We had her cremated straight away just as she had asked. She didn’t want her cadaver lying on some slab in a morgue like a side of lamb on a butcher’s block, she used to say.’
Jack smiled as he remembered his great aunt and her very special, if somewhat eccentric, sense of humour. ‘In that case, this is definitely the time to toast a very special lady, don’t you think?’ he said.
The countess nodded, becoming a little emotional. Jack handed her a glass of champagne and held up his own. ‘To Madame Petrova,’ he said. ‘Prima ballerina extraordinaire, who was already famous in her teens as one of the baby ballerinas of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo before becoming a celebrated movie star. May she entertain the angels with her sublime dancing for all eternity,’ he added, repeating the earlier toast he had made with Alexandra on the terrace of the sailing club in Sydney a few days before.
‘To Madame Petrova,’ said the countess, her voice quivering with emotion. The countess pointed to the silver box on the table. ‘Would you?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. You do remember what she asked for?’
‘Yes. She wanted to have her ashes scattered right here, next to the memory trees she had planted for her sister and her niece—’
‘Your mother,’ added the countess, her eyes misting over.
Jack put down his glass and reached for the box. As he turned around to face the trees, he noticed that dark clouds had rolled in again, blotting out the blue sky and the sun. He took off his hat and slowly walked over to the trees, their bare branches like outstretched arms of welcome, promising an embrace. As he opened the little box, it began to snow.
The heavens are weeping, thought the countess and began to cry, overcome by the sad beauty of the moment.
First, Jack scattered some of the ashes under the tree belonging to Sister Elizabeth, his grandmother who had died at the Coberg Mission in Queensland where he was born. When he turned towards the other tree dedicated to his mother, a strange feeling came over him. It was as if the tree were somehow whispering to him.
What if she isn’t dead? the tree seemed to ask. Have you considered that? What if I was planted before my time? What if ...?
Jack heard the tree whisper over and over. Slowly, he scattered some of the ashes under that tree and then tipped the rest over the little tree in the wooden tub and closed the lid of the box.
Taking a step back, Jack just stood there in silence for a moment, staring at the tree. Then he began to pray. It was a little prayer Jana Gonski, a dear friend, had taught him after an unforgettable encounter in Ethiopia a few years ago. It was the only prayer he knew:
Love is always patient and kind.
It is never jealous.
Love is never boastful or conceited.
It is never rude or selfish.
It does not take offence and is not resentful ...
Before he turned around to face the countess, Jack sensed this was another moment of destiny and made a promise to himself. It was Madame Petrova who had led him to his mother under the very trees where he now stood and she had been laid to rest. It was now up to him to take the next step and find out what really happened. Now that he knew who she was, he would investigate further his mother’s disappearance all those years ago, and answer the question posed by the tree once and for all.
3
The Prophet of Salvation, St Petersburg: December 1894
Vladimir Davydov, a vulnerable and sensitive young man, had taken his uncle’s death very badly. The trauma of witnessing Tchaikovsky’s final hours coupled with the shock revelation of his suicide had not only resulted in great anxiety and stress, it had caused considerable psychological damage as well, from which the impressionable young man would never recover.
This was exacerbated by the fact that Tchaikovsky had made his nephew his heir. He had left all the royalties from his extensive works to his beloved ‘Bob’ and had all the copyrights assigned to him as well, with instructions to divide the proceeds among certain relatives. This placed a huge responsibility on Davydov, ill-equipped to deal with such an unexpected and onerous burden.
It was therefore hardly surprising that he put the score of the Russian symphony dedicated to the tsar, which Tchaikovsky had entrusted to him just before he died, out of his mind, and neglected the task of delivering it to the tsar as instructed. This issue came to a dramatic climax with the sudden death of Tsar Alexander III on 1 November 1894. With the tsar dead, delivering the score with the dedication had now become impossible, which put further pressure on Davydov. In despair and finding it difficult to cope, he turned to morphine and alcohol, and soon developed a serious addiction to both, which would stay with him for the rest of his short life.
For the next year, the precious score languished among Tchaikovsky’s many papers and letters Davydov kept in a wooden trunk in the attic of a house he owned just outside St Petersburg. Yet the guilt caused by failing his beloved uncle was never far away, and it tormented Davydov. Instead of fading over time, it became stronger as more time passed, and even haunted him in his sleep. Not even the ever-increasing doses of morphine and countless bottles of vodka could help ease the pervasive guilt and pain, and failed to provide even the briefest of escapes from the torment tearing his mind and soul apart. Frequent breakdowns, hallucinations and chronic pain became unbearable, causing a relentless downward spiral of addiction and despair. Davydov was rapidly hurtling towards self-destruction.
Then, quite unexpectedly, help came from an unlikely quarter. A young man whom Davydov had met during his time in the army and had a brief affair with, came to the rescue and threw Davydov a much-needed lifeline. He told him he knew of a medium who could contact the spirits of the dead. So, why not try to make contact with Tchaikovsky’s spirit and ask him for guidance and forgiveness in the matter? he argued.
At first, Davydov dismissed the idea as absurd. But as time went by, and he became increasingly desperate and obsessed with the score in his possession and what to do with it, he decided to give it a try, and a séance was arranged.
Russia at that time was gripped by a fascination bordering on obsession with the occult, mysticism and everything supernatural, from telepathy and hypnotism to fortune-telling and chiromancy. All kinds of questionable practitioners, self-proclaimed preachers and prophets and ‘mediums’ – many of them opportunistic charlatans – appeared as part of a fervent spiritual searching that swept across Russia like a plague and engulfed the educated classes during what became known as Russia’s Silver Age.
