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Short Stories from Wing's Authors.
For The Love Of Music by Keith Slater
It began with a casual remark by the new French teacher. "Honestly," he
sniffed, "Whitehall minions have to be the most stupid morons in the
world."
Something about tax forms going to the wrong employer. I'm not sure of
the details, or of his name. All I remember is a receding chin that made
him look half‑witted and a high‑pitched, aggravating drawl that got on
your nerves after two sentences. A total bore, one of those nondescripts
you forget as soon as they've left a room. I'll never forget Stefan
Laszlo, though. I can still see those dark, deep‑set eyes, sunk in their
pallid sockets. Laszlo was following the conversation with difficulty.
He'd left his own country illegally, four months, earlier, and his
command of the language wasn't good. He snorted derisively now.
"Ah! You English! You know not the meaning of stupid. In my country,
there is more stupid!"
We looked at him, embarrassed at the anger. His dark eyes, glaring round
the circle of faces, dared us to contradict him.
"How do you mean, Stefan?" asked Paterson nervously. Paterson never
quite knows how to treat aggression. His wife's supposed to dominate him
dreadfully, but he never lets any of us meet her. Nor can you see what
goes on behind his thick glasses.
Stefan's dark eyes swivelled towards him. Greasy strands of black,
coarse hair drooped over them, contrasting starkly with his chalk‑white
forehead. His moustache, lovingly manicured, twitched angrily.
"I tell you. In my country is a famous pianist. Antal Zortan. You know?"
You couldn't help listening to that deep voice. He had charisma I
envied, the kind that can drive women mad.
Peter Selling nodded. He's the intellectual in the staff room, a
mathematician. Always seems to know everything about anything. His
pointed nose quivered, as it always does when he's excited about
something.
"Played the Liszt with Varikhan at the Budapest Piano Festival, three or
four years ago, didn't he?"
"Yes." The monosyllable spat out. I was shocked.
"The Times said..." began Peter.
"He was a great patriot."
Again the accent made his words come across as a sneer.
"In my country, only the approved music must be played. Liszt, yes he is
all right. All the official Russian composers, of course. Some German
ones, yes. But not others people. Not the Sibelius, Hindemith, the Berg.
And specially not the early Shostakovitch. But Antal Zortan, he is a
pupil of the Shostakovitch when he is young and hears stories from
before the days of good taste in music of our government."
He laughed bitterly. There was no mistaking the scorn this time. His
eyes were introspective now, gazing back to the country he'd left. His
arthritic hands twitched nervously, plucking at the threadbare cloth of
his blue serge suit, a hand‑down from his grandfather, shabby and
old‑fashioned.
"Maestro Zortan, he likes to play the modern music. He defies the law of
the country. Many times, the secret police talk to him. Many times, he
promises to follow the Party line. But every time, he plays again the
Shostakovitch, the Hindemith, the other forbidden composers. It is for
love of his music, you understand. He suffers anything for that."
"A brave man," muttered Earnshaw into his grey, straggly moustache. His
father died in '43, working with the Resistance.
"A stubborn man!" Laszlo snapped the words out venomously. "One day, he
gets ready to leave for a concert. He is in his room. A knocking is at
the door. The secret police are here. They ask for him. They force him
into the kitchen. They take his fingers. They smash them with their
hammers."
His voice broke. The fingers of his own hands curled spasmodically. None
of us knew where to look.
"And what happened then?" asked Peter Selling uncomfortably.
The dark eyes, shining with bright intensity, swung to him.
"I tell you. This man, he is a pianist. A great pianist. He loves his
music. Nothing must prevent him from keeping an engagement of music. He
goes to the concert with the hands bandaged. No hospital first. You
understand?"
He stopped. Nobody breathed. We were there in that fateful house with
him, seeing a man fight back tears as his mangled fingers were strapped
together.
"The secret police, they watch him leave the house. Is he to make
trouble for them? I think they tell headquarters about this man, and the
officer says to stay out of sight from the concert. If the great Antal
Zortan is to show the people why he does not play, and the police is
there, is big trouble for the government. The people can riot, you
understand?"
We nodded.
"What happened when he got there?" I asked.
For the first time, those intense dark eyes glared straight at me. I
couldn't look away. The man's soul was peering into mine. He spoke
softly.
"When he gets to the concert? He takes away the bandages. He plays. He
plays the Shostakovitch, the Hindemith, the Berg. He plays all the
forbidden music. He gives many encores, without being asked. He plays
all he knows, every piece forbidden. For love of music, you see, he
risks anything. Anything!"
The last word was so quiet that I scarcely heard it. Like a fool, I
persisted.
"But...I don't understand," I stuttered. "You said the secret police had
called and..."
"And broke the fingers, yes."
"How could he play..." began Selling.
"But not the fingers of this pianist, no." Stefan Laszlo interrupted as
if Peter had never spoken. "The fingers of his brother. This man looks
enough like Antal to be mistaken at first. When the knock is at the
door, the pianist is upstairs. The brother opens the door. They ask him
is he the great Antal Zortan. He sees the hammers, the guns. He knows
what is to happen. He says yes."
"You mean they didn't know the pianist by sight?" asked Paterson
dubiously.
Stefan snorted. "Pah! The secret police, what do they know of music? Of
culture? Of anything that is artistic? They only know how to break a
man's fingers, how to protect themselves against the people, people with
no weapons. They know how a man will try to escape punishment. How he
will lie to save his own
skin, not that of a brother. If a man says yes, I am the pianist, they
can't tell that he may not be the pianist."
"You mean he deliberately...," I began, but he didn't hear me. His dark
eyes were starting from their pale sockets now, and strands of black
hair flew round his face.
"So, they break the fingers of one man and it is the wrong man. When the
concert is to begin, the pianist must place bandages on his hands
because the secret police, they are outside. They will know it is the
wrong man. So, the bandages, it is a disguise."
"I can see now why you said the police in your country were stupid," I
said, smiling hesitantly.
Those black eyes bored into mine again. "Not the police. Is not what I
said. I said in my country is more stupid people. It is the brother who
is stupid."
"Oh, come, now!" I demurred, forgetting for an instant the power of
those eyes. "The brother was noble, not stupid. How'd you like to get
your fingers broken for somebody else, eh? There's more ways of showing
love for music than challenging the law."
The thin, cruel lips parted in a hideous smile. I had the impression
Laszlo was going to stretch his graceful neck and sink his teeth into my
throat.
"You don't think he is stupid? Then you are a fool also. I tell you,
this man, the brother, he was stupid. You English don't know what is to
be stupid, I tell you."
One or two of the other teachers half‑heartedly supported me, but he
wouldn't listen to reason. He stalked out in fury.
"What a disagreeable man," said Paterson, blinking short‑ sightedly. "I
wouldn't like to rub him up the wrong way."
"Absolutely unforgivable rudeness," added Selling.
I had to agree. I'd never met anybody quite as boorish as Stefan Laszlo.
The next Tuesday, I walked into the Common Room to find an excited
discussion in progress. I'd carefully avoided coming into contact with
Stefan since the argument.
"Did you hear the news?" asked Filbert.
"What news?" I replied.
"Laszlo's disappeared. We've had the police here all morning."
"The police?" I said. "Why, what's happened?"
"Seems he's a wanted man in his own country. He claims his Embassy need
him out of the way and might assassinate him."
"Assassinate him?"
"Yes. Remember that Bulgarian chap, killed at a bus stop? With an
umbrella jab in the leg."
"Yes."
"Well, Laszlo says they're trying to do something of the kind to him. He
went to the police, but they wouldn't listen at the time. Pooh‑poohed
the idea. So now he's gone. He didn't come down for breakfast. When his
landlady went to his room, it was empty. The bed hadn't been slept in."
"Where did he go, does she know?"
"No, that's just it. What the police want to find out is whether he's
disappeared to escape or if his lot got him."
"But why would they want to kill him?" I asked.
"Ah, that's the most exciting bit of all. He was in the underground.
Betrayed, but escaped by the skin of his teeth. Like something out of a
novel. His people wanted him back to stand trial, but we wouldn't
cooperate with the extradition. Naturally. He's classed as a political
refugee asking for asylum. I'll bet the police believe him now!"
I thought of his dark eyes, the fierce moustache, the white skin. Was he
back behind the Iron Curtain, waiting for a mockery of justice to seal
his fate?
"How was he betrayed?"
I still don't know why I asked. Something to say, I suppose.
Filbert's eyes lit with unholy relish. He's always been a
scandal‑monger.
"That's the worst part of the whole story. It was his own brother!"
"His brother?"
"Yes. To save his miserable skin. Got out of a gaol sentence for
anti‑state activities by telling the secret police about Stefan's
underground work."
"What was the brother's name?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Can't remember. But he goes by a stage name. He's a famous pianist.
He'd been playing stuff that wasn't approved, which is why he was headed
for prison. Did well by the betrayal. He's got a plum job now. State
musician. Has to play in front of party officials. You know the reason
he gave for doing it?"
"No," I lied.
"For love of music! Can you believe it?"
"No. No, I don't."
My mind wasn't on what I was saying. I was staring again into those
intense black eyes, seeing those fingers, the ones I'd thought
arthritic, curling in silent anger. I was listening to a vibrant voice
telling me a man had been stupid, not heroic, to sacrifice himself for
his brother.
Or for love of music.
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