Time Will Tell (31 page)

The opening chord of
Nymphes des bois
swells slightly and the room is filled with the clean, bright sound of human voices. Immediately Andrew focuses on the tenor line:
Requiem
. He types his log-in details on the University page and scans his emails while the lament unfolds. A couple of late essay submissions, a round-robin about that evening's concert, notice of a conference in Albuquerque. Nothing from Emma. He's surprised that he thought there might be, but he had imagined her sitting in her dull hotel room and firing up her laptop, searching out his email address on the web and sending a quick greeting. She'd seemed weary, not just road-tired, but some deeper malaise, and he wonders if she's romantically involved. He and Tanya are settled now and, though she keeps her old condo, it's pretty clear to everyone that she lives here.

He picks up his beer. The bottle is wet, beads of perspiration forming in the warmth of the room. He'll have a look at the manuscript and, when he's finished this last drink, go to bed. He types ‘Chiron manuscript' into the search page and up come 684,972 hits. Top of the list is the free online version, and beneath it an article on it by Francis Porter published in the
Journal of the American Musicological Society
. He hovers his mouse over it and a miniature version of the introduction appears. He skims the text. Porter describes the ‘painful paradox' of the Chiron memoir; its extraordinary value as a first-hand account of the musical life of the fifteenth century brings with it the terrible shock of deprivation when one learns that Ockeghem composed a great thirty-four part motet. Might it yet, muses the writer, come to light? If only he knew, thinks Andrew.

He reads and re-reads Porter's final sentence: ‘We're forced to admit that, whilst truth to history is a worthy aspiration, historical truth remains forever unattainable.' It's a telling phrase, thinks Andrew, haunting and human. Five years ago he met his erstwhile nemesis at a conference. Both of them were attending a publisher's drinks party and Porter had made a point of asking Andrew why he hadn't written anything about late-medieval music recently, the only person other than Emma to ask that question in eighteen years. As it had been this evening, Andrew's answer was vague, but Porter hadn't let it go, insisting that he liked a lot of Andrew's thesis and that, even now, he should consider publishing it. They'd ended up having dinner together and Porter had told Andrew that his wife had left him; this was a man in need of a friend and he seemed to have few. Andrew offered up his own experience in the hope that Frank, as he insisted on being called, might discover there a vision of his own future, careful to avoid reference to Tanya whom he'd then been dating for two months, lest it made his colleague feel any more wretched. He assured Frank that things could turn around very quickly and they'd ended up exchanging email addresses, even corresponding for a little while before the demands of their own lives had intervened. Only a month ago, Andrew had received an email from Frank telling him that he was engaged.

There are several news items about the Chiron Manuscript, the most recent prompted by rumours of a movie. Andrew wonders who will play Ockeghem. It would have to be someone old, he thinks, or would Hollywood airbrush out that significant detail and cast the biggest star? And what about Josquin? Who would play him? This is no good; he doesn't know the names of the movie stars as Tanya does, and he's only delaying the inevitable. One click of a mouse is all it takes. He picks up his beer. In the background he hears the music. It's the moment in the lament when the poet calls upon other composers to pay their tributes. Josquin sets it as a stepwise descent, halting, like the heavy tread of mourners carrying a coffin: ‘Josquin, Perchon, Brumel, Compère'. Then the exhortation to cry heavy tears, the final refrain that tells them they have lost their good father. Andrew sits back slowly in his chair; there's no doubting the beauty of the music, profoundly simple and direct, as if Josquin has distilled grief into musical form. No wonder his students wanted to hear it again: no wonder the piece is so loved. Why did he ever dislike it? It wasn't through hatred for Josquin or the music, nor, he finally admits, because of love of Ockeghem or his reputation.

He's never sat like this and allowed the music to speak to him; he was always talking over it, scowling, explaining, telling his students what they should be feeling rather than letting them discover things for themselves.

Andrew starts to read:

 

 

The Memoirs of Geoffroy Chiron: Prologue
ed. Francis Porter

Frevier 6 1524

Josquin was a prick. Everybody thought so…

 

 

 

THE END

Several readers of early drafts of the novel have asked where the reality ends and the fantasy begins. Briefly, Geoffroy Chiron and all the named composers in the (fictional) Chiron memoir are real historical figures, though we know very little about their personalities other than a few clues offered by unreliable anecdotes. The sections set in 1997 feature real events – the conference at Tours, for example – but are peopled by entirely fictional characters. Any likeness to real people is coincidental and certainly not intentional; 
Time Will Tell
 is a work of fiction and not a 
roman à clef
.

All of the compositions mentioned in the book – with the obvious exception of Ockeghem's 
Miserere
– are available on CD. For more, please go to
www.facebook.com/timewilltellnovel
.

Andrew Eiger is not my common experience of musicologists, who have always been immensely generous with their time and willing to share their research. Fellow performers have likewise inspired me on and offstage, and they will know better than anyone else how daunting it is to ‘step out' from the chorus. I owe a great deal of thanks, then, to the following musicologists, performers and friends – not always distinct categories – who have read the manuscript in various forms, and offered invaluable criticism and encouragement: Alan Colhoun, Sally Dunkley, David Fallows, John Frankish, Pat Frankish, Susan Hitch, Stephen Jeffries, Daniel Leech-Wilkinson, Robert Macdonald, Dominic Moore, Cecilia Osmond, Helen Paterson, Dudley Phillips, Paolo Ramacciotti, Jane Rose, Anne Stone, and Jaap van Benthem. Thanks also to Christian Benoit and Mark Dobell for advice on French and Latin respectively. Special notes of thanks to Ruth Massey for her practised eye and generosity (every writer should have a Ruth Massey); to Charlie for her advice on marketing; and to John for his brilliant designs and unwavering support. I am also very grateful to Kamaljit Sood and everyone at Thames River Press for their hard work.

And last, but not least, I dedicate this book to the person who first heard this tale, Tessa Bonner, without whom…