THE CLOWN AND THE FIDDLE PLAYER

Sizma searches for a new royal violin tutor.

Every Sunday morning at eleven a.m. Atymos welcomed the Royal Violin Tutor. Those within earshot did what they could to get out of earshot. Sizma, on the other hand, had no such luxury. She had to sit and listen to Atymos torture his instrument and make a mockery of musical notation. The sound was unbearable, the noise ear piercing.

“Not bad for a beginner, eh, Chamberlain?”

“The past seven months has flown by, Majesty.”

“Yes. Soon get the hand of things. Did I ever tell you I come from a musical family?”

“Back in April last year, Majesty. Your uncle, I believe?”

“Yes. Uncle Dresminese.” He stopped to reminisce. Sizma removed her earplugs for a moment. “He could play. Do you know the villagers called him the Nightingale of the Realm.”

“Good at whistling, Majesty? I thought he played the viola.”

“Of course he played the viola. That’s what I mean. Yes, Uncle Dresminese entertained the great and the good. He’d be proud to hear his nephew follow in his gilded footsteps. Another fine impresario. Shall we continue, Royal Violin Tutor?” Sizma put her earplugs back in.

“We shall continue, Majesty, from the first bar of the second movement.”

“The what?”

“The andante, Majesty.”

“Can’t we go from the beginning? I like the jolly bits.”

“As you wish, Majesty.” The tutor bowed again.

The jolly bits were also the hardest bits to play which meant more mistakes. Atymos gasped and sighed at every wrong note – which left him out of breath – and eventually he lost his temper when his timing fell behind that of the tutor.

“Hang on, you’re playing the music too fast.”

“It’s allegretto, Majesty.”

“Slow down a bit. I’ve only got five fingers.”

“And one of those is a thumb, Majesty,” said Sizma grinning.

“Court Chamberlain,” Atymos stepped towards her with a mildly ominous threat, “playing the violin is no laughing matter. I will not tolerate any flippancy. Understood?”

“Of course, Majesty. I was simply reinforcing your assertion that you cannot play so many notes with only four fingers and a thumb.”

“Oh. Yes. Good point. Sorry, Chamberlain. I get a bit intense when I play Haydn.”

“It’s Handel, Majesty,” said the tutor.

“I thought it was Haydn. It is Haydn, isn’t it, Chamberlain?”

“It is whatever you decide it to be, Majesty.”

“Right. Well, Haydn it is.”

“Shall we start again with the slower movement, Majesty?”

“No, I told you. The jolly bits. Chamberlain, what are you doing with your ears? Not stuffing anything in them, are you?”

“Cleaning them, Majesty. All the better to hear your playing.” She smiled. She had such a sweet smile when she needed to neutralise Atymos before his temper emerged.

“Right. Royal Violin Tutor, from the beginning. Say when.”

The morning dragged on. An unbearable stop start cacophony, screeching and whining, the racket so bad that eventually the tutor couldn’t take any more. “Majesty, I feel quite unwell. May I sit down a moment?”

“Of course. Not in here though. Guards!”

And that was the last anyone saw of the Royal Violin Tutor.

It didn’t stop Atymos playing though. Until the time came for his hunting trip he fiddled with his violin, pondering who would teach him. “We can hold auditions, Chamberlain. Send out the word there’s a vacancy, a most lucrative and, let’s be honest, enjoyable vacancy. Good salary.”

“Rooms in the royal residence . . .”

“Meals supplied.”

“Own horse.”

“Do they get a horse? You mean the last fellow had a horse?”

“It was called Igor, Majesty.”

“What else? Clothing allowance? No, they can pay for their own clothes. Anyway, see to it, Chamberlain. Get some good candidates down here.” Off he went and as usual came back. “You don’t play the violin, do you, Chamberlain?”

“Alas not, Majesty. And if I did I’m sure I wouldn’t be good enough to teach you.”

He liked that answer and went away with a satisfied smile leaving his treasured violin abandoned on the table. When he was out of sight, Sizma picked it up and plucked the four strings. None of them were tuned.

The days passed quickly leading up to the audition. Sizma placed notices in taverns and eating houses where musicians were known to play or frequent. She also approached the three music schools in the realm and a concert hall dedicated to Atymos even though he had never attended any events there. And so, on a dreary Thursday, the shortlisted candidates gathered for the audition. They mingled and sat nervously in a cold ante-room waiting for their names to be called and one by one they slipped into the great hall where Atymos sat on his throne, surrounded by his Royal trumpeters, two opera singers and a pianist.

Sizma introduced the first candidate who walked in as if he had a bad back, slow and hesitant, clutching his violin close to his chin. “Gracious Majesty, the first audition. Grenville Humbel, who is a tutor at the Royal Academy of His Gracious Majesty Atymos School of Music Lakeside.”

Atymos flicked his hand to signal some opening lines of music. Grenville began, missed several notes and asked if he could start again.

“No, you can’t. Who’s next, Chamberlain?”

“I’ll send for them, Majesty.” The second candidate was equally terrified and played three bars of Baroque chamber music before being sent out. The word next was uttered eight times before a woman walked in who showed some degree of confidence. “Gracious Majesty, Julietta Henrietta van der . . . what’s that?”

“Kriujyffenboom.”

“Krifenboom. An amateur enthusiast apparently.”

“Go on, let’s hear you.”

She played jigs. She played hornpipes. She played everything other than classical pieces and at one point had a few trumpeters’ feet tapping along, but Atymos held up his hand. “Who’s next, Chamberlain?”

“Does the music displease you, Gracious Majesty?” Sizma said.

“Yes, it does. This isn’t a Celtic shindig. I wanted to hear the classics. Send the next one in.”

Reluctantly, Sizma led Julietta Henrietta away and suggested she simplify the spelling of her surname. Next in was a man with a trombone.

“What in thunderstorms is that?” said Atymos.

“A trombone, Gracious Majesty. A very underrated instrument, the target of much mockery, but it is capable of the most sublime music.”

“Get him out.”

Several more hopefuls came and went, each one rejected for the most spurious and inconsequential reasons. Having an ugly face was a particularly poor excuse, Sizma thought to herself, but rules were rules and after the attendees had left Sizma collapsed into a chair close to the throne. “I’m not sure there’s anyone left in the realm, Majesty. Should we go farther afield? I’m sure Kallithreia will have superb musicians.”

“Don’t, no, don’t go over there. If he finds out I’m short of decent musicians he’ll have a laughing fit. All the musicians in Helkyrios’s realm play too slowly. Don’t want that lot over here. Dolometis musicians aren’t allowed to leave and goodness knows what goes on up in the mountains with you know who.”

“Majesty?”

“You know. Madam. The Winged Creature. Keep them away from me. Oh, what am I to do, Chamberlain? Why doesn’t anything go smoothly in this realm?”

One of the trumpeters coughed. Then coughed again.

“What’s the matter with you? Go and get some cough medicine.”

“Gracious Majesty, there is Maestro Lunas.”

“Who?”

The trumpeter glanced at Sizma. “Maestro Lunas. He keeps himself to himself. Doesn’t perform or teach. He does attend musical recitals though. That’s how I know about him.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t know you were looking, Majesty, until today.”

“Did you know about this, Chamberlain?”

“No. Where does he live, Royal Trumpeter?”

Maestro Lunas lived in a flamboyant cottage in the middle of an orchard. A ramshackle building that had seen better days, it still had ornate woodwork around the eaves and gables, mullioned windows, a porch surrounded by jasmine and a thick bed of grass and moss on the roof. Sizma strolled around the cottage inspecting the perennials struggling with the shadows of ancient apple and plum trees. Next to a well with a crumbling stone wall, a sprightly middle-aged man lifted a clattering wooden bucket out of the well. He noticed Sizma.

“You look wealthy.” He poured the water from the bucket into a large silver jug.

“I’m from the royal court. Sizma. Court Chamberlain.”

“Are you? Must be pretty proud of yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I studied hard to get that job.”

“I bet you did.” He paused, half hidden by an overgrown clump of hebes. “Forked tail, polished horns, what are those, Capra hircus?”

“Leptoceros actually.”

“Gazelle? My my, you are a special one. Never known a humble chamberlain to have gazelle horns. I won’t ask what you did to get those.”

“I wouldn’t tell you if you did. Maestro Lunas now that you know who I am, you probably know why I’m here.”

“Yes, I do and the answer is no.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m busy.” He entered his cottage with the jug. Sizma followed, but waited at the door. Maestro Lunas called to her from inside. “I don’t perform and I certainly don’t teach barbarians like that employer of yours.”

“Barbarian?”

“Yes, barbarian.” Maestro Lunas went back to pottering in his garden. He had a bee hive and took off the top without any protection, the bees hovering and buzzing, but without threat or attack. He slid a large fat honey comb from inside the hive. “He cancelled all music in the realm with that stupid ban on performing Miserere. Every newly commissioned work of art is Atymos This and Gracious Majesty That. I bet he has no ear for music.”

Sizma nodded.

“Can’t play an instrument to save his life?”

She shook her head. “He was practising the violin the other day and it wasn’t even in tune.”

“And you expect me to teach him?”

“It’s a lucrative post.”

“It’s a death sentence.”

“More money than you will ever have?”

“I don’t want money.”

“Rooms in the royal residence.”

“I have rooms here.”

“You get your own horse.” She was desperate now.

“A horse? Some old nag with three legs and blind in one eye, no doubt.” He walked towards Sizma carrying the honey comb. Several curious bees followed him. “Nothing will persuade me to live at the royal palace teaching him how to crucify the violin.”

“Clothes, new clothes.”

“I have one coat, one pair of trousers and that is all I need.”

“Is that your last word?”

“No, there’ll be several more once you’ve gone.”

The honey slipped down the honey comb. Sizma held out a hand and a let a drop land on her gloved finger. “They have lots of bee hives at the palace.” The honey tasted of lavender and saxifrage. “But not as good as this. I’ll leave you to think about it, Maestro Lunas. If you change your mind come to the visitor’s entrance and ask for me.”

“Royal Chamberlain with the gazelle horns.” A bee flew in front of Sizma’s face and studied her features. “I think not.” When he left the bee went with him.

Later, consumed by failure and at a loss how to convince Maestro Lunas to change his mind, Sizma walked into the village searching for answers or inspiration. He had a grudge against Atymos for being a musical philistine and appeared to be suspicious of wealth or ambition. Sizma was surprised he found her horns to be ostentatious, and she reminded herself he thought at first they were goat. What would he think of her sister? Would he ever be introduced to her?

A small shop sold cakes and all manner of unhealthy treats, cream filled and chocolate coated. She went inside and joined a long queue. Good guarantee of quality, she thought. Before she was served another man entered the shop. He wore a bright blue coat, trousers with a chequerboard pattern of red and yellow, bells on the toes of his shoes, small hat with a withered daffodil flower tied to it and a ukulele behind his back.

The shopkeeper recognised him. “The usual, Pallio?”

“Of course of course.” He spoke quickly, had a wide happy smile and mischievous eyes. A lock of black hair snaked from under his hat towards his right eye.

Another woman in the queue asked Pallio, “What’s your opinion of the magistrate being caught with his hand in the till?”

“Ah, well, madame, you er, you er er might well er ask!” He stooped and turned this way and that, the customers sniggering and giggling at Pallio’s impersonation of the magistrate. Sizma knew him and recognised the voice and mannerisms.”

“I er er should of course er explain that er it wasn’t my hand, no no no, it wasn’t my er my hand . . . the butcher’s hand,” the customers shook with laughter and Pallio morphed into another villager. “Well it weren’t my ‘and, tha knows,” he grabbed the lapels of his coat, “and if it were, they wouldn’t be in my pockets’ tha knows, they’d be in someone else’s.” He had his audience now. “Now if tha asks me, the best recipe for turkey, I says the best recipe for turkey, reet, tha gets thi’sen a decent bird, a good plump bird, like you missus,” (the shopkeeper) “nice and plump, tha knows. Put it in a baking tray, then tha pours in a bottle of whisky, bottle of rum, bottle of vodka, bottle of liqueur and a bottle of brandy, throw the turkey away and sup the gravy.”

“Do the fishmonger.”

“Oh, no, he smells. I’d have to rub myself down with a haddock.”

“Do the undertaker.”

Pallio stared at an elderly man near the front of the queue. “You look a decent specimen, sir,” he said slyly, “been measured up yet, sir,” he licked his lips and wriggled his fingers, nervous giggles filled the shop, “I can just see you in an oak casket, sir, velour lining, oh sir I can see you sir, I can see you in the grave, sir . . .” They had to stop him before the elderly man died of fright, but he was still laughing. Pallio, satisfied his repertoire was complete, took off his hat and bowed. The shop filled with eager applause. Then he noticed Sizma and had one last impersonation.

“I have not in many years seen so fair and beautiful a satyr as thee, my pretty one,” he took her hand and kissed her fingers, “and when the sunlight chases shadows and falls upon your eyes, deep and dark, and touches thy fresh skin bronzed and warm as the morning, I lose my heart in thy glow, I lose my mind in thy expectant tempest.” On the word tempest his eyebrows met and for a brief second a flash of endearing malevolence crossed his features.

“Perhaps one day you’ll teach me how to impersonate others,” Sizma said.

“It would be my delight, fair satyr.”

Outside the shop, Sizma had her cakes and Pallio had his reward, a bag of savoury treats and a pudding in a bowl overflowing with cream. He sat on a nearby wall and placed the ukulele on the ground at his feet. Sizma sat next to him.

“Are you as musical as you are poetic.”

“I suppose so.” He ate his pudding without looking at Sizma. “And the flute and the piano and the drum, tabor, anything.”

“Talented, funny, clever. What about patient?”

“As patient as a corpse, fair satyr.”

“Really? How macabre. Patient enough to teach Atymos how to play the violin?”

Pallio stopped eating, a spoonful of pudding suspended in mid-air. “What?”

“I nearly asked you in the shop to impersonate Maestro Lunas.”

He had the voice. He had the manners. “Teach . . . Atymos . . . that tone deaf imbecile savage, cleaver of the muses, master of the royal cacophony, me, Maestro Lunar Antonio Garimoldinoldio, savant of the royal podium . . . You want me to impersonate Maestro Lunas at the royal court? You’ve already asked him, haven’t you,” Sizma smirked, ” and he said no, didn’t he? You cheeky young satyr. And now you want me to lift you out of a hole.”

“Yes.”

“And what’s in it for me?”

“Name your price.”

He did and the day after he stood in the great hall at the royal palace, smart in a coat and trousers selected for him by Sizma, violin in hand and waiting for Atymos at the far end of the room to give him the nod and start playing.

“Before you begin,” Atymos said, “may I just commend you Chamberlain on achieving this. I honestly didn’t expect it. Made a few enquiries myself. Everyone I spoke to told me he’s a tricky man to deal with. Well, may I reassure you Maestro Lunas, you are most welcome here, a man of your ability, and I congratulate you on the privilege you have had bestowed on you.”

Pallio decided a slight bow of gratitude was the most appropriate response, even though it wasn’t clear what Atymos was saying.

“Well, go on then. Give us a tune.”

“Gracious Majesty.” Pallio bowed again and began. He played a delicate melody, the hall filled with perfection, a sublime passage of music that slipped in and out of various moods, introspection, joy, playfulness. Pallio’s attention glanced backwards and forwards from the violin to Sizma standing nearby, arms behind her back, tail flicking now and then when his eyes caught hers. He stopped and prepared to play a new movement.

“Beautiful, Maestro Lunas. When you can you start? Tomorrow?”

“Yes, Gracious Majesty, tomorrow would be most agreeable.”

“And tonight you shall join us for a small feast, nothing too grand, you understand, a bit of a get together, get to know you.”

“I would be most honoured, Gracious Majesty.”

“Aye. I think we shall have goose, what do say, Chamberlain?”

Before Sizma could answer, Pallio’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, make it goose, Gracious Majesty.” He slipped into his butcher’s impersonation. “A big fat goose, Gracious Majesty, tha knows, one of them chubby ones wi’ great big-“

“Maestro Lunas,” said Sizma. “Some decorum, please.”

“Sorry, cherub. I gets a bit carried away, tha knows when someone mentions goose. Did you hear the one about the carpenter and a bag of hazelnuts-“

“Maestro Lunas!” Sizma tried to shut him up, but she could see Atymos bristling. “You are in the royal palace, not a common tavern.”

“Guards.” The doors burst open and Pallio’s escort arrived. “Take him downstairs and teach him some manners. What did I tell you, Chamberlain? No frivolity when we’re talking about music. Take him downstairs, guards.”

Sizma followed them out of the great hall. “Bit touchy, isn’t he?” Pallio said before feinting to his left and dislodging his arms from the casual grip of the guards. He ran off down the corridor, Sizma ran after him ahead of the guards. She may have had the horns of a gazelle, but she didn’t have the speed and Pallio was out of sight before they could catch him.

They raced into the courtyard, but he was gone, the calm evening silent, no footsteps, no heavy breathing, no rustle of clothing. “Pallio, you can’t hide from us. It’ll serve you better if you come back.” She forgot the presence of the guards. “I can help you, Pallio.” But there was no answer.

The walk back to the great hall was long, Sizma’s footsteps heavy, her mind racing. The excuse was simple: the guards were after him and heading for the dungeons once they had him. She wouldn’t say when unless she was pressed on it. The doors to the great hall loomed at the end of the corridor filled with palace staff. Sizma pushed through into the great hall where a gang of guards surrounded a man. They must have caught Pallio. Her heart sank.

“Look at this, Chamberlain.” Atymos stood in front of his throne, adopting his assertive monarch pose which fooled no one who knew him. “The rogue had the audacity to come back and start complaining.”

“What?” On his knees, surrounded by guards, his hands tied by a length of old rope, was Maestro Lunas.

“Gracious Majesty I must complain at this outrageous treatment. Being secured like a common criminal-“

“You come in here with your jokes and then run off then come back. Do you know what he said, Chamberlain? Gracious Majesty, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Changed his mind?” Sizma examined Maestro Lunas, wearing a similar outfit to Pallio, a little older, but from a distance could pass for the younger man. In front of a monarch who took little notice of the reality around him, it would be an easy mistake to make.

“What should we do with him, Chamberlain. The fellow’s escaped once. We could put him in a sack and throw him in the river.”

Maestro Lunas pleaded. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Court Chamberlain, I only arrived several minutes ago and was immediately pounced upon by these thugs and brought before this travesty of a court.”

“I wouldn’t speak that way, Maestro Lunas.”

“I wouldn’t expect any sympathy from you. I demand you release me.”

Releasing him would leave Pallio a fugitive for the rest of his days; taking him down to the dungeons would be an end to the matter. “It’s not in my power to release you,” Sizma said. “Only our Gracious Majesty can do that.” She waited for his decision.

“Quite right, Chamberlain. Guards, away with him. Ask the Royal Torturer to give him a good talking to.”

Maestro Lunas didn’t say another word, but followed his captors and accepted his fate, whatever Sizma’s sister decided.

“Good job, Chamberlain,” Atymos patted her shoulder. “Couldn’t have been that difficult catching him though, but well done nevertheless.”

He left her alone and she trudged back to her rooms and her window that looked across the woodland that stretched to the edges of the estate. Moonlight often played tricks, casting shadows of things that weren’t there, and the wind would occasionally join the joke and create sounds that could be a branch, a bunch of leaves, but this night she was sure he was out there somewhere, the clown, the entertainer, the man who kissed her fingers and spoke poetry. Perhaps it was part of the act, just a whimsy, but his fair and beautiful satyr was watching and hoping she might one day meet him again.