Dianme is a single-movement quartet for piano, flute, violin and viola. It was inspired by the island of the same name, which was one of the islands in the bay offshore from Errest.
Using the name Dianme was my way of revealing a personal discovery of the island, but a few people remarked, sometimes in print, that it was a political act too. I was politically naïve, so when I went on a quest to find out what the island was called I accidentally discovered the Glaundian government’s deliberate attempt to control what information could be allowed to the public.
I established the island’s name only after much searching around, using old directories, atlases, charts and so on. I had assumed that such a search would be routine. In reality I discovered there was a cloud of obfuscation about all the islands in the region. A librarian told me in confidence that a directive had been issued by the military junta several years before to the effect that all reference books and maps about the islands must be surrendered to the government. Quite apart from covering up what the islands’ names were, the secrecy extended to photographs and drawings, descriptions, even encyclopaedia entries about population statistics, agriculture, trade, and everything else. It was as if the islands had been declared not to exist at all.
Most contemporary maps naturally had to include our shoreline, but nothing was depicted in detail of the sea itself. Some of the maps marked the ocean as the ‘Midway Sea’, and in much smaller type the words ‘Dream Archipelago’ appeared, sometimes in parentheses. I had heard the name somewhere – perhaps it was mentioned at school? – but I knew nothing at all about where or what the Archipelago might be. No islands were ever depicted on maps.
One day in a second-hand shop I came across a dusty old book about the Glaundian shoreline. A footnote about a tidal surge mentioned the three islands in a factual way, and named them. The smallest of the three was called Dianme, named after a benign goddess of mythology, alleged to have stirred up a warm wind from the south-east. This usually brought the spring early to our coast.
Charmed by the discovery, I wrote my quartet. I was happy to have the name at last.
The other two islands, larger and further away from the shore, were called Chlam and Herrin, again named after mythological events. I mentally stored them for future use.
Physical details of the islands were still difficult to make out, even when magnified by the bird-watching field glasses that used to belong to my father. The glasses were not strong enough to clarify much, but the images I saw through the instrument gave me a sense of compressed space, a feeling that time was being shortened by this view.
The normal hometown sounds I heard as I stood on the coastal road, staring out to sea through the binoculars, became in my mind a rhythmic counterpoint to the calm, static islands, apparently locked out there in distance and time. The flute and violin reproduce the homely sounds of birdsong, children’s chatter, while the viola and piano suggest the distance, the boom of waves, the gasp of the warm wind from the south-east. Dianme, the closest of the three as well as being the smallest, particularly charged my gentle, harmless fantasies.
Facts about the Dream Archipelago were hard to come by and fragmentary, but I was slowly piecing together what I could. I knew, for instance, that as a citizen of the Glaund Republic I would be forever forbidden from crossing to any of those islands. Indeed, the entire Archipelago, which I learned circled the world, was a closed and prohibited zone. Officially, it did not exist. However, the islands were in fact there, were neutral territory in the terms of the war Glaund was involved in, and their neutrality was fiercely protected by their local laws and customs. For them, Glaund was still a belligerent country, as was, I assumed, Faiandland. A real or lasting armistice with Faiandland and its satellite states was as far away as ever, and only a complex network of diplomatic compromises kept the fighting away from our homes. This clearly did not mean peace. The Dream Archipelago was the largest geographical feature in the world, comprising literally millions of islands, but it was closed to warmongers.
The discovery of these islands was like hearing a great symphony for the first time. The realization that I should never be allowed to explore them was like having a door slammed in my face as an orchestra started to tune up.
My Dianme quartet reflected and expressed both the quietude of the seascape as I perceived it from the shore, and the feelings of defeat induced in me by the denied existence of the islands. The normality of the local sounds, picked out and expressed by the pizzicato violin, was discordant and intrusive. The main theme that suggested Dianme herself, declared in the first few phrases and reprised towards the end, was a restful melody, intended to signify the beauty of beneficent nature.
I was of course pleasantly surprised when I heard that the recording manager had accepted my composition. Because I hoped to be involved with the making of the record I took two days off work and travelled to Glaund City for the session. When I arrived at the studio it turned out I was allowed only to sit in the recording booth while the piece was being played. Even so, I found it a profound and moving experience.
When the record was released a few weeks later I managed to persuade my local record shop to stock three copies, although in the end I had to purchase them myself from the shopkeeper. For two months the record was received in silence by the music critics, but finally a short review appeared in a weekly magazine of political satire and news. The reviewer was dismissive of all the pieces on the record, but did mention Dianme in passing, stating that it was ‘melodically pleasant’. The magazine misspelled my name ‘Alesander Suskind’. I was just pleased to have the record.
6
Not long after the release of Dianme I met a fellow composer from one of the islands in the south, whose name was Denn Mytrie. Mytrie was to become a friend, although our first encounter was fraught with misunderstandings.
Our meeting came about after I had completed the piece of music that followed Dianme. It was called Tidal Symbols, an interpretation of what I saw as the episodes of calm and bluster along our shores. I sent the score to the same company that had recorded Dianme, and felt happy when they responded within a week, writing enthusiastically of its modernist approach, its harmonic innovations and its unusual treatment of melodic surprise. I was delighted by their reaction. Although what they said of my music was not exactly how I would have described it myself, I answered their letter with alacrity and a contract for the new work was drawn up immediately. I signed it and sent it back the same day.
A long wait ensued – I later found out that the reason was because of the length of Tidal Symbols. It was only long enough for one side of a 10” long-playing record, and they were waiting for a suitable piece of the same sort of length to go on the other side. One day they told me that they had accepted a work by a composer named Mytrie. I had never heard of him, or perhaps her, as had no one else I knew.
When I asked the record company for more information, they told me that Denn Mytrie, a man, was from Muriseay in the Dream Archipelago, newly arrived in Glaund on a cultural exchange programme. I said nothing about what I had learned of the denied existence of the islands.
The day of the recording finally came around. This time I caught the first available train to Glaund City, so I was early and in the studio before most of the other people. I was startled to see more than thirty musicians arriving to perform on the record. I recognized a few of them by sight, but most of them were strangers. However, I did instantly recognize Alynna Rosson taking up a position with the violins. I had not seen her to speak to since the evening we performed Breath together.
To my surprise, when she noticed me she raised a hand in welcome and walked quickly towards me.
‘Sandro! I was hoping you would be here today.’
‘I’m glad to see you again,’ I said, while knowing that in reality I had abandoned all hope of keeping her as a friend. A year had passed since that evening.
‘What have you been working on?’ she said. ‘I heard you had a r
ecord out.’
‘The new one is called Tidal Symbols,’ I said. ‘One of the pieces I imagine you are here to record.’
‘No – I’m only on the first. The one written by Denn.’
‘Denn?’
We were standing in the centre of the sound stage. Pointing to the side she indicated the tall young man who had been at the studio when I arrived. He was standing confidently with one of the recording engineers, discussing the score, marking up one of the pages before the session began. I had seen him when I arrived, but I had been too shy to approach him, thinking he was something to do with the studio. Anyway, he exuded a kind of free confidence I notably lacked, the sort I always felt intimidated by. He had an athletic body and a shock of long blond hair. His easy manner radiated his pleasure that he was working in this studio.
‘That’s Denn Mytrie,’ Alynna said. ‘He’s a wonderful musician. You probably know his work?’
‘Is he the composer from Muriseay?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say you know him already?’
‘He’s a friend, someone I happened to meet a couple of weeks ago. He recommended me for this job today.’
‘I had no idea people could come to the mainland to work. Muriseay is one of the islands, isn’t it? I thought the borders were closed.’
‘The regulations have been eased. And apparently Muriseay is situated more or less due south of Glaund, which makes a difference to people travelling here, or going back. He’s on a cultural exchange of some kind. There’s even talk of orchestra tours, here and in the islands. Have you heard anything about those?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said, beginning to realize how my endless preoccupation with work was isolating me from other people, even those in my own profession, and the subjects they would be talking about. ‘What difference would travelling north or south mean?’
‘He said it makes getting a visa less of a problem.’
I shook my head, not understanding. ‘What about you?’ I said to Alynna. ‘Are you living here in Glaund City now?’
‘No. I’m still in Errest. You too?’
‘Yes, the same. I’m really pleased to see you again, Alynna.’
‘Why did you think I had moved away?’
I was feeling again my lack of experience with women, in particular with Alynna, who to my astonishment appeared genuinely happy to see me. I was struggling with a feeling of possessiveness, brought on when I found out she was already on first-name terms with this other composer. What had been going on between them?
When Alynna went back to take her place in the orchestra I noticed that Mytrie went across to speak to her, making her laugh. Mytrie had a generous smile and briefly touched her hand with his while they were speaking.
Alynna’s presence in the studio took my mind off other concerns as I watched her first rehearsing with Mytrie and the other musicians, then playing his piece. It was called Woodland Love. One of the recording engineers told me that it summoned up life on Muriseay, using variations on certain folk tunes. Ordinarily that sort of thing would have interested and involved me, but I had trouble concentrating. It sounded smooth and conventional to me. All my interest was absorbed by the small, dark-haired woman sitting in the second row of violins. I watched the intentness on her face as she played, the responsive movements of her head. She sat, poised and elegant, her shoulders and neck straight, her control of the instrument fluid and expressive.
The recording was completed after four takes, but the Muriseayan rhapsody had barely impressed itself on me. It sounded sweet and familiar, music that gave comfort, not stimulation. I felt that my work was at a different intellectual level, and that it was wrong that this Mytrie and myself were being packaged together. The fact that his work and mine were to occupy different sides of the same disc suggested a link of some kind, a similarity of purpose where none existed.
I was hoping to speak to Alynna again, but as soon as the recording manager announced that the session was complete she left her seat to mix with the other musicians. When she had put away her instrument she left with the others. The remaining musicians took their places for Tidal Symbols. The other composer walked across to me.
‘Sir, I believe you are Alesander Suskind. Would that be right?’
‘Yes,’ I said, too startled to correct what I knew was becoming a common mistake about my name.
‘I am Denn Mytrie, and I am visiting from Muriseay. I’m proud to meet you, sir.’ I shook hands with the young man. I immediately liked his firm grip, the open way he looked at me, the sincerity he radiated. His words were unaccented, but there was a lilt to his voice, a kind of musical inflexion that you would never hear anywhere in Glaund. Previously I had no idea how islanders might sound, and briefly wondered if this might be it. ‘This is a great honour, Msr Suskind,’ he continued. ‘When they told me we would be recording together I could hardly believe my good fortune.’
‘Well, thank you,’ I said, embarrassed, pleased, feeling my prejudices against this young man dissolving away.
‘May we get together briefly for a drink after this? There is so much I’d like to discuss with you.’
‘Well, I will have to catch a train home—’
‘Let’s see if we can make the time,’ he said. ‘I would love to discuss your quartet Dianme. I listened to the record properly for the first time just before I had to come away.’
‘I didn’t know it had been distributed—’
‘My publisher sent me a copy, but it is already popular on many of the islands. You hear it on the music radio channels.’
‘In the Archipelago?’
‘Of course! You are becoming well known, at least on Muriseay, but many of the other islands too. My publisher said I must talk to you, because of the new ground you seem to be breaking. I should like to know where the inspiration comes from. I could feel your excitement in every phrase.’
We were standing together by the rear wall of the studio, partly concealed from the main area by two diffusers, but I could see the engineers already taking sound levels as the musicians tuned up. His enthusiasm radiated at me, seeming entirely genuine.
‘It was the name of the island,’ I said, thinking of the search for a map or chart. ‘When I found out why the island was called Dianme I heard the music taking shape. It just – flowed. I was imagining what the winds might be like on that island. Dianme’s winds.’
‘That explains so much. But when I heard the music I wondered if you had meant one of the other islands. Chlam, perhaps?’
‘No – Dianme.’
‘It is a superb piece of music. I have so much to learn from you.’ He seized my hand again and shook it vigorously. ‘They’re about to start. Let’s speak together again later?’
‘It has been a pleasure to meet you,’ I said, meaning it.
He smiled affably at me, turned away and was gone. I went to take my place at the rear of the control room.
There turned out to be problems with the performance of Tidal Symbols, and the orchestra had to make several attempts before they could get it right. The leader of the orchestra complained that they had not been given enough time to rehearse, and there was a surprisingly angry exchange of words between him and the recording manager. Embarrassed, I stayed out of it, dreading that I might have scored the orchestration inexpertly. I had been revising the score until two or three days earlier, and I had sent in at least four separate revisions, one of them restoring deletions from an earlier draft, then a few days later I changed them back again. In the end, the studio managed to get a good take, by which time it was late in the afternoon. Everyone, including me, looked and felt exhausted. There was no sign of Denn Mytrie.
Three days later, when I was back in Errest and the rather mixed memories of the recording were starting to fade, I was still thinking about Alynna. I braced myself against the dread of being rejected by her and made contact. She came to the telephone, said she was pleased to hear from me again and reassured me when
I described some of what had seemed to go wrong during the recording. We spoke on the phone for nearly an hour, then arranged to meet the next day. I was happy and full of confidence. We walked along the deserted seafront, becoming closer by the minute. We met again the next day, and also on the next. Within four months we were married. Our friend Denn Mytrie was an invited guest to the wedding, but he sent a note saying that because of travel difficulties he would be unable to attend.
Alynna and I made a home together in a large rented apartment in a small town further along the coast from Errest. It was convenient for my dull but necessary job, and it had a railway connection direct to Glaund City. The apartment had views of the sea. I set up my studio in a room with a high window, looking down across a strand of tussock grasses and low dunes. The island of Dianme was slightly to the left of the view – her companions Chlam and Herrin lay further out to sea, darker than she, more closed with their secrets, intriguing as ever. I mused when I stared towards them. I could not free myself of their insistent harmonies, as they seemed to drift across to me above the constant waves.
7
Tidal Symbols was reviewed well and the record company, after a few weeks of silence, suddenly announced that the record was also selling well. I was later able to measure this, when royalties from sales started to reach me. I was pleased and astonished but even more surprised to discover that a high proportion of the copies sold were within the islands of the Dream Archipelago.
Denn Mytrie, who had returned to Muriseay after completing his exchange visit, wrote me several letters, sometimes enclosing reviews which had been published on one or other of the islands. We both exulted at our success, each generously saying how fortunate we had been to have appeared on the same record. In truth, I secretly believed that Denn Mytrie’s populist melodies were the magic ingredient in our sales mix, and that my more austere composition would never have appealed to so many people, but he would have none of that. We were both satisfied.