Chamonix
Ronald and I had met in London on 1 March 1982 while I was grieving the death of my father six months before. Our paths had taken us this way and that, different trajets exploring our roles, our purposes. Most often the exploration was individual but sometimes we found ourselves together at the same time in the same place, where we could share the experience from each others’ perspectives. [1]
Twenty years later we were celebrating this meeting in Chamonix, where Ronald undertook his annual skiing pilgrimage. Because it was a special year, we had asked for a junior suite on the top floor of a lovely old hotel with magnificent views from every window. We could see the Mont Blanc in her splendor dominating the scene. We were spending two nights in this old-world luxury.
The hotel had a beautiful large wood-panelled library and fireplace. And of course this was where I found the first piano. The second piano was in the bar, where music of a certain genre is played quietly in the background so that people can talk. Bar pianists all seem to have a tired and sad expression on their faces, no matter where they are in the world. Resigned might be a better word.
Later in Bratislava I took to slipping into the pianists’ seats when they took a smoke break at the bar of the empty hotel lounges if they gave me the nod. On at least two occasions, when I did this, it was as if they got an injection of something. They returned to their pianos and played as if they were someone else. Or rather they played like their real selves. It was glorious to be a catalyst for this visible and audible transformation. Their music was then real. They were real, honouring it. Shifting up in frequency. Smiling at themselves and at me.
In Chamonix that evening in the empty library, as guests had gone to dinner in the adjacent dining room, I sat at a Playel baby grand – in lovely condition and resonant.
A different theme had started to appear recently. Ronald had noticed and remarked on it.
Gently, quite tentatively, it was beginning to explore the space around it like a new growth beginning to unfurl. And these early stirrings rang out in the library.[2]
I looked up suddenly, aware of a presence at the door. He was like an angel. A young golden boy, holding the hand of his grandfather whom he had summoned from the dining room to come and listen. What an image! He was almost glowing, transfixed. The music had literally struck a chord somewhere deep within him. An unseen thread connected us, this boy, his grandfather and I… At the heart it felt like.
In the dining room, we were amazed and delighted to find they had listed Arbois Savagnan 1982, a most unusual white/yellow/straw wine. It was twenty years old. How perfect! We had found this wine years previously during our first encounter with different regions of France – the Arbois in the Jura was a well-kept secret.
The hotel had two bottles of this vintage in the cave and we had the second bottle the next evening, just as good. After our departure they would have needed to scratch it off their wine list – forever!
[1] Tanzania 1988; Mozambique 1994; Bosnia 1997-98..
[2] This theme was later recorded as ‘Chamonix’ and in another slow version after Ronald’s death as ‘Au
Revoir’.