“Strong words.” Karl-Heinz smiled his approval over his wine glass. A particular glint in his eye made Lydia’s cheeks flame into heat. “Spoken like a true musician. Well, I hope I can repay your enthusiasm. I feel I’ve been called here, in a way—something like a vocation. This orchestra needs a firm hand, and I can give it.”
His authoritative demeanour did little to reduce the giddiness he seemed to be inducing in Lydia. She put it down to emotional confusion and good wine.
“Have you had this kind of experience before? Wayward instrumentalists, an orchestra in crisis?”
“Why yes, I have. There was terrible disorder in Nürnberg before I took up the post. I’m known now as a, what is it, a fixer. A troubleshooter.”
Lydia thought about Milan. Was that what he was—trouble to be shot at? She entertained a satisfying mental image of him being targeted and hit, a big sucker attaching to his forehead.
“You have a couple of months to work your magic,” she said. “And to keep Milan sober and on course.”
“He is undergoing counselling, I thought, for his issues?”
“Yes, but, you know. He’s not really the counselling type. He has his own ways. Most of them are stupid and involve sex or alcohol, or both.”
“Well, you know, sex and alcohol can be good things. But only in moderation. Don’t you agree?”
Lydia didn’t want to meet Karl-Heinz’s gaze. She had the feeling it might be more than a little inflammatory.
“What do you think of London so far?” she asked brightly.
“Oh, I’ve always loved London. I like its size. Any and every taste can be catered for in a city this big.”
“You have some odd tastes, then?”
He bit his lip, looked as if he was about to say something, then thought better of it.
“I don’t consider my tastes odd. But the world might not a
gree with me. For instance, I love laksa!”
The food arrived at the perfect moment.
Lydia was almost grateful to be able to turn the conversation to the concert programme and the orchestra’s future. It wasn’t long, though, before the subject of Milan arose again.
“How was Milan Kaspar as a conductor?” Karl-Heinz wanted to know.
“Oh, he was good, actually. He could be very good. If he really bothered to work at it.”
“You see, I think this is where he and I are different. He has no discipline.”
“And you do.”
“I learned it in the Navy and it has made my career what it is today.”
Lydia grinned.
“Sorry. I still find it a bit weird that you were a sailor.”
“Why? Rimsky-Korsakov was a sailor, too.” He gave a guarded smile.
“I know, but…you know, musicians. They aren’t generally the type.”
“You think a man must have long flowing hair and a bohemian lifestyle to be a musician? Like Milan Kaspar?”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean… It’s just unusual. I don’t know what I mean, actually. I should just stop talking.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” said Karl-Heinz, with a melting smile. “Unless you’re told to.”