PROLOGUE

Harvard, Mozart and the Monarchy had led him into the old black-bricked mansion with the black front door to which by tradition, he had no keys. Imperious portraits lined the walls of his home, closely watching their successor through time. A whiff of power drifted down dimly-lit staircases from its awesome past. It was intoxicating and orgasmic but now a lost scent was pulling him away.

He stepped across the floor of the narrow room, a room with tall windows and Big Ben framed in the distance. This was his Study: A freezing fulcrum of power by day, that grew into a magical concert hall at night. Leaning lightly against the long windows, he watched the coppery glow of halogen-lit London. His dark solemn eyes wore a distant look. Darkness and mist had arrived together in their slow spiral around Big Ben, reincarnating Dickensian London. If only he could have lived in that time – with the gaslights, and the scent of smoke and the crackle of burning leaves. He caught a note from the wind as it played against glass. A chord struck inside and he turned away from the windows and moved to the Roland synthesizer that stood by the pillared fireplace. He had to play once more before taking that long journey upstairs to the cramped coffin-like apartment that hung empty in the rafters of the great Georgian house. It was time for some Night Music. And time to decide if this was ambition’s end.

Coiled bare over the keyboard, his fingers blurred over the Roland’s ivory keys producing a symphony of power. Designed by the rhythm of the flames from the fireplace, glistening beads of sweat mirrored off his translucent skin and wrapped him with ribbons of color. His moist body shivered as the gust of beating emotions reached its crescendo and wide waterfalls of energy streamed into pure melody.

Suddenly, an absolute vacuum of silence. He froze, entombed in a moment of acute clarity. The answer filled his space – he had to break through those carbon-reinforced windows that kept out both bullets and air. These walls would never have warmth. This could never be home. Never be Camelot. He couldn’t let himself get any older here – it was time to let the house go. He changed the settings on the synthesizer to automatic. Tonight, Mozart would give way to the Beatles in the dark room that overlooked St James Park. Night Music would become A Hard Day’s Night.

He moved to the centre of the study and stood motionless for a moment on the oval Bukhara carpet that adorned the mahogany floor. His body began to shiver as the music from the electronic piano ricocheted off the walls. He moved slowly at first, then faster and faster, becoming relentlessly feral, dancing in the dark.

 

Chapter 1. SOMEONE ELSE
London Today

It’s New Year’s Eve, and I ride through the dawn in a black bullet-proof car. With a life of their own, my fingers drum a silent rhythm of Night Music on the misty window. Patterns of clear glass appear and a slate-like emptiness filters through as we turn into the Mall. All I can see is a wide, lonely road at daybreak, with Buckingham Palace slowly rising over the morning mist.

The Jaguar slows, and we glide past the vast gold-tipped iron gates. Sentries dressed in scarlet, with their heads in tall fur hats, smartly present arms.

Welcome, Sir Richard Hall.

A crunch of rubber on gravel and the car stops at a door to the side of the central courtyard away from the imposing columns of the Grand Entrance.

“Welcome, Sir Richard,” says Tony Archer, the King’s new assistant secretary. He is a slim, boyish young man with an attractive smile and glittering brown eyes. He leads the way up a small, semicircular, gilded staircase and through a long corridor decorated with soft watercolors. I’m about to meet the artist.

We arrive at the twin doors of the Audience room. A light knock, and they swing open for me to enter.

Standing ahead is His Majesty.

“Richard, Richard.” His voice is low. He comes forward and rests his hands on my shoulders and gives them a gentle squeeze. “I’ve waited so long for this.”

I step back and give him a slight bow. He acknowledges it with a small smile and leads me to the far end of the room. We sit next to full-length garden windows with the diffused light of a chilly gray day falling on us. I feel a little strained. It shouldn’t be so-we’ve known each other too long. Still, there’s an imperceptible formality between us. The familiar ornamental room with its elaborate canopied ceiling and exquisitely carved furniture somehow lacks its usual warmth. This morning the vast sitting room seems cold, and his tired face is even more drawn than usual.

You look so old, my friend, my King.

And what about me Rosaline? How do I look?

Not quite old?

“Well first things first. May I, Sir Richard, invite you to form my government?”

“It will be my honor to do so Your Majesty.”

A broad crooked smile spreads across his lean face. “Howdy Prime Minister,” he drawls. The distance evaporates as laughter bridges the gap and the old ease returns. “And have you managed to have a look at these?” He hands me a bunch of tabloids with a crooked smile.

“Audience with an Old Polo Buddy” scoffs the Mirror.

“The King’s Favorite Yankee” sniggers the Express.

“Sir Richard Juggles to Success, Cheers!” sneers the Sun.

Not a friendly welcome at all, but they don’t dampen my mood. The Audience room has turned warm at last, and I settle further into my armchair. His ancestors stare down at us from the alcoves with eyes that reach out to us through the ages, dark intricate portraits painted by masters of their times. We divide the silence, savoring the victory for a while—two old friends sharing the pleasure of one having become the Prime Minister.

“Coffee, Richard?” he says, and I think it’s a gentle reminder. By tradition, the first Audience with the Monarch ends immediately after the swearing in, and the new Prime Minister is required to proceed to form his government without further delay. I start to rise, but he does not give me leave. He presses a bell by his side and a valet appears with a porcelain mug embossed in gold on a silver tray.

“Colombian as usual, Prime Minister,” says the King. “As you like it.”

I sip the special royal blend. Yes, it’s perfect. Black and sweet. The warm aroma pulls in a lost time. My eyes become moist.

Harvard Mornings. Winter cold. Steaming Colombian. Rose’s warmth. And those special packets of Royal Colombian, every month…

He sent them for you too, Rose…

Tiny shafts of light finally find their way through the windows. A ray of sunshine touches my eye. I blink, nudged by reality back to the present.

“They’re waiting for you at Downing Street, Richard.” The Audience is over, and we stand together.

“All the best Prime Minister.”

“Thank you Your Majesty.”

The doors open for me, and Tony Archer is waiting outside with eager eyes.

“Congratulations, Prime Minister,” he says as we go down the gold touched Prime Minister’s Stairs that have traditionally led every new head of government out of the Palace.

“See you again soon Tony, and how’s your new job? Not bored are we?” I say as he holds open the door of the black Jaguar.

“Not at all sir.” There’s an adolescent tingle in his voice. “It’s great here, and I’m having a fine time bothering the Palace Oxbridge. A Harvard man at No10? They can’t get over it!”

I nod and smile. The clouds have disappeared, and the sun’s out. It’s turned into a crisp, clear, London morning with birds sailing high in the blue sky. I wish I could share their lonely view. But, I’m in another time. In another movie.

I’m someone else.

 

Chapter 2. SOMEWHERE TO DIE FOR
Harvard, September 1975

So this is Heaven.

In all their wisdom they’d paired me with a Greek God with flowing, blond hair and a tight, black T-shirt that sharpened his Olympian torso. The walls around him were decorated with life-like posters of Che Guevara and Charlie Chaplain, and he stood by a wide window overlooking Harvard Square, totally immersed in The Hero with a Thousand Faces.

Suddenly, the book was thrown aside. There stood Apollo himself.

“Hi. I’m Gregory Templar. I’m from California and since they didn’t need another rebel at Berkeley, I landed at Harvard instead!”

“Hello. I’m Richard Hall from England,” I replied blandly, distracted by the picture before me.

He grinned. “Yeah, I hear you sound something like that. My great-granddad was from somewhere over there. Reason enough to be lumped together! God and Harvard be praised.” His smile seemed friendly enough but somehow missed his clear blue eyes. He looked closely, curiously, at me, and I felt strangely bare.

“So what are you doing here?”

“Music.”

“Beethoven etcetera?”

“No, music in general and Mozart in particular,” I said stiffly. I didn’t want to insult the bloody chap on day one, so I was short but polite.

Gregory raised both his hands, palms towards me. “Hey relax man, I was only kidding! By the way, I’m here to study religion.”

A priest? I gave Apollo a long stare and suppressed a grin. He suddenly looked much less radiant. A cool breeze from Harvard Square came through the window, and I realized he had beaten me to the better bedroom.

“I’ll take the other room,” I said. “The one without a view.”

Gregory Templar stepped aside with a flourish. “Take this one—I don’t need no windows. I’m at Hah-vad, you see. And you can call me Greg pal.”

“Thanks a million, old boy, and you can call me anything but Dick!”

He laughed and shook my hand, but his eyes were still studying my face.

Straus Hall was rumored to have an exciting pedigree. JFK lived here for a while, but nobody knew exactly where. Therefore, he could easily have occupied my room overlooking Harvard Square. That was good enough for me. Settling into my dorm meant getting my trunk and my piano up to the second floor. I didn’t break my back thanks to Gregory who, Atlas-like, carried my world on his shoulders. He also unhooked his posters from my wall and transferred them to the adjoining bedroom. I wondered if I should sex up the empty spaces he’d left behind with Marilyn Monroe and James Dean but decided that a picture of Buckingham Palace would do better since my best friend lived there.

I looked onto Harvard Square watching the passing parade on a growing September morning. It was an elastic feast of swelling numbers traveling over red-bricked sidewalks with a backdrop of fall colors and vine clutched buildings. Such a lovely place. Such a lovely place. In a strange way it reminded me of Yesterday…

My bedroom, back home in England, rested like a stone oval hat on a building older than Harvard. Five hundred square feet of attic space was lined with long windows, through which on clear nights I could spot Venus placed like a sparkling solitaire between a million tiny stars. Up there it felt like I was a part of a never reaching end…

I closed my eyes and thought of my father, at our last supper together, sitting before me like he was carved of his mansion’s stone:

“Richard, my dear, dear boy, America will take you away.” His displeasure reached across the ancient oak table, over silver candle stands and crystal glasses that bounced rainbows of light. “Don’t you see you must follow me into politics and get to parliament one day? Politics and Economics at Oxford is what you call an education. It’s the lodestone of a political career. Neither music nor America will get you anywhere.”

Silence was my answer, eloquent and complete.

Harvard. It had to be Harvard. My highway to heaven, somewhere to die for…Our eyes met, and we sensed a common loss. It was time for us to cry.

I opened my eyes. Yesterday was gone and it was time for class, my first at Harvard. I had nerves that balanced on a blade. They had empty names for courses in this part of the world: Music 51, Music101, and Music 201. It was going to be Music101 today. Surprisingly, the room seemed only a quarter full, though I’m sure that was an optical illusion given the size of the place. This was no classroom—it was a fancy auditorium. No hard seats here with tables etched with messages from the past. But there was real music here. I could feel the electricity. I looked around at the eager, confident faces. Talent. Quality. The best of where they’d come from. Sweat trickled down my back. My mind suddenly turned into a cosmic swirl of a billion notes, and I started to hum Yesterday for no reason at all. A small nerdy type next to me sneered.

I stared back coldly. “The Beatles are brilliant,” I said. Blast! That was too loud. I had forgotten the acoustics. My whisper streaked clearly across the room.

Professor Jacob Mier stopped talking about composition in the middle of his sentence. There was total silence in the room. He peered at me through his bifocals and then looked down to study his class plan. “Ah yes, Richard Hall. Britain’s young musician of the year, I believe. Why don’t you share your thoughts with us Mr. Hall?”

“I was commenting on modern English composition, sir.”

“Indeed?”

“The Beatles, sir.”

That got sniggers all around. He was going to kick me out. But the Professor’s eyes were twinkling. I was not about to be obliterated. He removed his glasses and smiled. It was an indulgent smile.

“I know of you Mr. Hall. Your application for admission intrigued us. Now let me remember… Ah yes. You wrote, ‘What could be more exciting than a knot of music and politics?’ Well, that gem of an ambition made you different, but you never mentioned the Beatles?” He kept his bushy eyebrows raised. “So who is your favorite composer young man?”

A harmonious sliver of Night Music sparkled inside me, curiously prodded by the bright morning light coming through the arched windows of the class.

“Mozart, sir.”

“So Mozart it shall be.” He pointed to the piano on the platform by the side of the room. “Let’s see what you’re made of Richard Hall.”

There was not a sound in the acoustically perfect room, not even the rustle of paper. My fingers moved with incredible energy. Amadeus was in constant release, and we gave them Night Music. God, I loved Mozart’s maniacal presence and his magical sound…

A breath of silence and wet glistening eyes. Their applause arrived like an unstoppable Tsunami. They were on their feet. They were all cheering. More. They wanted, needed, more…

I stood up and started to sing, “It’s been a hard day’s night…” with my fingers waltzing and my body swinging before the grand piano.

They froze. This was Music 101—Harvard’s great introductory music class. The Beatles were not allowed in this hallowed hall…

Yet, propelled upwards by some unseen force, their stillness erupted into lusty, lawless ovation. They were laughing and shouting and singing and dancing wildly on the tables.

Welcome, Richard Hall.

Welcome Amadeus Mozart.

Welcome to Harvard.