Youth

by Paolo Sorrentino

Genres: General Fiction; Literary Fiction; Media Tie-In

Synopsis

In a luxury spa hotel in the Swiss Alps, octogenarian friends Fred Ballinger and Mick Boyle look back on their eventful and successful lives as composer and film director, surrounded by a host of colorful and eccentric fellow guests, ranging from a South American soccer star to a famous Californian actor and a reigning Miss Universe. Ballinger is there simply to enjoy his retirement, while Boyle is working with five scriptwriters on his last film, which he hopes will be his masterpiece. When Ballinger is invited by Buckingham Palace to conduct his most famous piece at Prince Philip's birthday celebration and accept a knighthood in return, he refuses, citing personal reasons. As for Mick Boyle, he eventually receives a visit from Brenda Morel, his signature actress, who comes all the way from California to give her opinion of this latest film in which she is to star. At the same time as these two men face these turning points, the marriage of Fred's daughter to Mick's son brings further complications. Only by reconciling with their muses, and by coming to terms with old age and the weight of memory that comes with it, can the two friends move forward with what remains of their lives.

Release date: December 15, 2015

Publisher: MacLehose Press

Print pages: 80

Sample

In the clear spring sunshine of a beautiful hotel garden, an unmistakeably British figure sits with his legs crossed; his pale face is flushed red, he has short fair hair, and is wearing a jacket and tie. He is in his fifties, with an intelligent, earnest expression.

Behind him, at a slight distance, are his two younger assistants.

Further behind them lies a superb swimming pool, surrounded by a few bathers, all wrapped in identical soft white dressing gowns, ready for a dip in the sleepy holiday atmosphere of the early morning.

Gleaming hydromassage tubs are dotted about the immaculate lawn.

In the background stands a wonderful Alpine hotel. It looks warm, sedate and luxurious all at the same time.

And framing the hotel are the sovereign peaks of the Alps.

The fifty-year-old takes out a packet of cigarettes and is about to light one when a calm voice, without any hint of reproach, warns him:

“There’s no smoking here.”

“Not even outside?”

“Nor inside.”

The calm voice belongs to another Englishman, in his eighties, sitting opposite. He is wearing a soft jacket and trousers in matching beige and glasses in imposing black frames, behind which nestle pale watery irises, deepened by melancholy and experience. This is Fred Ballinger.

A table separates the two men. Fred has a newspaper open in front of him. He is calm, quiet and self-contained, his eyes constantly betraying a vague disenchantment as he unwraps a sweet that he pops into his mouth with the practised gesture of the habitual consumer.

“Mr Ballinger, may I call you maestro, as the Italians do?”

Fred Ballinger gives a shrug. He has no particular feelings about it.

“Are you enjoying your holiday here?”

“Yes, I am. Very much, thank you.”

“Have you been coming here long?”

“More than twenty years. I used to come with my wife. Then, as I have so many friends here, I carried on coming on my own.”

“But why Switzerland?”

“It’s close to Italy. After London and New York, I was the conductor for an orchestra in Venice for twenty-four years.”

“Of course, how stupid of me! This must be a very relaxing place.”

“Indeed, a most relaxing place. Nothing more.”

The fifty-year-old smiles. Fred does not.

“Do you still conduct or compose, maestro?”

“No, I’ve retired.”

“Needless to say, like everyone else, I’m a great admirer of yours.”

“Thank you.”

The fifty-year-old smiles again. “Maestro, as I mentioned to you before, I work as the special events organiser for Buckingham Palace.”

Fred rouses himself a little. “You work for the Queen?”

“Well, almost, in a sort of a way.”

“Good. I find the idea of monarchy touching.”

The fifty-year-old is surprised. “And why do you find monarchies touching, if I might ask?”

“Because they’re vulnerable. You only have to get rid of one person and, all of a sudden, the whole world is changed. It’s the same with marriage.”

“Her Majesty would be honoured if you would accept the honour of a knighthood this coming June.”

Fred Ballinger lets a small smile escape his lips. “Do you know what Eric Satie said when they offered him the Légion d’honneur? He said, ‘It’s not enough to refuse it, you shouldn’t even deserve it!’ But I’m not Eric Satie. And please forgive me, I have the bad habit of quoting people. Too much so.”

“Her Majesty will be happy to know you’ve accepted.”

“Her Majesty’s never been happy.”

The Queen’s emissary skates over the comment, mildly embarrassed. “Furthermore, the investiture coincides with Prince Philip’s birthday and the Queen would like to hold a concert for him by the London Philharmonic at the Wimbledon Theatre to which, for reasons that remain obscure to me, the Prince is very attached, and Her Majesty would be very happ . . . that is, honoured, if you would conduct the orchestra in selections from your own compositions.”

“I haven’t conducted for a long time.”

The fifty-year-old smiles. “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how it’s done.”

Fred Ballinger gives the matter some serious reflection. “No, I haven’t forgotten how it’s done.”

The emissary gives another radiant smile. “Prince Philip and the Queen will be ecstatic when they hear your celebrated ‘Simple Songs’.”

With great calm, almost with resignation, Fred says: “I won’t be performing any of my ‘Simple Songs’.”

“Why not?”

“Personal reasons.”

“But we can have the great Sumi Jo as soprano.”

“Sumi Jo isn’t the right person.”

“You tell me the right soprano and you shall have her.”

“There’s no-one who is right.”

The decision looks to be irrevocable. Fred Ballinger starts to read the paper again. He has already forgotten all the words of praise. The emissary is taken aback. His head droops.

Silence. The only slight sound is Fred rubbing the plastic sweet wrapper between his fingers at intervals of equal duration. As they alternate, the brief intervals lay down an unmistakable musical rhythm.

The Queen’s emissary puts a cigarette in his mouth, raises the lighter to it, then remembers the ban on smoking.

“Forgive me, maestro,” he stammers out in a last awkward attempt, “but the Queen could take this badly. She isn’t used to being rebuffed.”

Still seemingly engrossed in the newspaper, Fred Ballinger suddenly stops playing with the sweet wrapper.

“She’ll learn to live with it. There are far more important things than my ‘Simple Songs’.”

The emissary gets up, disconsolate: “Well, I’ll report back what we’ve discussed. Goodbye, maestro.”

He sets off, his two assistants following. As they move away, they reveal a man at another table behind them who looks as if he has listened to the whole conve. . .