A Voice in the Distance

by Tabitha Suzuma

  I drink some coffee and make the most of my early morning by donning my headphones and grinding through twenty pages of Czerny at my keyboard. Harry rolls off the couch just before nine, downs a coffee and some aspirin before heading to lectures, still looking half asleep. I remember I have an essay to write for my Aesthetics and Criticism class but push it to the back of my mind for now. One lesson I have learned from my cognitive therapy sessions with Dr Stefan is to compartmentalize – to arrange the different parts of my life like pigeon-holes in my brain and only focus on one compartment at a time. It's supposed to stop you from feeling overloaded, although the hundreds of pigeonholes I see whenever I try this technique still manage to freak me out every time.

  Jennah makes me jump with a kiss and a cup of coffee sometime after ten. I pull my headphones down round my neck and keep on playing arpeggios with one hand, taking the cup with the other. Jennah puts her arms around me and nuzzles my ear as I continue to play one-handed.

  'Harry took off about half an hour ago,' I inform her.

  'I'm not surprised, with you thudding away. How long have you been at it?'

  'Couple of hours.' It's easier to lie. For some reason Jennah gets nervous if I practise too much. She is wearing her white bathrobe and her hair is wet and smells of apricot shampoo. I put my coffee down on the end of the keyboard and go back to my arpeggios, headphones still round my neck. I have the sound on so high, I can still just about hear what I am playing. Jennah comes round and perches on my knee. I put my arm round her so that I can reach the bottom octave.

  'Flynn?' She kisses my face.

  'Mm.'

  'Have you got lectures this morning?'

  'Mm.'

  'Come and have breakfast with me?'

  'Mm.'

  She presses her nose against mine, completely obscuring my view of the keyboard. I find myself staring into her large dark green eyes. Her irises are flecked with gold. I keep playing.

  'Wrong note!' she cries, triumphant.

  'No!' I protest.

  'Liar.'

  I laugh.

  'I'm so hungry I could eat you,' she says.

  'OK, OK!' I reach behind her and turn off the keyboard. 'Talk about distracting!'

  'You know what they say about concert pianists,' she says, dragging me to the kitchen.

  'What's that then?'

  She puts the toast on. 'Can't be a top concert pianist if you're in love.' She twirls around, her bathrobe flapping against the fridge door.

  'Huh. Well, who said I was in love?'

  'Bastard!' she gasps dramatically in mock outrage.

  I laugh and kiss her.

  The Royal College is a university that never sleeps. From early in the morning till late at night, the marble entrance hall resonates with the strains of some instrument. On the steps outside, students come and go, carrying scores and music books and large black instrument cases. On the first floor, the wood-panelled lecture hall is filled with sleeping students as Professor Meyers mumbles his way through a mind-numbing lecture on the rise of expressive monody in the late sixteenth century. On the bench next to me, Harry has given up his doodling and looks to be sound asleep, his glasses askew. I practise the fingering to Rachmaninov's Second Piano Concerto on the edge of the desk and think about Jennah, the concerto, Professor Kaiser, my essay on the role and development of incidental music in nineteenth-century stage productions . . . My mind is jumping about all over the place this morning. It's a feeling I've missed.

  Jennah has rehearsals for the Christmas concert all through her lunch break, but I've promised to deliver her a sandwich. Music explodes from the double doors that lead to the concert hall. Mozart's Laudate Dominum – a piece Jennah has been practising for weeks. I sneak in through the swing doors at the back of the amphitheatre, holding the sandwich out of view of Professor Williams, who is leading the rehearsals, and take a seat near the back. Jennah and the other two soloists are sitting on the edge of the concert platform, looking bored, while Williams talks to the first violinist about quarter rests. Jennah says something to the girl sitting next to her, laughs, and earns herself an angry 'Shh!' from Williams. She sighs, then yawns and starts pulling the loose threads off the bottom of her long denim skirt. She hasn't seen me.

  Williams is clapping his hands together, trying to get people's attention. By now, everyone has begun to talk, and the murmurs rise like the buzz from a beehive. 'A bit of quiet, please!' he bellows, waving his baton like a wand. I am so glad I'm not involved in the concert this term. Williams goes over to the piano and plays an A. The sound of tuning is deafening. Finally there is silence. Williams draws himself up self-importantly and raises his baton. Then he looks at Jennah. She is trying to fix the broken zip on her ankle boots. Someone nudges her.

  'First soloist!' Williams barks.

  Jennah pulls a face and stands quickly, brushing the hair out of her eyes. Williams gives her a long look, then drops his baton. The music begins . . .

  When Jennah starts to sing, I feel the goose pimples rise on my arms. I haven't heard her sing this piece with the orchestra before. Her voice is strong and pure, resonating through the hall. She sways forward onto her toes and gazes out to the back of the concert hall, her eyes bright. The sleeves of her grey jumper are too long so I am sure I am the only one to notice when she taps her finger against her skirt to help her with a re-entry. I can almost taste her voice in my mouth. It is the colour of dawn. I want to run up and grab her and twirl her around. I want to yell, She's mine! The sight of her, standing there, singing, makes me want to shout with joy.

  Chapter Three

  JENNAH

  Flynn arrived in time to hear me sing Laudate Dominum, which pleased me no end. I'd been watching the double doors for most of the lunchtime rehearsal, hoping he would get here before it was my turn to sing. When he finally snuck in, holding the sandwich he'd promised me, I looked away quickly and pretended I hadn't seen him. I don't know why exactly – I suppose I didn't want him to realize I was waiting for him. It also reduced the risk of eye-contact when I got up to sing. And it meant that I could be secretly aware of him watching me, which is always fun. When Professor Williams finally gave us a break, Flynn came over to the platform and handed me my sandwich. We chatted for a few minutes but he didn't really hang around for long because the two other soloists were with us, and Flynn is funny around people he doesn't know.

  This evening, Harry comes round to work on the Aesthetics and Criticism essay we both have to write. Flynn has an evening lesson with Professor Kaiser, the infamous German piano maestro at the Royal College. The lesson is only meant to last an hour but usually runs into two or three and so I am glad to have Harry to spend the evening with. Unlike Flynn, I don't do the solitary thing too well. And Harry is like the brother I never had. I put on the pasta while he sits at the kitchen table and sifts through the hundreds of scrawled notes I seem to have amassed.

  'You've got enough for three essays here, Jen.'

  'Yes, but most of it is probably irrelevant. You know how Professor Meyers likes to drone on and on.' I join him at the table and we get to work, passing books and notes back and forth, occasionally reading a sentence aloud to each other to see how it sounds. Harry types his essay straight onto his laptop while I scribble it all out onto pages and pages of lined paper. The stove makes a loud sizzling sound as the water boils over. I drain the pasta, shake a bottle of sauce into it, and Harry and I each take a fork and eat it straight out of the saucepan. Cooking has never been my strong point. After a couple more hours of academic drudgery I make some coffee. I have only managed a thousand words and Harry even less. The essay is due in at nine a.m. tomorrow. Looks like it's going to be a long night.

  Sometime around ten, Flynn comes in, cheeks pink from the night air, hair damp from the rain.

  'How was the lesson?' I ask him.

  'Great!' He kisses me hard, his hand freezing against my face. His mouth tastes of beer.

  'Have you been to the pub?' I
ask in surprise.

  'Yeah! Met up with André and Bertie. André came second in the Chopin competition. Wanted to drown his sorrows.'

  'Why didn't you enter the Chopin competition?' Harry asks.

  'Don't like Chopin.' Flynn throws open the fridge and begins scavenging for food. 'Are you two still working on that essay? You're so boring.' He takes out some eggs and starts making himself an omelette, still wearing his coat. He puts the bowl on top of my pile of papers and starts greasing the pan right next to Harry's laptop. 'Why don't you just write the same essay? One of you could write the first half and the other could write the second half.'

  'I think Meyers might notice if we hand in two identical essays,' Harry says drily, leafing through An Anatomy of Musical Criticism. I start rewriting a clumsy sentence for the fourth time.

  'They'd hardly be identical! Not with all your spelling mistakes!' Flynn starts to laugh.

  I look up at Flynn in surprise. Harry is mildly dyslexic, and although it has never been a big deal, I have never heard Flynn make a joke of it before. Harry just shakes his head good-naturedly and moves his laptop out of harm's way as Flynn starts to grate cheese energetically onto a plate. Soon, more than the plate is covered. I pick bits of cheese off the open pages of the library books. 'Couldn't you do that on the counter?'

  As Flynn starts whisking the eggs, we move over to the living room to grind on with our essays. Flynn joins us to eat his omelette but turns on the television so loud we have to ask him to turn it down. He seems restless, practising at the keyboard, then vacuuming the flat, finally climbing onto the back of the sofa, bouncing a tennis ball annoyingly over our heads against the opposite wall. It is an effort to stop myself from snapping.

  'What was that quote from Authenticity and Early Music?' Harry asks me as the tennis ball thuds against the wall behind us. 'Something about the critical issues raised by period instruments . . . I wrote it down somewhere and now I've lost it . . .' He shifts wearily through a pile of papers.

  I try to find the page for him in the relevant book. 'The one about authentic texts?'

  'No, it was in the other book, the Kenyon one. Something about period instruments . . .'

  I lift up books and papers from the coffee table, trying to find the elusive book. 'Where's it gone? I had it just a second ago. I'm so tired I'm seeing double. Isn't that the Kenyon book, behind your—' I break off as the tennis ball hits me squarely on the back of the head.

  'Jesus, Flynn!'

  There's a silence. I have startled myself with the force of my shout. Harry pulls an embarrassed face and looks down at his laptop. Flynn jumps down from the back of the sofa and treads all over my notes, looking for his ball. I grab it and hold it behind my back. He lunges at me.

  'Children, please . . .' Harry tries to add some humour to the situation.

  Flynn grabs my arm. 'Give me back my ball.'

  'No!' I shout.

  'Give it back!'

  'No!'

  'Why?'

  'You're driving us crazy, that's why! Can't you see we're trying to write this essay? We've got exactly eight hours before it has to be handed in! You can either help us with it or go to bed!'

  Flynn only grunts in reply, still trying to wrestle the ball out of my hand.

  'Now, kiddies, come on,' Harry says.

  Flynn wins the struggle and whoops in triumph, shooting the ball across to the opposite wall, knocking a picture frame off the mantelpiece.

  'For God's sake!' I yell, furious now.

  Harry stands up and picks up his laptop. 'Let's go back to the kitchen and leave Flynn to his game of squash,' he suggests calmly. I follow suit, gathering up books and papers. As I follow Harry into the kitchen, there is a crash behind us and the sound of broken glass.

  We finally finish our essays at half past four in the morning. I am so tired I can hardly speak. But Harry is worried about Flynn. He seems to think he is getting manic again. I remind him that Flynn's always irritating when he's drunk. I give my essay to Harry to take in and watch him get into his car before stumbling into the bedroom and pulling off my clothes. Flynn has passed out, fully dressed, sprawled across the bed. I shove him unceremoniously off my side and crawl under the duvet. Sleep. At last.

  I'm awoken by a rustle and the tread of footsteps across the bedroom floor, followed by the clatter of keys meeting with the surface of the wooden desk. I emerge slowly from the covers, groggy and blurry-eyed, as Flynn throws open the curtains, flooding me with harsh white sunlight.

  'Ugh . . .' I groan. 'What time is it?'

  'Nearly nine,' he replies. He is wearing his suede jacket with the collar turned up and his cheeks are bright pink. 'You don't have lectures this morning, do you?'

  'What day is it?'

  'Tuesday.'

  'I have Professional Skills at eleven.' I yawn. 'And don't you have Conducting?'

  'Skipped it.' Flynn throws himself across the bed, propping his head up on his hand. 'It's such a beautiful day. Let's go for a walk in the countryside.'

  I smile. Out of the two of us, Flynn is definitely the more romantic. I brush the hair out of my face and lean forward to kiss him. His face is pink and cold. 'Where have you been?'

  'I needed to buy some stuff from Boots but it wasn't open yet. Do you want breakfast in bed?'

  'I think I can make it to the kitchen.' I smile. 'God, you were annoying when you were drunk last night.'

  'I wasn't drunk!'

  'Yeah, right,' I say disbelievingly.

  He kisses me again. 'I'll make it up to you. Let's skip uni today and go to Chessington.'

  'An amusement park?' I roll my eyes. 'Aren't we a bit old for that?'

  'Then let's go to the river and catch a boat down the Thames. Or go on the London Eye! I know, I know, I'll borrow Harry's car and we can drive down to the coast!'

  I laugh at his enthusiasm. Sometimes Flynn reminds me of an overexcited puppy. I feel almost guilty at having to dampen his fireworks.

  'Flynn, there's no way I can miss my Aesthetics tutorial. I have to read out my essay today and I've been working on it half the night. Let's save it for the weekend, OK? I'm going to have a shower.'

  I drag myself out of bed and go to the bathroom, pulling off my T-shirt. I step into the cold tub and draw the curtain. I turn the shower on full force—

  'Jesus!' I am knocked off balance and narrowly miss banging my head on the tiles as Flynn suddenly springs into the bath with me, sending the shower head flying out of my hand. It falls to the bottom of the bath, spurting up a fountain of water into our eyes. 'You nearly gave me a heart attack! What on earth are you doing? Did you even ask me if I wanted—?'

  He shuts me up with a kiss . . .

  * * *

  After my morning lecture I head over to Harry's flat in Bayswater. The flat actually belongs to Harry's parents, who now live in Brussels. Since moving in with Harry last summer, Kate, his girlfriend, has had plans to strip the flat of its austere burgundy wallpaper and paint the walls a pale beige. However, after putting in more than a few weeks worth of elbow-grease over the holidays, she seems to have finally realized she has bitten off more than she can chew. Since term started the flat has been a building site of stripped walls and sheet-clad furniture. The news that Harry's parents were coming over to visit at the end of the month understandably sent Kate into a frenzy, and so in a fit of mad generosity I offered to help her finish decorating.

  I find her in paint-stained clothes, smoking a cigarette out of the living-room window, looking harassed. 'Harry helped me finish the kitchen this morning but we've still got the living room and the two bedrooms to do,' she tells me. 'And I think I'm suffering from toxic fumes inhalation.'

  'Nothing that a good old-fashioned fag won't put right,' I tease her.

  She shoots me a grin, tosses me an old shirt of Harry's and we get to work – Kate applying a second coat of glossy white to the living-room door while I attack the tricky bit around the fireplace. We chat about uni, careers and o
ur respective boyfriends as the afternoon sunlight streams in through the curtainless windows.

  At around two, Harry bursts in brandishing pizza and seems suitably impressed by our morning's efforts. I have pains in my legs, back and neck. Kate and I drop our paintbrushes and join him as he rummages around in the kitchen under paint-stained sheets for plates and cutlery. Kate pulls the sheet off the kitchen table and I collapse gratefully onto a stool, comfortably exhausted.

  'Who wants coffee?' Harry asks.

  'Have you got tea?' I ask.

  'No, but I can ask your other half to pick some up on the way.'

  'Flynn's coming over?' I ask in surprise.

  'Yeah, I caught him on my way out of uni – he was just finishing off something for Kaiser. Told him to come over and have some pizza with us.' Harry digs his mobile out of his pocket and flicks it open.

  'You tricked him into giving us a hand with the painting more like!' Kate laughs.

  'Hi, where are you?' Harry speaks into the phone. 'Can you pick up some Earl Grey on your way past the supermarket? Cheers. See you in a bit.' He snaps the mobile shut and returns it to his pocket.