by C. G. Drews
Beck tries to think if he has something in his bag he could wrap it in. His maths homework?
Joey creeps closer and squats in front of the battered foot. ‘What did you kick?’
‘Who, not what,’ August says. ‘Some idiot killing frogs in the guys’ toilets.’
‘You went into the boy toilets?’ Joey draws back, as if this kind of idiocy is contagious.
August shrugs and sits down in the middle of the sidewalk. She cradles her bloody foot – it looks like a complete toenail is missing. ‘You shouldn’t kill things. Not dreams or happiness or animals. I’m really anti-killing. So the disagreement got a little physical and some guy had a stupid steel-toe boot and—’ She bites her lip. ‘I think I might’ve deflected off him into the wall.’
‘You could wear shoes, you know.’ Beck is desperately trying to think of a way he won’t have to whip off his shirt and offer it as a bandage. Because – please no.
August grits her teeth. ‘I knew you’d say that. But you know what? I shouldn’t have to wear shoes to kick someone because they’re killing harmless frogs.’ Her face has gone red with the injustice.
‘OK, whatever.’ Beck turns around and squats down. He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Get on my back.’
‘What?’
Joey lets out a squeak of delight. ‘Oh, Beck’s gonna give you a piggyback!’
August eyes widen. ‘Beck, I’m way too heavy …’
‘Nope.’ Beck shrugs his shoulders again. ‘Get on. I lift weights, you know.’ He does not. ‘I’m not leaving you to bleed to death on the sidewalk.’
‘And here I was thinking that’d make you happy.’ She peels herself off the footpath and hops towards Beck. ‘I can call my dad from your house.’
And the Maestro won’t be in till late – what a relief.
August touches his shoulders tentatively and then, with an ‘I’m probably going to kill you,’ she’s on. Beck stumbles upright, stretches, and then hooks his arms under her thighs for balance. He’s holding a girl. Her arms lie loosely around his throat. The smell of her is all over him – part sweat and coppery blood and coconut. She’s no featherweight Joey, obviously, but he won’t drop her.
He’s got this.
He takes a step and then another.
Joey has picked up his backpack and has a look of severe concentration on her face as she trots doggedly after them.
‘Aren’t I great?’ August says dully. ‘A damsel in distress.’
‘Well,’ Beck says, unwilling to admit to her – or himself – that he doesn’t mind at all. ‘When I kick a wall, you can carry me home.’
‘Deal.’
Joey breaks into a jog to catch up, panting. ‘I’m gonna kick a wall too!’
Beck groans. ‘Oh, Joey, you Schwachkopf. I’ll carry you tomorrow, I swear.’
Although August doesn’t feel like an elephant on his back, Beck’s knees still go slightly weak when he reaches his driveway. She slides off and, hanging off his elbow, she hops to the front door. Beck tackles it open with the key and holds his breath for a second, praying desperately that the house is empty.
Because what if it’s not?
Hey, Mutter, here’s a bleeding girl I found who’s possibly a friend? But I don’t know. Jury’s out. Don’t kill me when she’s gone.
‘Um, come in, I guess?’ Beck holds the door open. He’s never done this, not once in his life.
‘I’ll try not to bleed all over your house.’ August limps inside after Joey.
Beck is having a small heart attack. So what does he do first? Does he give her the phone? Offer to bandage her foot? Give her some water? There’s no food to offer, unless she wants cereal, and –
She’s going to see how bare the house is. How cold. How bleak. They don’t own much, just useful furniture and filing cabinets of music. No decorations. His family collects bruises and German insults instead of crockery and photo frames.
‘This is the kitchen.’ Joey guides August down the hall and into the tiny yellow kitchen. She pulls up a chair – at least the preschooler has manners, sort of … when she’s not swearing at someone – and then she stands back and stares at August seriously. ‘Do you need a Band-Aid?’
August raises her foot and surveys it. ‘Probably a big Band-Aid.’ Her soles are black with dirt and the blood has mixed with the grime so it’s impossible to see the extent of the injury.
Beck gives her their house phone. His hands are shaking – stupid, stupid. But he can’t quell the urge to do a quick dash around the house and check each room, each corner, to be sure the Maestro isn’t here.
He abandons August to make the call and gets Joey a snack – a cup of milk and two biscuits – and gets her settled in front of the TV for the afternoon programmes. When he inches back into the kitchen, August hoists herself off the chair.
‘He’ll be here in a minute, so I’ll wait on the driveway.’
‘Oh, yeah, of course.’
He follows her out, feeling like an idiot but filled with the crushing need to be polite. He can’t leave a bleeding girl alone on the sidewalk. But he doesn’t want to meet her dad. He just wants to hide.
He should be at the piano.
What if the Maestro comes home early—
Stop.
They sit in the gutter, August cradling her damaged foot again, poking at it and emitting little hisses, and Beck holding her satchel.
‘Contrary to your scowls and German insults,’ August says, ‘you’re a bit of an angel.’
First time he’s been called that.
Beck shrugs.
A rattling blue station wagon pulls up on the opposite side of the street. The driver window is down and a man with long hair leans out and waves.
August reaches over and punches his arm lightly. ‘Thanks, Beck. By the way, what is your full name?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘I think your ride is waiting.’
‘OK, I’m totally getting to the bottom of that story someday.’ She takes her satchel off him and limps across the road. She waves over her shoulder, but Beck is already escaping inside.
Close the door.
Have a solid barrier between himself and the world.
Remember what it felt like to carry August.
Never ever forget that.
Ugh, what is wrong with him?
Beck sentences himself to the piano. He doesn’t even change from his uniform or make a snack – he just plays hard and fast. But he can’t focus on études. All he can think of is how he carried August. And possibly ruined all passive-aggressive attempts to get her to hate him.
The Maestro thunders into the house at dusk.
From the way she bangs the cupboards in the kitchen and slams the kettle on, Beck decides not to venture out. At all.
But she comes in.
Her hands are trembling badly tonight and even clenching them in fists doesn’t cover how viciously they shake. ‘I expect you had a full afternoon practice?’ she snaps, like he’s already wronged her.
Beck breaks off in the middle of a scale. ‘Ja.’
‘Good.’ She grabs his doorframe, to steady herself or her shaking hands he doesn’t know. But she’s freaking him out.
‘Are you – OK?’
‘Schwachkopf.’ The Maestro’s lips pull back – in a smile? Beck feels like a small mouse a cat has decided to lunch on. ‘Did you tell your teachers you’d be absent tomorrow?’
What?
Panicked, Beck stands, unsure if he should run because she’s about to slap him into the middle of next week, or risk asking—
The confusion must’ve been too plain on his face, because the Maestro lets out a long-suffering sigh. ‘The championship? The one we have been training for all year.’ Her lips curl in a sneer. ‘Did you forget, Schwachkopf?’
‘Nein,’ Beck says. ‘I’ve been practising for it.’
He didn’t forget. August just – distracted him for a moment. And that’s proof of why he can’t have friends.
If he were a piano, all his strings would have snapped.
The terror isn’t the performance – it’s the aftermath with the Maestro.
She’s unforgiving over a mistake. But worse? A flawless piece doesn’t earn congratulations or celebratory ice cream. Instead there’s depressing and crisp instructions on how he still needs to improve.
Maybe if the Maestro says ‘you did well’, the entire world would explode.
But even though Beck hates performing, there are, at least, small benefits. Odds are another contestant will wish him luck, a judge will shake his hand, there’ll be a whisper of ‘impressive’ and ‘that’s talent to watch out for’, which Beck knows is a lie – the Maestro keeps him grounded in the truth of failure – but is nice to hear all the same. Nice, because as much as he pretends to hate music, it’s part of him. It is him.
He’s done a thousand contests and concerts and exams and lessons. He knows how it plays out.
He always gets nervous.
It’s all the people. The rows of a million eyes.
And how the Maestro will react afterwards.
The concert hall is jammed with tuxedos and formal wear and the haze of a thousand perfumes. Voices blur, hundreds at a time, and Beck fairly feels the sound of them. Tonight has been sponsored so thoroughly it’s hosted in the City Concert Hall. Since the Keverichs live in the suburbs, it took nearly four hours to get into the heart of the city. Four hours in buses and trains, trying desperately not to sweat too much in formal wear. Four hours of the Maestro’s glare. Four hours of Joey singing ‘Incy Wincy Spider’.
All so Beck can compete in the championship for Best Young Pianist of the State.
He’s not the best. He’ll get a clap on the shoulder, a smile from a judge, the audience’s admiration – but he won’t win. He never does. What is the point of being here?
Beck stands in the behind-the-stage performance waiting area. When the stagehands move the huge purple curtains, he glimpses the blasting light, the sea of audience, the flash of the shiny piano. This grand piano probably costs more than his entire house.
Just wait until the clapping starts – das gottverdammte Klatschen.
He hates clapping. Hates hands. Beck’s soul slumps and folds back into those tiny dark fantasies of having no hands, of not being physically able to do this. Wishes, just wishes.
He stays locked in them while the Maestro takes Joey off for another toilet break and more young pianists fill the room. At least they don’t yap like the audience. Most are humming concertos under their breath, and their parents hover over them, more likely to puke with nerves than the performing kids. Everyone is under sixteen. In a few months Beck wouldn’t even qualify for ‘young’ pianist. If the Maestro makes him enter adult contests? He’ll crash and die. What is talented for a kid is average for an adult.
Beck closes his eyes. Forgets. Zones out so far he reaches the place deep inside where his own music lies. Little notes clamouring to be free. His own notes. His own creations. His fingers tap a tattoo against his other clammy palm.
If people cut him open, they’d never accuse him of being empty. He’s not a shell of a pianist – he’s a composer. Cut his chest and see his heart beat with a song all his own. Oh look, the world would say, this boy is hiding a universe of wonder in him after all.
‘I said hello. Are you deaf or something?’
Beck’s head snaps up so fast his neck twangs. When he loses himself like that it’s hard to come back.
‘Hi.’ His voice is gravelly and he feels slightly dizzy. His fingers tap on his thigh, not the Chopin étude, but the music inside him.
‘When do you play?’
Beck focuses on his interrogator. He probably should’ve stood up, shaken hands or – or basically done anything but sit like a surprised cod. She’s nine, or ten, with hair like polished obsidian. She’s the age where people still say ‘Aw! Cute!’ and then marvel at her ferocious playing. Beck lost the cute factor years ago. There’s prize money and scholarships to be had today, and some little upstart like this will get them. There are ten contestants. They’ve been through scores of eliminations. They are the best ten the state has to offer.
‘I’m last,’ Beck says. The worst possible place. He’ll lose all his nerve by then.
The kid’s dress looks like a red cupcake iced with sprinkles. She folds her arms. ‘How old are you?’
And he thought Joey had no manners. ‘How old are you?’ he shoots back, in control now.
‘Ten. Erin Yukimura.’
‘Fifteen,’ Beck says. ‘Kever—’
‘I know who you are. Everyone knows the Keverichs.’
Beck stands and smooths his sweaty palms on his suit trousers. The suit is a little small, particularly around the wrists. He tugs the sleeves. How is he supposed to answer this kid?
How is he supposed to stand when the Maestro’s piano has cast a shadow that stretches over half the universe?
Beck is saved by a boy in a shirt the colour of a blueberry. His smile is as wide as a watermelon slice and only adds to the fruity aura.
‘I’m Schneider,’ he says. ‘I see you met the rabid Erin. Did she bite you?’
‘Keverich,’ Beck says and shakes hands with the blueberry.
‘I know.’
It’s unnerving. Beck would like to rip his last name into a hundred pieces and throw them into oblivion.
‘Is she here?’ the blueberry says. ‘Your mother, I mean – Ida Magdalena Keverich.’
You don’t address a famous retired pianist by half her name, of course.
‘Is it true she only speaks German?’ the rabid Erin says.
‘She only swears in German.’ Beck rocks on his heels. ‘Actually, she only swears. What’s the point of the rest of the language?’
‘Does she still play?’ The blueberry’s eyes are so bright with longing that Beck looks away, disgusted.
‘No,’ he says.
Please, someone, drop the grand piano on Beck’s head. It’d be a gift.
‘If you played like her,’ Erin says, ‘I’d be terrified. But I’ve heard about you. And you’re … not that good.’ Her smile is a razor. ‘I’ll try to think of you when I win, but I probably will forget.’ She smirks and skips off to her parents.
‘There are some people,’ the blueberry says, ‘that you hope will slip off the stage and break both legs.’
‘I feel you on a spiritual level,’ Beck says.
The whispers of ‘ten more minutes’ tangle around the room and pianists start flexing fingers and taking a last sip of water. The co-ordinator checks in with everyone, makes sure they know when they’ll be onstage for a seamless transition. By the time she gets to Beck, the blueberry farewells him with a handshake.
The Maestro sweeps back into the room. It’s her size, Beck tells himself, that commands attention. But her legacy as the most acclaimed pianist in Europe and sister to Germany’s finest composer probably also has something to do with it. Also her hair. There’s no way to tame the Keverich curls, and the Maestro looks like she’s strolled through an electric field. Joey – in a puffy yellow dress and butterfly clips – has the same crisis going. And Beck? Even an entire tin of unfortunately expensive gel only gives the vague impression that his hair is slicked.
‘Bist du bereit?’ the Maestro says. Are you ready?
She’s immune to the stares of the other parents and their tiny prodigies. This is the moment Beck should be proud his mother is famous. Instead he wants to climb on top of the piano and shout, ‘IF ONLY YOU KNEW THE TRUTH.’ She’s a monster. Maybe once she was a dream of glory and excellence, but taking her talent took everything good.
Beck wipes his hands on his trousers again. ‘Ja.’
No
no
no.
Focus, Beck. Snap out of this. The music in his head crinkles and stops.
‘You understand the importance of this contest, mein Sohn?’ The Maestro grips his elbow and pulls him to a quiet corner o
f the room. Her accent is thick. She’s stressed. ‘You will not let me down.’
‘I won’t,’ Beck mutters. He feels smothered by stuffy backstage air, the deluge of hairspray to keep the Keverich curls controlled, the yards of material in the Maestro’s gown from her glory days.
‘Your time to prove yourself has ended,’ the Maestro hisses. ‘When you step on that stage, you represent me. I played these pieces when I was your age. Your uncle and I –’ she makes a small noise of disgust, since she usually avoids talking about her brother, who is still famous and accomplished back in Europe and therefore annoying ‘– played these pieces until they became legacy. If your schreckliches Spielen disgraces me, I will not stand for it.’ Her voice lowers, a deep growl. ‘And there will be consequences. Do you understand me?’
Couldn’t she say ‘good luck, and remember to have fun!’ and then promise ice cream no matter what?
Instead Beck imagines the slaps – or worse, something happening to Joey.
Why does she have to demand that he become her?
‘Ja,’ Beck says. Thanks for the pep talk.
The first pianist is shown on to the stage in a wave of thundering applause. Then music – perfect music. Flawless with feeling and grace and the intricate detail of a lifetime of practice. Beck stands with the Maestro and the fidgeting Joey and tries to find his music again. His safe place.
The Maestro’s fingers dig into his shoulder, her voice a knife in his ribs. ‘Prove to me you are worth something.’
An ‘or else’ dances across Beck’s vision. He flinches and says nothing, because nothing will convince her or please her or save him.
But the notes inside him roil and break and press so hard against his skin they’ll rip the seams and he’ll burst and – maybe they’ll call him empty after all. Maybe no one can see his music, his own music, but him.
‘I miss these days,’ the Maestro says. ‘I owned the stage and the music was mine. But look at me now.’ Her shaking hands clench. ‘You are a poor Keverich replacement.’
Beck shuts his eyes and waits until it’s his turn to be executed.
Last? Why did they make Beck go last?