A Thousand Perfect Notes

by C. G. Drews

  The backyard is damp with night tears. Gardens are barricaded with mossy logs and rocks, and staghorns droop from the huge trees. Beck breathes grass clippings and orchids and starlight.

  August takes him to a hammock. It’s the flat kind, wide as a mesh bed that at least five people could lie on while gazing up through the trees at the sky. She flops on to it and, even though Beck protests, she grabs the corner of his jacket and tugs him down.

  They’re very close. Arm wedged against arm. His hand brushes hers and her hair tickles his ears. He’s terrified of how comfortable this is, of how close and warm and safe he feels.

  He’s not a fool. Blink and this is over. He’ll go back to his piano, the Maestro, the agony, because as much as he hates it, it’s all the family he has.

  But right now? He has a second of August and stars and magic.

  ‘Behold,’ August says. ‘The most beautiful sight in existence.’

  Their feet trail the grass as they both rock the hammock gently and watch the map of stars above. He’s never paid attention to anything but music before. Semiquavers and chromatic scales, Liszt and Rachmaninoff and Chopin. Music he’s forced to play and music he could compose. They are his language, his focus, his life. He’s never looked at the stars before, never realised they’re freakishly entrancing.

  And slowly, one note at a time, the music in his head begins again – soft and scared – but there. It terrifies him, the thought that one day the Maestro might hit him enough for his music to disappear for ever.

  He taps a rhythm on his thigh to see if the notes will disappear again.

  They stay. Twirling under his skin.

  ‘I did write something for you.’ It just comes out, and part of Beck feels stupid, the other part brave.

  ‘Really?’ August nestles her head next to his. ‘Can I hear it?’

  ‘It’s awful.’

  ‘I know it’s not.’

  ‘You’ve never heard me play.’

  She snorts, which sort of breaks the electric brilliance of the sky and the stars and the quietness. Beck relaxes into the hammock with a half smile.

  ‘You think you’re a mystery,’ she says, ‘but I’ve figured out a lot. I’m a sleuth like that.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yes. I know you breathe music, but it embarrasses you and maybe you even hate it a little. Which is confusing,’ she adds. ‘I know your home sucks—’ She cuts off his mumbled protest. ‘But despite that, you’re a marshmallow and a fantastic big brother, because Joey is proof of that.’

  ‘You mean the kid who’s been suspended from preschool?’

  ‘Joey is incredible.’ August gives the hammock an energised push. ‘I also know what you dream of.’

  How much does she think about him?

  As much as he thinks about her?

  ‘Escape,’ she says, like she’s plucked the word from between the rusty piano strings that bind his heart together.

  He feels hollow without his secret.

  ‘But,’ she says, slowly, ‘you’re trapped.’

  He wants to tell her about Germany – about staying or going. Not that it’s his choice, it never will be, but no matter which direction the Maestro binds him to, it’ll be the wrong one. Leaving Joey? Leaving August? Unthinkable. Staying? He’s going to snap someday.

  ‘You like me because I’m pathetic,’ he says suddenly. ‘Like your dogs.’

  He wishes he could take it back. Did he just splinter their night with his poisoned self-loathing?

  ‘You’re not as cute as my dogs,’ she says.

  He should’ve known she couldn’t take anything seriously. It stabs him, a little, because he can’t joke all the time. He should go, unravel and collapse somewhere in private.

  ‘Although, for the record,’ she says, stern now, the joke vanished, ‘you’re not pathetic. Why do you even think that? You’re actually funny and protective and kind. You could’ve let me limp home when I was an idiot and busted my foot. Did you? Nope. And even though Joey stands there swearing like a trooper, I’ve never heard you get riled up. Like I said, you’re a marshmallow with burnt skin, but I see you, Beck.’

  She hooks her fingers through his, fast, like she thinks he’s going to make a break for it. His fingers close around hers – it’s not awkward, it never could be.

  ‘You’re not a puppy to be rescued,’ she says softly. ‘You’re a boy I frequently feel intensely about.’

  ‘Intensely?’

  ‘It’s very distracting,’ August adds. She lets out a small giggle.

  ‘What?’ Beck says.

  ‘I’m just thinking of your reaction.’

  ‘To what?’

  She pushes herself up on her elbow. ‘To this.’ And she kisses him, very gently, very cautiously, on his broken lip.

  The Maestro smells of hospital and cinnamon tea. She huddles in bed, her ancient laptop groaning as she emails music theory corrections to her students at the university. Beck has a spatula in his hand, still coated in batter from the pancakes he’s making Joey for dinner.

  She called him and he came. He’s obedient like that.

  It’s been three days since her outrage, since his beating, since August’s kiss. The Maestro hasn’t really left her bed and hasn’t spoken to him, no apology, of course, and no explanation for what happened at the hospital. Clearly they swallowed whatever lie she concocted. Beck’s decided not to care. He doesn’t care.

  ‘Shut the door,’ the Maestro says.

  Beck looks at her heavily bandaged hands that struggle to keep a mug of tea upright.

  ‘I want it open.’ Beck leans against the doorframe and folds his arms, spatula in the crook of his elbow. ‘I have the pan on. For Joey’s dinner, considering you don’t cook for her.’

  The Maestro’s lips thin. ‘Your attitude is unacceptable.’

  Beck shrugs. Bruises still linger on his face. Her artwork.

  ‘But,’ the Maestro says, ‘you are under pressure, Junge. I see that.’

  ‘I don’t want to play for my uncle.’

  The Maestro leans back in her pillows. ‘I did not ask if you wanted to. You will.’ Her tone goes crisp. ‘But it would be a miracle if your uncle saw potential in you, so do not fret over moving to Deutschland any time soon.’

  Is it relief or a slap? Beck can’t even sort through the jumble of his pain to figure it out.

  ‘But you will still play,’ she says. ‘And as rude as you are, Sohn, I will reward you for a good performance.’

  This is surprising. Although her idea of a ‘reward’ is probably more scales.

  ‘That girl,’ the Maestro begins, and Beck’s heart thuds. ‘That party. You may go.’

  ‘Really?’ It pops out, desperate and unbelieving, before Beck can be cautious.

  ‘Ja.’ The Maestro’s lips twist, sour at his excitement. ‘Mayhap this will encourage you to work harder before the concert. Hard work might even cover up your lack of talent.’

  Beck has to keep the Maestro happy – or at least not bitterly disgusted with him – if he wants to be allowed the party privilege.

  He glues himself to the piano, practising so long and hard he gets a headache from his own cacophony. The Maestro gradually resumes her motivational insults, but keeps her hands off. This could be because they’re still bandaged. Or she’s sorry she lost control so badly that night?

  Who is Beck kidding? She could never be sorry.

  And in between the Chopin, Beck composes for August.

  It’s coming along nicely.

  While Chopin is precise notes, fast and light and powerful, his song for August is the opposite. It’s slow and filled with pauses of regret and rushes of longing and the occasional dance. It tastes like thunderstorms when he dreams of it at night.

  But he honestly does focus on the Chopin, because he wants it to be right. For his uncle, for the Maestro. For himself. He doesn’t want to be embarrassed. And a stupid, deluded part of his soul still claws with whispers of maybe sh
e’ll approve of your playing, claim you as her talented son, and spontaneously combust into loving you.

  Yeah, and maybe the world will end.

  He doesn’t need the Maestro’s approval. What he needs is a way to give August her song for her birthday – which is the same day as his private lesson with Jan Keverich.

  He’s so busy composing and practising and actively not thinking about August’s kiss that the day of his uncle’s recital creeps up and slaps him in the face.

  They’re all going. The Maestro has her bandages off. Joey has a too-small pink dress, which, coupled with a bow in her wild hair, makes her look ridiculous.

  She slinks into his room with her gumboots sticking out from the skirt and the bow already crumpled. She hasn’t quite regained her bounce since the Maestro struck her, a fact that gnaws at Beck.

  ‘Do I look like Beauty and the Best?’ Joey says.

  ‘Actually, it’s beast.’ Beck is mostly dressed, ignoring nervous pangs. Last time he readied for a concert it ended with getting beaten bloody near a bus stop.

  Joey stares at the piano and then, cautiously, taps at a few keys. How can she even look at the piano now? Or does she not remember the Maestro’s threats for her to start? It hasn’t been mentioned since and her five-year-old brain probably has dismissed it. If only Beck had the same faith.

  He buttons his shirt – and realises something’s wrong. The suit jacket strains a little over his chest, but it’s the sleeves. He checks his trousers. There’s a fair amount of ankle showing.

  No, no, no.

  He grew?

  He can’t have grown that much.

  No.

  He can’t turn up at some concert for rich people, to impress his uncle, to prove his worth to the Maestro wearing this. And they are leaving in less than an hour. His hands tremble as he tugs at his trouser legs, imagining the Maestro’s oncoming rage. She can’t blame him for growing … OK, she probably will. Please, please, stretch. Does he have the worst luck in the universe?

  Joey giggles. ‘Beck, you growed! Mama!’ she yells. ‘Beck doesn’t fit his clothes!’

  The Maestro appears with her hair worryingly flat – how violently did she beat it into submission? – and wearing a gown from her glory days. She had everything custom made since she was once rich, famous and an unusual size. She looks fierce, proud, even beautiful, a pianist to be in awe of.

  Beck looks like a nitwit.

  Joey points, like the Maestro might not see the problem. ‘He’s gonna split his pants.’

  Beck gives her a filthy glare, but truth is – he might.

  ‘This is my fault,’ the Maestro says.

  Beck gapes. Isn’t it his fault for not asking permission to shoot up several centimetres?

  ‘I never thought of your suit,’ she says. ‘Verdammt.’

  ‘You’re a giraffe,’ Joey adds, helpfully.

  ‘I know.’ Beck grinds his teeth. Unless he wants to appear in one of the Maestro’s dresses, this is it. Hello circus act.

  The Maestro is silent for a long time, long enough for Beck’s panic to flip up a notch. Then, her lips pursed, she says, ‘Put on tall black socks.’

  Beck lunges for his wardrobe and digs out socks. He can’t wear his trousers low and still be able to tuck in his shirt, so the socks are the only solution. At least his suit jacket doesn’t let him down too badly, and if he doesn’t reach for anything he should be fine.

  ‘You’ll do,’ the Maestro says. ‘And beeile dich! Being late is unacceptable.’

  They take the bus, dressed in their finery, and ignore the stares.

  Beck doesn’t bring sheet music.

  The last stretch of the journey must be taken in a taxi, where the Maestro grinds her teeth and Beck winces at the exorbitant price. Apparently buses don’t go into the rich part of the city. Here, you should have a car. And probably a maid and a gardener and a cook. Meine Güte, the houses are huge! Beck plasters his face against the window as the taxi purrs past manicured lawns and circular driveways, fountains and huge gates with wrought iron symbols.

  It’s like a picture book where the princess is going to a ball.

  Except Beck is no princess, rather a giraffe waltzing towards certain doom. Yes, he has exactly zero confidence in himself by this point. He just hopes the Maestro leaves him alive afterwards.

  The taxi deposits them at the end of the white stone driveway, and they walk up in awe. There are cars everywhere, expensive cars, and their polished sides reflect Beck’s face as he passes. The lawn is a sea of green and there are actually butlers at the door. They welcome, direct, nod politely. The Maestro holds tight to Joey in case she makes a break for it to paddle in the goldfish pond by the front door.

  One of the attendants takes their names and, on hearing the name Keverich, leads them in himself. Beck thinks he sees a raised eyebrow, but can he blame the guy? Joey is still wearing gumboots. Beck’s suit doesn’t fit. The Maestro is too tall, too broad, to be an average mortal. They are ridiculous.

  ‘The recital will be in the ballroom,’ the attendant says.

  The ballroom. Of course. Is the food being served on golden plates, too?

  They pass white-carpeted staircases and gold-trimmed rugs, and then enter the ballroom. There must be a hundred people in here, dressed for an opera, their conversation a level murmur. Floor-length windows open on to a deck and Beck can smell food. Oh, food. Then he looks for the piano.

  It sits at the far end of the room, surrounded by white cushioned chairs, and polished to a blinding sheen. Is he terrified to play it? Or longing?

  The room, the house, the air, all stink of money.

  Joey spies the food laid out on the verandah – cocktail meats, chocolates and miniature cucumber sandwiches.

  ‘I’m starved,’ Joey declares.

  ‘So am I,’ he whispers. ‘But you have to be quiet about this.’

  ‘So I gotta quietly eat everything?’

  ‘Um. Try to avoid stuffing your face at least?’

  Joey wiggles her hand out of the Maestro’s – which is surprisingly easy since the Maestro has been enveloped by a swarm of socialites. It’s like a curtain falls off her face and the Maestro is gone, replaced with someone whose body language is soft and welcoming, whose lips twist into the right words and let out the correct volume of laughter.

  She fits here. This is where she came from.

  It makes Beck wonder how much money she used to have back in Germany – and if she misses it.

  He’s left to trail after Joey.

  It’s not time to freak out yet anyway, is it? For all he knows Jan Keverich is watching him – but he’s never met his uncle, never seen a photo. And making sure his sister doesn’t impale herself on a toothpick is more important. Nervous breakdowns can come later.

  The air is cooler outside and it smells of citrus oil and eucalyptus leaves. There are significantly fewer people out here – weird, because this is where the food is. A few waiters carry silver trays of crackers with salmon pâté, slivers of cheesecake and asparagus wrapped in silverside.

  Joey prowls along the length of the table, her nose wrinkled. She finds a plate with toothpicks of cocktail sausages, sharp cheese and pickled onions and takes two.

  ‘What are the white balls?’

  ‘Pickled onions,’ Beck says. ‘You’ll love them.’

  Joey sucks the onion off the end. Her lips pucker. Then her eyes bulge as the acidic juice attacks her throat and Beck nearly dies holding in his laughter. He’s so mean. But he couldn’t resist. He turns away, faking a sneeze, as a waiter appears with a tray of fudge brownies in meticulous triangles.

  The waiter presents the tray. ‘Guten Tag,’ he says. ‘Good afternoon.’ His German accent is perfect.

  Beck smiles politely. Joey chokes.

  The waiter looks mildly concerned. ‘Is she quite all right? Some water, maybe?’

  ‘She’s experiencing a pickled onion for the first time.’ Beck eyes the brownies with their doll
ar-sized squirt of cream on top.

  Joey gives a hacking cough and then swipes a brownie off the tray. Overcome with onion, she still can’t speak, but Beck guesses she’ll live if she’s planning for the future with brownies.

  The waiter laughs.

  ‘She really likes chocolate,’ Beck explains. She never gets it at home.

  ‘Chocolate is a substance worth existing for,’ says the waiter.

  Joey, finally getting her breath back, turns around and kicks Beck in the shins.

  He yelps. ‘Joey,’ he hisses. ‘Not here.’ He glances, embarrassed, at the waiter as if to say little kids, what can you do? But the waiter laughs far too hard.

  ‘You could’ve told me it was spicy!’ Joey shouts.

  Heads turn.

  Beck deserves it, but it’s still embarrassing. ‘Sorry? It’s not actually spice—’

  ‘I could’ve died.’ Joey takes a vicious bite of the brownie. ‘And then I wouldn’t get to hear Uncle Jan play the piano so much better than you.’

  The waiter slides his tray of brownies back on the table. ‘How do you know your brother is not better than your uncle?’

  Joey has a smudge of cream on her nose. ‘Because Mama says Beck is bad.’

  Beck stops regretting the onion surprise. His collar feels too tight, and he reminds himself Joey’s only parroting and doesn’t really understand. Except … what if the Maestro isn’t hiding her true feelings to other people either? What if he sits down to play and they all laugh?

  The waiter has to wipe his eyes from laughing so hard. ‘Why didn’t Ida tell me how priceless you two are?’

  Oh.

  No?

  ‘Um, Uncle … Jan?’ Beck says like the complete idiot he is.

  ‘Ja,’ his uncle says. ‘I meant to introduce myself whilst offering you food, because I hear that is how one wins favour with small children, but it escaped me as I watched Johanna encounter pickled onions.’

  Joey puts a hand – unfortunately tainted with chocolate and cream – on her hip. ‘Are you tricking us?’

  ‘Joey,’ Beck hisses.

  Jan shakes his head, sorrowful. ‘I did trick you, little Johanna. Allow me to make it up to you with a small gift of chocolate.’ He pulls three small chocolate bars, wrapped in gold foil, from his pocket.