by C. G. Drews
Her eyes narrowed, she takes one. Then she takes a second. ‘This is for Mama,’ she says, and Beck knows there’s exactly no possibility the Maestro will receive one of those chocolates.
‘You are so sweet,’ says Jan, smiling.
Joey swipes the third and runs off.
Jan straightens, still chuckling softly. ‘Ah, children. They are so delightful.’
They are when you give them chocolate.
‘You two make me regret marrying my music and never having children,’ Jan says.
Beck says nothing. He’s not sure what to do now. This is Jan Keverich, the famed pianist, the estranged and childless uncle, the rich possible benefactor. Everything the Maestro said made Beck think Jan would be as terrifying as her. He’s built the same – tall, broad, with long slim fingers and the trademark Keverich pepper curls. But he’s butter in Joey’s paws.
How is he brother to the Maestro?
Jan smooths his jacket and does up a single button. His suit fits like he was born for it, and staring at it just makes Beck tug harder at his sleeves.
‘I have wanted to meet you for years, Beethoven.’
‘I go by Beck,’ he says. ‘If that’s OK.’
Jan smiles. ‘I don’t blame you. Musician names are the Keverich curse. Still –’ his long fingers knit together ‘– great names beget wunderbare pianists.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Beck says.
‘I do not believe your sister,’ Jan says with a wink. ‘I have utmost faith in your playing, Beck. I also look forward to our private time tomorrow to discuss music without audience. Music is more relaxing without expectations.’ He indicates the ballroom with a polite sweep of the hand. ‘Shall we return?’
Time to begin the torture? But Beck is strangely heartened that Jan prefers to play alone too.
‘You feel – um, judged – when you play?’ Beck follows him between rows of paintings.
‘Absolutely,’ Jan says. ‘I often lose myself in a piece, but other times? Keine Beziehung.’ No connection. His tone is factual. ‘Often an inexperienced audience cannot tell. Let us hope, though, that you and I both feel the music this evening. Passion is more important than perfection.’
Has the Maestro heard that? She needs to.
Half the guests are seated when they arrive before the monstrous piano. People still chat and mingle with glasses of champagne until a man with the physique of a bowling ball instructs all to find seats.
‘That is our host,’ Jan says quietly, ‘Audwin Denzel. He is a good friend of mine and in awe of our work.’
Our work. Jan is in for a headache of embarrassment when Beck pounds the piano keys. The audience blurs a little before Beck, lost in sweat and nerves. If he stares too hard at the piano, he can see his own petrified face.
The Maestro sits in the front row. Joey, smeared with chocolate and busily playing with her three empty wrappers, is sprawled on the floor beside her.
Jan approaches her and she rises, her face impassive.
‘Ida,’ Jan says. ‘I have met your son.’
How can he be so cheerful? How can he not flinch at the stone and ice in her eyes?
‘I need a word with him before you begin,’ the Maestro says.
Jan nods, ‘Ja. Of course. We will start when you are ready, Beck.’
He crouches to talk to Joey as the Maestro strides a few paces from them. Beck has nothing to do but follow. Behind him, Joey garbles, ‘I wuv chothlate,’ with a sticky mouthful.
In front of him, the Maestro whispers in ice.
‘You are to play first,’ she says, ‘and then next is your uncle and the true performance of this evening. I refuse to be embarrassed by you, Junge, do you hear me? I know this piece is inside you.’ She jabs a finger at his skull. ‘There will be consequences if you fail and you will pay. Whatever it takes. I will not be made a fool.’
Pay. Consequences.
Pain.
Beck says, ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘No.’ The Maestro wraps her useless fingers around his arm and draws him close, close, so the ice falls down his neck and his lungs fill with glaciers. ‘You will do better, or …’ Her voice hardens. ‘Or I will break your hands.’
Beck jerks away, the glacier splintering, stabbing his heart.
Would she? Is it a threat of desperation and fury?
Or
would
she?
Beck tucks his hands behind his back.
‘Go play.’ The Maestro gives a dismissive wave.
He takes himself to the piano. She would do it. She would.
How could he let her?
How could he stop her?
Beck stands beside Jan without realising he got there. The crowd hushes and several lights dim.
Jan raises a hand for silence and then, in the hush, he says, ‘Willkommen! Ladies and gentlemen, friends and associates and, of course, willkommen to the guests of honour – my dear sister, my niece and finally my nephew, who will play for us this evening.’
There’s a gentle wave of applause. They swim before him, like his icy insides are melting and he’s being forced to swim. His head is gone, gone, gone.
The clapping subsides and Jan continues. ‘My nephew, named after the famous Beethoven –’ his German accent caresses the well-known name ‘– will be performing two études for us this evening. Then I have a concerto to share with you, my friends. My nephew is a prodigy of the piano and considers returning to Germany to study from the greats.’
Applause again.
Beck didn’t know he was considering. He thought he was either being picked or dismissed. He wonders if, perhaps, the Maestro hasn’t been relaying what Jan says.
‘I do thank you,’ Jan says, ‘for honouring me with your presence on my brief Australian tour. Many thanks to our host, Audwin Denzel, for providing his home for this musical rendition.’ He leans towards Beck and whispers, ‘Would you like to announce your piece?’
Beck seems to have lost his wits. He’ll probably find them at some point. But right now, he’s blinking furiously as the crowd transforms into a sea of sharks with hungry eyes. He forces his brain to the Chopin. Remember it, remember it. The Maestro won’t let him live past a second bout of stage fright. He knows those études, the notes are burned to his bones.
He’ll do this, he can do it. He’s not going to fail. He takes a deep breath.
And then he sees her.
Why – what –
how is she here?
Her dress is a wispy green, her feet confusingly shod in silver high heels, and her hair is braided with silver ribbons. She looks comfortable, excited, sitting beside her parents, and her eyes are only for him.
August burns with admiration.
She can’t be here. This isn’t the place for her. She belongs in the stars with a turtle on her lap and Twice Burgundy in her ears. Not here. If she sees him, she’ll know.
She’ll know how much he hates music. How scared of it he is. How it controls his life.
Vaguely, he’s aware of Jan announcing the Chopin études in the wake of Beck’s silence, and then, with a gentle but firm push, he sends Beck towards the piano. August is gone from his vision. He only sees the rows of piano teeth and wonders if they’ll devour him.
Jan’s voice is in his ear. ‘Are you all right?’
He has to be. He has no choice.
He has to play perfectly.
As answer, he slips on to the cushioned stool and his fingers glide across the keys. How can something so terrifying be so beautiful?
How can his future depend on seven minutes on the piano?
Why couldn’t he be more than this?
He has to stop thinking of the Maestro’s threats. Think of something else. Think of – August. He imagines the hammock, the galaxies painted like glitter across the black sky above, her kiss that stole his heartbeat.
Beck’s fingers tremble into the keys for the first few bars – and then he plays the fire and wild dancing
passion of Chopin.
He plays perfectly.
Except for one note.
For seven suffocating minutes, Beck plays those études. Notes tangle at a thousand kilometres an hour, complicated, exact, powerful. Those minutes crack his ribcage and pry music out of his soul like his life depends on it.
And then –
fumble.
He launches for the finale, for the chord that will linger across the room – but when his fingers land, it’s wrong.
Dissonant. One incorrect note and his world falls to ashes.
Beck snaps his hands away, panicked, hot with terror. Howcouldhedothat? He’s never made that mistake before. Does he replay the ending? Does he try again for the last chord? But he can’t – a professional musician ignores his mistakes.
But –
no.
His shoulders hunch.
He nearly doesn’t notice the cascade of applause behind him, and it takes him a second to remember to stand, to bow. His face is beetroot. How can they even clap for that? He looks for August, but the mass of faces blur and he feels dizzy with the effort of staying on earth.
But he can see the Maestro just fine.
Joey stands on a chair and claps furiously, pausing to whoop, which is as flattering as it is embarrassing.
And the Maestro? She doesn’t clap. For once her hands don’t even shake as she curls them into fists. Her eyes shine with furious tears.
How dare she cry.
Beck moves away from the piano. He feels like he just swam through a frozen river and each step is a sluggish effort. He wants to throw up. Or combust. He takes the seat beside Joey and waits for his heartbeat to calm, for his senses to return. He’s dimly aware of more music as Jan begins to play – light and cheeky at first, and then cascading down into a waterfall of swift, passionate notes. Beck can’t focus. He doesn’t even react when Joey whispers, far too loudly, in his ear, ‘You’re my bestest brother,’ and gives him a chocolate-smeared hug.
He just stares at his hands.
Even when it’s over, when Jan has finished his thirty-minute concerto and the crowd is milling once more, Beck is still rooted in his stupor. He smiles at blurred faces and repeats the name of his piece half a million times. He knows his palms are sweaty, his trousers ridiculously short, and his attention gone – but what they think no longer seems important. Not with the reality of the Maestro’s threats crushing his lungs.
He knows what is coming.
Then Jan rescues him, taking over conversations while spouting ridiculous sentences in German of how talented is my nephew! and unbelievable genius while Beck exits.
But wrong note
wrong note
wrong note.
‘You look pale. Let me get you some water,’ Jan says and disappears.
Beck wishes he could melt into the wall. But the Maestro? Who knows where she’s gone? Should he find her, or run away, or explain to Jan or—
August is in front of him.
She looks amazing and sophisticated but still carefree and slightly impish. Up close he can see the bodice of her gown is a beaded gecko. She has a fishnet cardigan on because, as always, she rejects the notion that it’s autumn. And shoes? He’s barely seen her in runners let alone heels.
‘You liar.’ She gives his shoulder a gentle shove. ‘You said you weren’t “that good”.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Ugh, Beck.’ She groans and tips back her head, as if imploring the universe to give her strength to put up with this idiot. ‘You are a freaking piano wizard. I’ve never seen anyone play that – that fast, and good, and amazing. How many times am I allowed to say amazing? Because you are amazing.’
‘You’ve definitely reached your limit.’
‘You were inside the piano.’ August’s breath catches. ‘I’ve never seen anyone so into music like that. It was –’ she leans forward and whispers ‘– amazing.’
This is everything he’s ever wanted to hear. So why does he want to cry?
He blinks furiously and stares past her, focusing on anything, everything, but August. ‘Why are you here?’
August waves behind her. ‘My parents. Mum is nuts about classical music, but she’s been mispronouncing your last name all week and I had no idea.’ She leans close, her eyes widening. ‘And your uncle is incredible. I mean, you’re good and definitely much cuter, but his fingers were doing all these crazy—’ She breaks off with a laugh. ‘Well, duh. You know. You’re basically a piano yourself.’
She shouldn’t be here.
It wouldn’t be as bad if she wasn’t here.
‘Beck?’ August touches his arm so very lightly. ‘What’s wrong? Hey, hey – it’s OK.’
Great. So now he looks like he’s going to cry? Of all the unfairness.
‘Did something happen?’ August’s voice lowers. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No.’ It’s a staccato sob.
Pull yourself together, you Schwachkopf.
‘You need some air.’
She kidnaps him from the ballroom, from the piano, from the chatter and chaos. The air on the verandah is cool and tinged with dusk. Joey is, predictably, prowling the table again, this time munching spring rolls and mint wafers and avoiding pickled onions.
He leans against the balcony, staring into a backyard of perfect grass, crystal-clear swimming pool and rows of box-shaped hedges. August hangs next to him, shivering slightly in the evening coolness. The cool air is good. He’s calmer. He’s not going to cry.
‘How do you not see how good you are?’ August says.
He doesn’t answer.
August shifts closer so their shoulders touch. ‘You’re pretty wickedly talented, Keverich. I’ll even risk saying I like your music better than Twice Burgundy and you know how much I’m sacrificing to say that. I’ll have to cancel my wedding to both of them—’
He grabs her arm, turns her to face him – too rough, too fast, but he seems to have lost all fine motor control. She tilts her head, surprised.
‘August,’ he says. ‘I-I-I hate it. I hate music. I don’t want to do this.’
Her lips part, but she can’t form the question.
He lets go of her and steps back. How dare he be rough. ‘I’m sorry. I’m – I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ she says, but he’s not sure it reaches her eyes.
There’s a clatter behind them and they both jump. Joey has dragged a chair over to the table so she can sit properly and devour the cheese platter.
Beck focuses on the balcony rail. ‘I’m coming to your party tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ she says. ‘That’s awesome, that’s – unexpected, actually.’
He starts to say, ‘If I’m still invited …’
But she groans. ‘Yes, you are, you dork. You’re the moodiest person I know, of course, and totally boring, but I think I’ll find it in my heart to be excited for a freaking piano genius at my party. But you have to bring a present.’ She pauses, considering. ‘An enormous one. It’s the entry fee.’
If he wrote out her song, would it be enough?
‘Is that enormous as in weight or height?’
‘Height.’ She stands on tiptoes and kisses his cheek. ‘Stop growing. We used to be compatible and now I have to wear heels. You could probably get some new trousers though.’
‘How bad is it? Honestly?’
‘Borderline hilarious, but we won’t dare laugh because somehow you make it cute.’
‘Lucky me.’
August’s smile is sad. ‘Lucky you.’
The Keverichs are the last to leave.
Joey’s collapsed in a food coma on the floor and Beck isn’t sure whether he’s starving or wants to puke. It’s near midnight and he doesn’t want to be alone with the Maestro.
Jan offers to carry Joey out to the waiting taxi. She has chocolate-smudged cheeks and greasy handprints over her dress and she fits in Jan’s arms perfectly.
The walk to the car is quiet. The Maestro seems
to have nothing to say to her estranged brother and Beck is just enjoying his last minutes in safety. When Jan leaves …
Stop it. Don’t think like that. The Maestro’s not going to—
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Beck,’ Jan says. ‘Bright and early, ja?’
‘Ja,’ Beck says, on automatic.
‘I am not in the country long,’ Jan says. ‘Mayhap I could take you and the children out, Ida? Dinner?’
The Maestro doesn’t slow. ‘I am sure you have much more important things to do.’
This confuses Beck. Sure, the Maestro is furious, but at Beck, not Jan. Doesn’t she want to butter him up so he’ll take Beck to Germany?
Apparently Jan is immune to her coldness. ‘Nothing more important than the family I have neglected to connect with for over a decade.’
They reach the taxi and the Maestro and Jan exchange a polite kiss-on-the-cheek farewell and then she takes Joey and settles her in the back seat. Beck is about to climb in after them, when Jan rests a hand on his shoulder.
‘You are a brilliant pianist,’ he says. ‘Nerves can be controlled.’
If only it was just nerves.
‘You do the Keverich name proud.’
Maybe it’s dark, maybe Beck’s deluded, but Jan’s smile looks real.
Beck swallows. He can’t ignore the poison, even if everyone else can. ‘The ending. I completely screwed it.’
Jan shrugs. ‘Mistakes do not cancel the worth of a performance. They encourage us to work harder, aim higher. Your mother and I had our fair share of catastrophes when we began performing, especially those particular études. Ask her someday.’
Um, no thanks.
Beck gets into the taxi and Jan grabs the door to close it. ‘Good night. I look forward to tomorrow, Beck.’ He shuts the taxi door.
And Beck is left waiting for his tragedy to begin.
Beck’s life is on pause, a broken string in the middle of a ferocious piece. She cannot touch him before he sees his uncle again, so the Maestro is wordless, motionless, like she’s been carved from ivory and stone. She sees him into a taxi. Her tightly curled fists whisper promises of later later later.
Technically, Beck could tell the taxi to take him anywhere.