The Moonlit Garden

by Bomann, Corina

  She might have more luck the next afternoon. The lady was right—the sounds she made with the instrument could not be called playing, but if she practiced a little, the melodies would soon sound sweeter.

  From then on Helen practiced everything the lady showed her on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but only when her mother was not at home. The maid, who was supposed to be looking after her, had other things on her mind. She had recently begun to meet Jim, the neighbors’ stable boy, in secret behind the stables. That meant that Helen had at least one extra hour every day—an hour in which she withdrew to the attic and played.

  How different the tunes sounded when they came from the instrument! When she’d first started practicing, she only had the sound of the mystery lady’s singing in her head, but now she heard the violin properly—and it was much louder than she had thought at first. She had no sheet music, so it was left to Helen to remember not only the fingering but also the lady’s voice. She built up a small repertoire, which she would have loved to play for her friend, but during their lessons the lady still insisted on Helen playing silently or to the accompaniment of her soft voice.

  But when she allowed Helen to rest, the mystery lady, whose name Helen still did not know, would make up for it by telling her wonderful fairy stories about girls with golden fish or a princess who slipped from an egg like a chick. Sometimes she brought Helen a few sweet treats. Helen’s favorites were the green balls filled with palm sugar and coated in dried coconut.

  “Make sure you don’t eat too many,” the lady warned her once when she gave her a whole bag full. “If your mother sees you aren’t hungry, she’ll suspect something, and that will put our secret in danger, and I won’t be able to come anymore.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep a few back,” Helen assured her. Under no circumstances did she want to lose her lovely lessons with her friend, especially as she felt that she taught her far more than Miss Hadeland ever had. She sometimes found herself wishing that she could introduce her friend to her mother and have her as her real music teacher.

  She suggested it once, and the mystery lady’s expression darkened.

  “You mustn’t ever tell her about me.” The lady’s voice was as friendly as ever, but Helen felt she had almost crossed a boundary that would cause her to lose the lady’s friendship.

  “I promise I won’t say anything,” she replied quickly. “Honest. It would just be so lovely if you could be my proper music teacher. If you could hear what I sound like playing the violin.”

  “Maybe I will one day,” the lady replied, but she looked so sad, as if she believed it would never happen.

  A few weeks later, Helen’s mother had a visit from some of her friends and neighbors. They met occasionally for afternoon coffee at each other’s houses in turn. This time it was Ivy Carter’s turn to host.

  She spent the whole day before in the kitchen with the maid and the cook, baking cakes and grinding coffee beans. Since Helen was forbidden from nibbling at any of the cakes, which gave out a wonderful smell, she got the violin out from under her bed and practiced her fingering in silence, imagining the associated sounds.

  Since the visit of the friends and neighbors fell on a Wednesday, she was still able to see her friend the day before, although she had to be so much more careful because her mother was not going out but spending the day baking in the kitchen. After making sure that no one was watching her, she ran to the hedge and soon afterward entered the pavilion. Once again she found the lady writing.

  “What are you writing?” Helen asked, since, as usual, the lady quickly tucked the notebook away in her corset, which had begun to fit ever more loosely over the recent weeks.

  “A diary,” the lady replied. “I’m writing down everything that happens to me each day.”

  “Do you also write things about me?”

  “Oh, I write a lot about you.”

  “Why?” Helen asked, wide eyed.

  “Because I like you and enjoy being with you.”

  “Can I read it sometime?”

  The lady smiled at her. Her lips were a little blue again, and she looked like Helen’s mother did when she had one of her migraines.

  “Perhaps. One day, certainly, because I’ll give it to you. Then you can read about what you were like as a child. I’ve also written down all the stories I’ve told you. When you’re grown up, you can tell them to your own children.”

  Helen liked the sound of that, even though she found it difficult to imagine how she would look as an adult woman. Maybe like her mother? Would she still be playing the violin then?

  The next day Helen was unable to practice, as her mother’s friends arrived for coffee and she not only was dressed in a frilly dress that scratched and pinched but was expected to sit still the whole time, on her best behavior and responding politely when the ladies remarked how big she had grown. Helen knew all too well that she had not grown big—she was still way too small for her own liking. And at seven years old she was well aware that it was a waste of time to be sitting there listening to all kinds of strange gossip instead of practicing up in the attic.

  Helen sat by her mother’s side on the sofa, suppressed the urge to swing her legs, and listened to a thoroughly boring conversation. The only consolation was that she could now try the delicious cakes her mother had baked.

  “My goodness, Mevrouw Carter, who here plays such heavenly violin music?” asked one of the neighbors suddenly as she put down her coffee cup.

  Her mother’s perfectly plucked eyebrows shot up.

  “Violin? You must have misheard, Mevrouw Hendriks. No one plays the violin in this house.”

  “Really?” the neighbor insisted, her eyes on Helen. “Until recently I’d always heard your daughter playing the piano. She hasn’t changed her instrument then?”

  Ivy looked at her daughter in confusion.

  “Helen? Could you explain the meaning of this to us? Have we recently acquired a violin-playing ghost in the house?”

  At first Helen did not reply. She was too busy feeling annoyed that her neighbor had such good ears. But how could she know that the violin could be heard so far afield? And that no secret could last forever?

  Helen slowly got up from her chair. She ignored her mother’s bewildered shaking of her head. She was not a woman to get worked up over nothing, and she was unlikely to follow her daughter. Because of the visit, the reprimand for Helen’s behavior would not come until the other women had left. But Helen didn’t care anyway.

  “Helen? Where are you going?” her mother asked.

  Helen walked resolutely forward, ignoring her mother. She left the parlor with its amazed occupants behind and had hardly crossed the hall before she began to run. She stormed up the stairs faster than any adult could have run after her. Her heart was racing madly. What should she do? Hide? Wait until her mother came up and wanted to know what was happening?

  After slamming the door shut behind her, she leaned against it for several long moments, listening. Nothing happened. No footsteps on the stairs, no voice calling to her. Did her mother not mind what she had done? Or was she merely too shocked to do anything? Were her neighbors complaining about her behavior?

  Helen had to do something. With a racing heart, she crawled under the bed and brought out the violin. She opened the lid of the case and ran the tip of her finger down one of the strings. Silently, she asked the instrument: What should I do?

  The violin answered in its own way—with a soft tone that sounded like the wind sweeping around a corner of the house. Did this mean it was time to bring the secret out into the open? But what about the mystery lady? She had told her never to say anything to anyone. What should she do now that her neighbor had already heard her?

  Since the violin had given away her secret, she couldn’t be seen as the guilty one if she broke the promise. After a few minutes, she had made her decision, and it brought such a feeling of relief. Keeping a secret was very difficult, especially from people you loved. Helen clos
ed the case again, took hold of the handle, and carried it out.

  She heard an excited babble downstairs. The women were talking away at her mother, some saying that Helen was badly brought up, others merely curious as to what it was all about.

  Silence fell as Helen entered the room. All eyes were on her, but no one said a word. After staring at her for a moment, their eyes wandered to the violin she was holding. Helen knew that if she wanted to keep it, she had to show them she could play—otherwise her mother would demand that she give the violin back, and there was no way she wanted to do that.

  Slowly, ignoring the women’s looks and her mother’s questions, Helen put the case down on the floor, snapped open the lid, and picked up the violin. A murmur ran through the visitors.

  “Ivy, what—” began one of the women who knew her mother a little better than the others.

  But before she got an answer, Helen had tucked the violin under her chin and begun to play—feeling through the way she thought the notes sounded best. She played an old song that her mother had once sung to her when she was very little. The tune was very simple, but it was pretty. Helen had often wanted to play it on the piano, but Miss Hadeland had never allowed her to.

  She finished her recital, and silence reigned. The notes had flown through the window, and Helen imagined them falling like dewdrops to the ground and helping the flowers to grow.

  With a serious expression she packed the violin back into its case and waited for the opinion of her listeners. They were speechless. Helen wanted to ask whether Mrs. Hendriks had heard that song, but she had used up all the courage she had when she ran out and then brought the violin to light. Now she felt a little shrunken—so much had just been taken out of her.

  After a while, Ivy rose. Her face was pale, but she didn’t look angry. Instead, her eyes were shining with tears.

  “That was wonderful, Helen,” she said, going down on one knee before her. “Who taught you to play like that?”

  Helen pressed her lips together. She had already given so much away. Could she now tell her mother about the lady—the lady who had shown her how to hold the violin, the lady who taught her where to place her fingers on the fingerboard to produce the best sound? How could she betray the trust of the lady who had taught her to play in silence so that she could practice even when her mother was at home?

  “I taught myself,” she said. “I practiced every day when you were out. Playing out loud.”

  “But why did you do it in secret?” her mother wanted to know. “And where did you get this beautiful violin?”

  It had been obvious that the questions would come. Her mother knew full well that there was no such violin simply lying around in the attic. The piano on which Helen always practiced had belonged to her mother, but the violin . . .

  No, she shouldn’t say it; she shouldn’t betray the mystery lady!

  “Helen, please tell me,” her mother asked in that gentle voice that Helen had never been able to resist.

  The earth suddenly began to shake beneath her.

  23

  Padang, 2011

  The next morning Lilly felt as though her head were filled with cotton. Thanks to the hotel’s Wi-Fi, she had sent Ellen a short e-mail the previous evening to say she had arrived safely. She had also sent Gabriel a brief message. She hadn’t received a reply from either of them, but she was reassured to know that these two people who were so important to her knew she was all right.

  She had intended to follow Verheugen’s advice, but she had been so tired that, despite hearing her alarm clock, she had ignored it. When she came to, it was three o’clock in the morning. She had been unable to go back to sleep, so she read her guidebook, making notes of places she wanted to visit.

  In the solitude of the room she grew pensive. This was not going to be a relaxing vacation. She had too much to do, and the pressure to find something out was too great. Would she manage to discover any trace of the two violinists or how the violin was connected to her? It was now completely irrelevant whether the violin originated with her family or Peter’s. And if nothing else, she had to overcome the reserve that she had wrapped herself in since Peter’s death. Perhaps she would finally succeed in doing so and would be able to allow people to really reach her and to let someone into her heart without being afraid of losing them.

  Gabriel, she thought, closing her eyes with a smile. Perhaps he was someone she would allow to get close to her. His kiss had been more than enjoyable, and it had given her the feeling that he would be there when she returned. Why should she keep him at a distance? He was a very attractive man with a soul she wanted to dive into and explore. Perhaps she should let herself go a bit more when she got back . . .

  When the hands of her clock approached seven o’clock, she went outside onto the balcony to watch the morning come to life. There was already plenty of activity on the street below her—men on mopeds were moving boxes about, clearly on the way to the harbor, where they would find fishermen pulling in their heavy nets. There was a gradual swell of noise from the traffic on the streets, which, as in all large cities, was never really still, and the occasional shout rose above the hubbub. A truck struggled up the street and came to a standstill outside the hotel.

  Lilly was a little envious of the guests on the other side of the building. The view from their rooms would be of the harbor and the old Dutch galleon moored in a narrow branch of the river. The hazy, pink morning sky must look wonderful over the water.

  When the street noise became too much for her, she turned away and went to check her e-mails again. Ellen had not replied, and there was still no word from Gabriel. The sun might be rising here, but it was probably still evening in Europe.

  After breakfast, a little before ten o’clock, she went downstairs to the hotel lobby. It wasn’t really her style to be going around an unfamiliar city with a complete stranger, but Verheugen seemed to have no ulterior motive, merely wishing to help her in her search, even though she had told him very little so far. Was he really only being friendly and unusually helpful? Could it be that the Dutch were just more open than the Germans?

  She had only been waiting for a few minutes when Verheugen emerged from one of the open-sided minibuses Lilly had seen on the way there. The sky-blue vehicle was adorned with an airbrushed portrait of a movie couple that reminded Lilly of a Bollywood advertisement.

  She shouldered her bag and went to meet Verheugen, who was wearing a fresh white, lightly embroidered shirt and long khaki pants.

  “Good morning. Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  “Kind of,” Lilly replied honestly. “I wanted to follow your advice, but I was too weak willed.”

  “Don’t worry, a ride in one of the local taxi-vans will soon wake you up.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked nervously. His words certainly didn’t imply safe driving.

  “Enjoy the surprise! Life would be boring without a touch of risk, don’t you think?”

  As they left the hotel, they were met by a confusion of people and vehicles on the street. The hot, sultry air was filled with a mix of smells in which gasoline predominated.

  Among the Minangkabau, Lilly also saw a number of Chinese, as well as a few Europeans and Indians. The local women wore colorful head scarves and long skirts, as in many Islamic countries. Some of them puttered past on mopeds. She saw the minaret of a mosque in the distance. Sheer fatigue meant she had failed to hear the call to prayer the previous evening, but it had reached her in the morning when she showered.

  On one building she saw a long fabric banner painted with a fairly kitschy-looking pair of lovers.

  “That’s an ad for a movie,” Verheugen explained.

  “It looks like a Bollywood poster.”

  “People here have similarly romantic taste, but Indonesian movies can be very different. Sometimes you’ll find imports from India here, and of course subtitled Western blockbusters.”

  What must it have looked like here a hundred years ago?
Lilly imagined people traveling in coaches and rickshaws.

  She thought of one of the websites she had found when browsing the Internet for information about the country and wondered if cockfights were still held, and whether the shadow puppeteers for which Indonesia was famous still put on their shows into the small hours of the morning.

  On the streets, the motorbikes, cars, vans, and bicycles were interspersed with the distinctive open-sided minibuses, some of which had some inventive additions. The din of the various noisy engines was accompanied by horns and loud music. Lilly noticed that there were no lane markings, and apparently no rules about who drove where. She saw no sign of any pedestrian crossings.

  Lilly’s head, already groggy, was reeling from the noise level. She jumped when a strange signal rang out from a bright pink minibus that had stopped right in front of them. It was similar to the sky-blue Bollywood van but was adorned with a swirling tribal pattern and a rear spoiler.

  “I think he’s here to pick us up. Come on!” Verheugen asked the driver something and then beckoned for Lilly to get in.

  As the speakers pounded out loud music, the driver performed a veritable slalom through the stream of traffic. There was no chance of conversation in this vehicle. The three women and two men who were also sitting in the open-sided van seemed to know this, as they sat in silence, fanning themselves listlessly with their newspapers.

  Although she tried to press herself as hard as she could into her seat, at every bend Lilly feared she would be flung out through the open door. Every now and then the driver stopped with a screeching of brakes, and some passengers got out while others climbed in. Lilly saw that the passengers paid before getting on and assumed that Verheugen had paid her fare.

  After ten minutes the hellish journey was over. The driver hooted his horn and came to a halt by the sidewalk. Verheugen gestured for her to get out.