Mercy m-1

by Rebecca Lim

  ‘Carmen?’ It is Stewart Daley’s voice, weariness in it.

  ‘Is everything all right? May I come in?’ I see the handle turn a fraction, clockwise.

  ‘I’m fine!’ I squeak out, loud enough for the man outside to hear. ‘It’s nothing. Just a bad dream. Sorry I disturbed you.’ Did he often stand there, like that, when his daughter was home and asleep in her bed?

  For a long, poised moment, he does not move away, only the door between him and my shining interlocutor.

  Even as Mr Daley sighs, ‘Well, good night then,’ and begins to move away down the hall, Uri says softly, ‘Luc wants you for his own. He cannot be trusted. Do not allow past feeling to interfere with your judgment. Do not fall to him or all will be lost. You may not know it, will not necessarily thank us, but it has always been for you, always.’ Before I can reach out and hold him to me for another fleeting instant, before I can tell him I want to be found by Luc, now more than ever, Uri’s outline wavers and splinters into infinitesimal motes of light that wink out and are gone. And I am hit again by a wave of loneliness so vast that it feels for a second as if I am the one who has broken apart and cannot be put back together.

  I send fury, despair, grief shooting straight into the night sky, like a beacon.

  Let someone hear it! I scream silently. Exaudi me, Domine.

  I realise anew the value of what I might have lost, and it is legion.

  Who am I? whispers that inner voice that is never silent. What am I capable of?

  Chapter 18

  Despite what Ryan told me the night before, I am determined to lay hands on Gerard Masson at this morning’s rehearsal and sift through his innermost thoughts. If he is as blameless as the lamb, something in me will recognise it. I know now that guilt will rise to the surface like oil on the water, like blood. I just need to look for it.

  My encounter with the being called Uri last night confirms it. There is an inexplicable power in me that will not be denied, not even by something, someone, not of this world.

  The meaning of his warning, however, continues to elude me. Random aspects of his words return to trouble me as I drag Carmen’s glittery pink hairbrush haphazardly through the tangles in her hair, shrug my way into her doll-sized clothes.

  What has always been for me?

  And why?

  And what did Luc’s act of goodwill serve to prove?

  Permit?

  I chase the answers down the unreliable pathways of Carmen’s brain even though I know they are not there; they are buried somewhere within me, the ghost-in-the-machine.

  When I recall again that moment of blank, white pain, I feel a terrible numbness, the echoes of some deeper grief whose cause I cannot yet bring to the surface.

  And though I cannot cry tears — was not formed to do so, corrects that small voice inside — I find tears on Carmen’s face as I apply cherry-pink lip gloss carefully to the tiny bow of her mouth, dust the bronzing powder I found at the bottom of her carryall across the bridge of her small, fine nose.

  Tears for me, cried by a stranger.

  By the time I head down to breakfast, Ryan has already left the house on some wilful errand known only to himself. I find myself missing him already. Beneath the calm surface that Carmen presents to the world, I beat myself up about it. People in your situation, my inner voice informs me dryly, should not form attachments.

  It’s a given.

  You think I don’t know that?

  Could have fooled me.

  Smart ass.

  As I rise from the table after Carmen’s usual meagre breakfast — her body a machine requiring very little fuel — Mr Daley surprises me by offering me a lift to school.

  Louisa Daley’s dark eyes settle on mine for a long moment before she says, ‘Have a good day,’ in a neutral voice, turning away from her husband.

  ‘We’ve hardly looked after you,’ Mr Daley says apologetically, as he holds open the front door, beckons me out ahead of him. ‘And here’s almost a week gone.

  It’s the least I can do.’ What did he hear last night when he was poised outside Lauren’s bedroom door? I am immediately all caution.

  ‘Well, that’s very kind.’ I put shyness in my voice, hanging my head a little. ‘But after you, Mr Daley. The dogs, you know.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he replies, looking at me quizzically for a fraction too long.

  So like Ryan, I can see the son’s future mapped out in the older man’s face. Let there be no more suffering in it, I think. And it’s almost a prayer.

  Mr Daley disposes of the baying hounds in the usual manner, and installs me in the front passenger seat, both of us absurdly careful not to touch each other. I suppose I will have to reach out to him again at some point, to be absolutely certain. But I’ll tackle the little music teacher first. The echoes of Mr Daley’s mental anguish are still too fresh in my mind for comfort, and I trust Ryan.

  Perhaps too much. Trust has been so long absent from my weird limbo existence that even acknowledging the fact is like a leap of faith.

  Stewart Daley makes inconsequential small talk as we drive across town to school. I make the appropriate noises in return. Tell him politely how much I am enjoying my stay in his bucolic town, lying like the professional that I am, the leaf-shaped air freshener swinging like a pendulum between us.

  As he drops me off just outside Paradise High’s main gate, he says approvingly, ‘It seems you’ve made a good impression on my wayward son, young lady. Ryan’s even talking about heading back to school in the spring and I like to think you’ve had something to do with that.

  Maybe he’s finally giving up on this … nonsense of his.’ I turn, on the point of swinging my legs out of the car. ‘It isn’t nonsense, Mr Daley,’ I reply seriously.

  I almost touch him, think better of it, withdraw Carmen’s small hand, take a firmer grip on the daypack between my feet. Later, maybe. I’m no coward. But it’s like what Pavlov did to that poor dog, you know? Once burned.

  I add reassuringly, ‘You have to believe she’s still out there, that she’ll come home. I do.’ Immediately, his open, friendly expression shuts down, his eyes go blank. He looks away as he says dully, ‘That way lies madness, you know? It’s what our therapist told us. If you don’t accept she’s dead, you don’t heal. We have to “seal off” the incident. I have to believe he knows what he’s doing.’ I watch as, to the accompaniment of shouted expletives and blaring horns, Stewart Daley, executes a ragged U-turn across two lanes of oncoming school-bound traffic, before burning back in the direction of Main Street.

  Gerard Masson stops me before I’m about to sit down on the fringes of the soprano section. Around us, people are still taking their chairs all over the room.

  ‘Good morning, Carmen!’ he says brightly, one chubby hand on my sleeve.

  I pause, staring hard at him. He’s a toucher, and it’s instinctive, my dislike of being touched, like learned behaviour. Plus, he stinks of … alcohol? His skin exudes an overpowering odour, like the inside of a wine cask.

  Can no one else smell it? I almost wrench my arm away, then I remember.

  Should I do it now? Reach into his head right here and take what knowledge I need from his mind?

  ‘Good morning, Mr Masson,’ Tiffany interrupts loudly, her best sweetness-and-light game face on. As usual, she hasn’t missed a trick. She’s like a tabloid reporter camped outside my gates, always on my case. ‘Is there something you wanted to tell us before the rehearsal starts?’ she adds. ‘Something we — the sopranos — need to work on?’ She looks around at us, bats her tinted eyelashes, queen of all she freakin’ surveys.

  Wretched Tiffany and her big, carrying voice. Every soprano’s suddenly focused on the fact that Mr Masson’s still holding onto me, and I can’t go into some kind of off-the-wall trance with Tiffany’s eyes — not to mention all the rest — boring into me like … well, lasers.

  Despite the slight tremor in Gerard Masson’s fingers, his voice is controlled. ‘Well, no,
Tiffany. The sopranos are doing just fine. Nothing the general rehearsal can’t fix. I just wanted to corner young Carmen here to offer her a special solo in the upcoming concert. She’s quite the revelation! Really come out of her, ah ha, shell.’ As he speaks, his fingers dig into my sleeve momentarily.

  ‘I thought something still in the ecclesiastical mould, Carmen,’ he says, and I’d like to step back, but I’ve got nowhere to go, ‘but a little lighter, to leaven the vigorousness of the Mahler. Perhaps something by John Rutter? Or a Willcocks arrangement?’ Who? I have to remind myself sharply to shut Carmen’s mouth.

  He beams at me, and I hope Carmen’s face is registering enthusiasm, though, in truth, I have neither the time nor any interest in committing more music to memory. Carmen, the real Carmen, would probably be feeling euphoria right about now. Followed in rapid order — and I’d put good money on it — by crippling self-doubt.

  There’s no let-up from Tiffany. She comes right back with, ‘Carmen and I often perform duets at St Joseph’s.

  We have plenty prepared. Would you believe one of them’s actually a Rutter composition — you’d know it, I’m sure, Mr Masson — Angels’ Carol. It would be perfect to round out the program —’

  ‘In fact,’ I cut in quickly, ‘why not let Tiffany do the solo? She’s had loads more experience. She’d be a natural for a killer finale, right, Tiff?’ I feel a sudden twinge of discomfort— like a stitch in my side — see Delia and Marisol lock eyes in disbelief.

  Tiffany’s expression dissolves, unflatteringly, into shock.

  ‘Why, thank you for your kind offer, Tiffany,’ Gerard Masson returns quickly, still standing way too close for comfort, ‘but I have a number of specific works in mind that I think would really bring out Carmen’s particular gifts. I thought we might open with you, my dear,’ he says, returning his full attention to me eagerly. ‘Give the audience something uplifting to begin the evening with before we, ah ha, hit them with everything we’ve got, so to speak. Can you stay behind after tonight’s rehearsal and we’ll get down to brass tacks? There’ll be a few extra rehearsals involved as well — all one on one with me, of course, there’s no time to waste — but you seem a quick study, it should pose no extra difficulty for you, I’m sure.

  I’ve already cleared it with Fiona Fellows, who is all for you taking on more responsibility. Said it would do you good.’ I bet she did, I think grimly. What can I do but nod my head tightly?

  My answer secured, the man finally lets go of me and sails ahead to the podium, crying, ‘Let’s mix it up this morning, people! We’ve got one more week after today to knock this thing on the head!’ As he says this, he shoots me a conspiratorial wink. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

  ‘You’re so two-faced,’ Tiffany hisses angrily, before turning a cold shoulder on me.

  Conditions in the rehearsal space are almost as arctic, and the prospect of having to enter this room and start all over again the following Monday makes even me groan out loud.

  Mr Masson continues, deliberately upbeat. ‘Today, Miss Dustin and I will take the general chorus ladies — choirs one and two — in the assembly hall.’ The

  ‘ladies’ in question roll their eyes and bitch loudly among themselves. ‘Mr Barry and Miss Fellows will take the general chorus men in the seniors’ rec room.’

  ‘Over my dead body!’ snorts one wag loudly, to accompanying laughter.

  ‘ I solisti,’ Mr Masson says in a hammy Italian accent, ignoring the joker with a fixed smile, ‘will have some special one-on-one time with Mr Stenborg. He’s had a few good ideas about how to sharpen up the boys’ entry into Figure 30. You have to admit it’s still pretty sloppy. I’ve asked him to work on individual entries and exits with each of you.’

  ‘Spencer, Spencer, Spencer,’ someone interjects, to more laughter.

  I scan the room and pick out Spencer easily in the thin line-up of tenors. He’s blushing a fiery red as usual, and dressed again like a mail-order-catalogue model, which does him no favours.

  Mr Masson frowns. ‘Now, now, we’re not singling out anybody for punishment here. From where I’m standing, everyone could use a little work. Carmen excepted, of course.’ He beams again my way when he says this, the stupid idiot, and plenty of people begin to whisper, craning their necks to see my reaction.

  ‘She’s been note perfect and unimpeachable since she “rediscovered” her groove,’ he says, ‘which is more than I can say about the rest of you.’ His tone is light, to keep the sting out of his words, but Tiffany flushes an unbecoming maroon, because, let’s face it, she’s been right on the money, too. Only no one’s noticed lately, and that’s got to be a first for her.

  ‘Crush alert,’ someone hisses maliciously behind me, and people around me roll their eyes and laugh.

  The expression on my face doesn’t change. I don’t even turn around. Because, unlike the real Carmen, I don’t care what people think.

  ‘Soloists, follow Paul, if you please,’ Gerard Masson finishes. He stumbles slightly against the microphone as he steps away from the conductor’s podium, but only I seem to notice it.

  Tiffany’s the first to her feet, hugging her music to her chest and chatting animatedly to Paul Stenborg’s clean, Nordic profile before the rest of us have even gathered our things. The seven of us follow the handsome choirmaster into the same room the sopranos occupied the day before, and draw up seats close around the piano — Tiffany front and centre as usual; me out on the margin, nearest the door; Spencer settling in shyly beside me.

  He raises his eyebrows wordlessly as if to say: Here we go again. I return the gesture.

  I’ll have to get to Gerard Masson during one of my ‘special’ rehearsals. It will almost be worth being stuck in a practice room with the guy just to know for sure.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Now, isn’t this cosy?’ says Paul Stenborg gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes, as he plays a loud piano chord with a flourish and turns half-around on the piano stool to face us, sunlight glinting off his steel frames, his artfully tousled hair.

  He works patiently on the entry to Figure 30 with the boys, drilling them on their individual weaknesses, before attending to the handful of entries that are led off by a bass or an alto.

  ‘ Lumen accende sensibus,’ — kindle our senses with light — he sings at one point, shadowing Delia note for note during a difficult passage around Figure 33.

  I sit straighter in astonishment. His voice is like liquid amber — light, pure, supple. Itself wholly remarkable and more beautiful by far than Delia’s pedestrian instrument.

  A countertenor’s voice, an angel’s voice, a complete show stopper. The man is a mystery box. Clearly, more than just great window dressing. I wonder again how he could be content with all … this.

  ‘ Amorem cordibus,’ he corrects Spencer gently a moment later, rolling his R s extravagantly. ‘Your vowels are far too flat. This is a romance language, Spencer Grady. The mother of all romance languages. The phrase is literally begging you to put some heart into it.’ He laughs at his little joke. Only I get it.

  Strangely, Paul does not look my way all morning.

  Instead, he’s incredibly attentive to Tiffany, the other girls; at times, he’s even almost kind to Spencer, who hardly wriggles in the seat beside me. It’s like I’m invisible again. Is he angry with me? I can’t catch and hold Paul’s gaze, and I’m intrigued, almost piqued.

  Maybe he means for me to be. Whatever, I’m happy to play along. It’s giving me time to think. I don’t enjoy being the centre of attention, never have. Though I can handle it. There’s a distinct difference.

  ‘Time’s almost up, children,’ Paul says eventually, swinging across the back of the piano seat to face us.

  ‘I know that some of you are interested in pursuing a career on the stage beyond high school, and are more than competent to do so …’ He looks directly at Tiffany and Delia and smiles. And the girls — cast-iron bitches both — actually blush with pleasure. ‘So since
that’s the case,’ he adds, turning back to face the keyboard, ‘let’s see how much of our good work this morning has actually sunk in. I’m going to take it from the top and you’re really going to have to keep up. The weak will fall by the wayside,’ he warns with a soft laugh. ‘And there will be no mercy.’ I flinch at the word.

  Flinch again as Paul strikes the first chord of the piano accompaniment. He’s true to his promise, working his way through the piece at a flying tempo, only stopping occasionally to beat in Tiffany, Delia, Spencer, the other two boys, with his right hand while his left continues to dance across the keyboard.

  He doesn’t extend me the same courtesy, merely barking ‘Figure 7’, ‘Figure 10’, ‘Figure 12’ and so forth whenever a phrase begins with my part, the First Soprano. There is no let-up, no time to breathe, and even I’m being taxed to my limits.

  ‘Good,’ he mutters from time to time, head bent over the keyboard. ‘Good.’ It’s Mahler on speed. And it’s great that I know the music sideways, because I need to. The others — save for Tiffany, who sees only what she wants to see, hears only what she wants to hear — follow our interplay with uneasy awe, turn the pages furiously, struggle to keep time, maintain focus, especially in the places where I am absent from the score.

  Near the end, near my last crazed Gloria around Figure 91, even Tiffany’s about to break down, has a suspicious sheen in her eyes as Paul roars at her, ‘Double forte, girl. This is no time to run out of steam. Do that in concert at Carnegie Hall and you — will — never —work — again.’ The final Patri — Father — rips through the room, all nine bars of it, and when we’re done, breathing heavily like we’ve just run the race of our lives, we look at each other in amazement. Spencer wipes his mouth with the back of one pudgy hand, Tiffany’s face is high with colour and Delia is audibly puffing.

  ‘Now that’s a rehearsal,’ Paul grins, slamming his score shut with satisfaction. ‘Let’s head back to the others now and give them hell.’ A little shakily, we rise from our seats, clutching our music. I’m about to lead everyone from the room when Paul says quietly, almost as an afterthought, the question in danger of being lost in the scrape of chairs being pushed back, ‘Carmen? A word. Walk with me?’ Tiffany shoots me a hard look and sweeps out of the room, Delia at her side, Spencer glances back at me and Paul a little uncertainly as we trail the group back to the assembly hall.