Water Music

by Margie Orford

  A door on the second floor opened; an angular woman in an austere suit was silhouetted against the light. On the wall next to her door, a sign in elaborate copperplate: Irina Petrova. Director.

  Dr Hart. Her Russian accent was unchanged by the decade she had spent in Cape Town. Please. You come in.

  She held the door open for Clare. Chanel No. 5. A heavy perfume, for a woman who meant business even when she took her pleasure. The directors office was grand. A Persian rug, two leather sofas, velvet curtains, a fire flickering in the grate.

  You sit, please. How may I be of assistance?

  Im looking for Rosa Wagner, said Clare. Can you tell me where she is?

  I wish I knew, she said. I cannot tell you how much I wish it. As I explained to her grandfather this morning, Rosa Wagner left the college.

  A pair of students hurried past, curious eyes on Clare.

  I suggest we discuss this privately, Irina Petrova continued, closing the door.

  Rosa Wagner withdrew, you say, said Clare. And you werent concerned at this?

  Yes, I am now that you are here, said Petrova. This morning Mr Wagner said the girl disappeared, but he also said that this morning Rosa phoned him. I took this to mean that all was well. This is not so?

  Director, I am afraid for Rosa.

  Then I must help you, said Petrova. Ask me what you need to know.

  Why did Rosa leave? said Clare. Did she give any reasons?

  What little there is, it is in the file. She picked up the phone, summoning her secretary.

  A knock at the door. Handing a slim folder to the director, the secretary said, Rosa Wagners records.

  Thank you, said Petrova.

  She handed Clare a letter. It was handwritten, in a generously curved script.

  Handel House

  24th May 2012

  Dear Director Petrova,

  This is the hardest letter for me to write. I am sorry. But I have to tell you this. Im not brave enough to tell you in person. Im withdrawing from the College. I will play the exam piece so I wont let anyone down (except you.) Please believe me, that I am sorry. And believe me when I say how grateful I am that you gave me this chance. Its my fault that I cant live up to things.

  You gave me so much. But right now I need to do other things. One day, if you forgive me, I can maybe explain. Thanks for the chances you gave me. Im so sorry (again!) that I let you down. All my stuff is out my locker and I took my things from Handel House so there wont be trouble there. I didnt have time to clean my room, so please say sorry to Agnes for any trouble.

  Yours sincerely,

  Rosalind Wagner (Rosa)

  Clare looked up to find Petrova watching her.

  I dont understand. Whats going on here? said Clare.

  I called the girl in, said Petrova. But I was very angry, I found it hard to hear what she was saying.

  And what was she saying?

  Nothing more than what she writes there, said Petrova. That she was sorry, but she couldnt carry on. I know you think I sound hard, but it is hard for me to find money for European music when there are children up the road with no food. I have been fortunate. We do have one or two generous patrons, but for me if a student drops out, I have failed. I have wasted their money. I suppose I was afraid there would be talk.

  Clare flicked through Rosa Wagners file. She scanned the application forms, audition dates, concerts, credits, cello and composition information. A list of contact numbers that recorded only two numbers: her grandfather and the college doctor, Melissa Patrick. Two doctors bills both of them paid by the college.

  Do you have any idea why she saw the doctor, Director?

  Flu, a cold? The Cape winter. It makes everyone suffer.

  Shed been depressed?

  Not that I know, said Petrova, folding her hands in her lap.

  Anxiety, maybe, said Clare. She went to the doctor the morning of her last performance. The same day she wrote this letter.

  I was her teacher, not her mother, so I have no idea, said Petrova. For that you must see if Dr Patrick will breach patient confidentiality.

  Tell me about the concerts, Director, said Clare.

  Theres nothing much to tell, said Irina Petrova. This is a professional music school. The students get the chance to perform at all sorts of events.

  And theyre paid?

  A small amount, said Petrova, but they have to play. They need the experience. They need to be seen in public. It is the way to other things, better things.

  Better-paid things? said Clare.

  Even artists must eat.

  Did Rosa play often?

  All our best students do, said the Director. She is beautiful, she plays well, the cello its the closest approximation to the human voice, so an easy way to hear unfamiliar music. She was often invited to play. The list is in the file. It is all our usual benefactors and friends. They give a great deal, this is what we can give in return.

  So, she wouldve played at the Winter Gala?

  Petrova looked disconcerted.

  I saw the poster outside, the picture of the beautiful girl.

  Lily, of course. Our Prima Donna, said Petrova. Shes quite a favourite, so shell sing. I must assure you, Rosas troubles have nothing to do with the school. There was no reason for me to suspect anything other than what she wrote in that letter. I am so sorry now, of course, but what would you have done in my place?

  How did she come to be here? asked Clare.

  I heard her play at a wedding in Churchhaven, said Petrova. The cello. She plays like an angel. I had to have her; I could not leave her to languish in the middle of nowhere and her grandfather encouraged her to come.

  A log rolled forward in the grate, showering sparks.

  Who were her friends, Director?

  Petrovas brow furrowed as she hesitated.

  You mentioned Lily, Clare prodded. Shes singing tomorrow, and Rosa would have been in the orchestra. They must know each other.

  I never saw them together, Petrova stood up. But you can ask Lily if you like.

  A disharmony of sound floated down the stairwell as the director led Clare to the first floor. Cellos and a violin, flutes and clarinets, pianos, and a soprano practising her scales.

  Petrova was about to knock on a door marked Rehearsals, when it opened. A group of students surged out, a blonde at their centre the striking girl in the poster. The other students were swept along in her wake, calling Lily, Lily, and then Evening, Director.

  Clare stood in their path as they dammed up behind Lily. Rosa Wagner. Anyone know where she is, who shes with?

  I havent seen her, oh for ages, no. Lily turned to her entourage, her voice lilting, smoky. You seen Rosa, anyone? Jonny, you seen her?

  No, man, she keeps to herself, said the boy in a raffish suit. Dreadlocks, Bob Marley handsome. You wouldnt know if she was here or not.

  She hasnt been around for a while, said a girl with a sleek black bob. All she ever did was walk on the mountain by herself, and practice.

  She probably had her first kiss, said Jonny with a smirk.

  You tried and failed, Mr Diamond? Director Petrovas tone froze the chatter.

  Why you ask? Lilys green eyes on Clare.

  Shes in trouble.

  Im so sorry, said Lily, holding Clares gaze for a moment. Of course we call you if we see Rosa, yes Jonny?

  Of course we do, darling, said Jonny Diamond, hooking his arm around Lilys waist.

  Speak to Katarina, said the girl with the bob. They shared a practice room. She might know something.

  Come, Lily, well be late.

  Clare watched as they flowed down the stairs, heard the clang of lockers being opened and shut. The chatter flowed again, plans and talk about a club and getting a taxi. Doors opening, closing. The silence left in their wake was broken only by a dove trapped at the window of the clerestory above, thudding against the glass.

  Thats your star? asked Clare.

  Lily is, yes, said Petrova, she mesmer
ises on the stage.

  And her friend Jonny?

  An effective musician, said Petrova, But cold, I think. He will never be great. Now for Miss Kraft, who will never be more than adequate either, said Petrova. Shes here, in the last room.

  Without knocking, the director opened the door. Concert posters on the wall, a girl seated on a stool. She looked up at them, her bow suspended above the cello. Titian hair, creamy skin, a crop of spots around her small mouth, green dress too tight on her plump body.

  Katarina, this is Dr Hart. Shes looking for Rosa Wagner.

  Shes gone, said Katarina, her eyes wide. The Director, she said, glancing at Petrova, she told us that Rosa had withdrawn, forfeited her scholarship.

  I thought you might know why, said Clare. And where she may have gone.

  Katarina shook her head, dropped it to her chin.

  It might be better if Katarina and I speak alone, Director, said Clare. Would you please excuse us?

  Of course, said Petrova, her mouth a straight vermilion line.

  The door closed behind her with a sharp click.

  12

  The directors footsteps receded, her heels tapping a staccato rhythm on the polished corridor floor. The silence that came when Petrova turned the corner was a relief. Clare turned to Katarina.

  Youre playing at the Gala tonight? she asked.

  Only because Rosa left, said Katarina. It was made quite clear to me that this is a one-off. At short notice. Because I know the pieces Rosa was going to play.

  The wind blew open a window. Katarina closed it quickly, but not before it had scattered her score across the floor. Clare helped the girl pick it up.

  What is this? asked Clare, scrutinising the annotations the curves of the handwritten trebles, the plump clefs.

  I found this piece that Rosa composed.

  Can you play some of it? asked Clare.

  Katarina picked up her cello. Her nails were bitten to the quick but the music flowed with a haunting lightness, though with an ebb of something darker.

  Abruptly, Katarina stopped. Rosa said it was what the lagoon sounded like, the one near where she grew up, said Katarina. Beautiful and strange.

  A bit like Rosa herself?

  I suppose so, said Katarina. She should have handed it in; all material produced while students are here, is copyright of the school. It is in the contract we sign, but she must have forgotten it.

  Where did you find it?

  In her locker.

  Clare looked at the row of lockers, opening the one with no name on it.

  Was this one hers?

  Yes. I looked in there after she left, said Katarina. It was at the bottom, there was nothing else there. She must have taken everything else.

  What did you think when she didnt come back, Katarina?

  The question seemed to startle the girl.

  I didnt, she said. Its been exams. She just left. She didnt say goodbye, nothing. She snapped closed her cello case.

  Are you happy here? asked Clare.

  It looked like such an opportunity… she began.

  But it isnt?

  Katarina did not reply.

  Wherere you from? asked Clare.

  Luderitz, said Katarina, Namibia.

  Thats a small place, said Clare. Like Churchhaven. You and Rosa mustve had a lot in common.

  Katarina tore a sliver of skin along her nail.

  So when Rosa didnt come back, you understood, didnt you, Katarina? said Clare. But why didnt you look for her?

  She didnt want to be here any more.

  Why not? asked Clare. What happened?

  Nothing, said Katarina, turning away. It was nothing.

  Tell me. You must, if Im going to help Rosa. Clare took the girl by shoulders, made her look at her.

  She hated it here, OK?

  Why?

  Katarina shrugged off Clares hands and picked up her instrument. She wasnt used to it. The people, the practising, being away from home. She just wanted to escape. Be herself again.

  So you didnt hear from her after she left?

  No, said Katarina. Its what she wanted. To get away.

  That didnt worry you?

  Ive been too busy, said Katarina. Theres my own work, and now the concert. I havent had time to think about anything, not with all the rehearsals.

  I saw in Rosas records that she went to see Dr Patrick a couple of times, said Clare.

  Shes the college doctor, said Katarina.

  Did she say what was wrong?

  Youll have to ask her, said Katarina. She never mentioned anything to me.

  Clare found the number in her notes but the phone went to voicemail, the doctor instructing her to leave a message. Asking Dr Patrick to call her back urgently, Clare walked over to the poster tacked onto the wall. It was the same one shed seen at the entrance.

  Tell me about Lily, said Clare, pointing to the blonde girl at the centre.

  Whats to tell? said Katarina. Shes perfect, she has a voice that makes people forget things, forget pain, unhappiness. Everybody loves her.

  Do they love her, or do they want her? asked Clare.

  Isnt it the same thing?

  Her friend Jonny Diamond, hes good looking, said Clare.

  I suppose.

  You know him?

  A bit, said Katarina, the colour in her cheeks deepening.

  Is he a student?

  Not any more, said Katarina. There was trouble.

  What sort of trouble?

  The usual. Katarina evaded Clares gaze.

  Drugs? asked Clare. Was he dealing?

  Thats not what we were told.

  But its what you heard?

  There are so many rumours in a place like this.

  Ive seen boys like him before. Clare watched Katarinas face. Smooth, beautiful, cruel. Is that what hes like?

  Katarina said nothing.

  Any rumours about Rosa and drugs, Katarina?

  No, said Katarina, her voice sure once again. She said she liked to feel like herself.

  And Lily? asked Clare.

  Thats not my world. Tears welled in Katarinas eyes.

  Katarina, what is it that makes you so unhappy here? Clare reached into her jacket pocket for a tissue. As she did so, she pricked her finger on the porcupine quill. The tissues were in her other pocket. She gave one to the girl, and dabbed at the blood on her finger with the other.

  Thank you, said Katarina, blowing her nose. Nobody cares about you here. Were just music machines. We have to be perfect, perfect. All the time.

  Is that what made Rosa so unhappy?

  Its too much. Rosa escaped. There was a flash in Katarinas eyes.

  Where did she go?

  Didnt she go to her grandfather? asked Katarina. She wouldve done anything for him.

  She didnt get that far, said Clare. So you really dont know why she went to see Dr Patrick?

  Katarina shook her head. She was packing up her things, avoiding Clares gaze again.

  Are you going back to your residence? asked Clare.

  Katarina nodded.

  Then lets take a look at Rosas room.

  13

  Handel House was tucked away in the corner of the grounds, an old stable that had been converted into student accommodation. A gnarled olive tree spread its branches around the house, protecting it from the worst of the wind. On the stoep, stained-glass windows pooled reddish light.

  Clare and Katarina stepped inside, where a worn-looking woman in a blue housecoat was flicking through a magazine.

  Hello, Agnes, said Katarina. This is Dr Hart. Shes looking for Rosa.

  Thats bad, said Agnes, sharp eyes on Clare.

  Rosa was Agness favourite, said Katarina.

  Her grandfather hasnt seen her since the weekend before she withdrew, said Clare.

  No one has seen her, said Katarina.

  Can we have the key to her room? asked Clare. Id like to have a look.

  Are you the police? asked Agnes.
r />   Clare nodded.

  I knew there was something wrong, said Agnes, leaning her broom against the wall. Come with me.

  Clare followed her down the passage, where she unlocked the last door on the left. The air that escaped smelt like stale breath. Clare switched on the light; it flickered, revealing the cramped room. There were two posters on the wall: Maria Callas, and Yo-Yo Ma holding his cello. A stripped bed, a side table, an old desk, a chair, sagging curtains over a window that opened onto a rectangle of litter and weeds.

  Was Rosa involved with anyone? asked Clare, checking the desk drawers. They were empty. Nothing on the bedside table. It was empty too.

  Rosa is a good girl, said Agnes. She glanced at Katarina. No boys. She never brings them here. Not like some of the other girls.

  Did you know of any boys, Katarina? asked Clare.

  No one special. Katarina blushed. She wasnt into that stuff really. She got teased, but she kept to herself.

  Teased, how? asked Clare.

  Some people called her the nun, said Katarina. Thought she was too good for everyone.

  Its all rubbish, said Agnes. Rosa knew what was right, what was wrong.

  Where did Rosa usually go when she went out? asked Clare. Who did she see?

  She practised nearly all the time, said Agnes. She didnt have friends so much.

  Not even weekends, or Sundays?

  She went home for weekends, Agnes said to Clare, twisting a button on her housecoat. To her Oupa, mostly. She liked that. Shed bring me things. Sometimes a fish her Oupa caught, or some konfyt. Things from up the West Coast.

  What else did she do? asked Clare. Who did she see?

  They work too hard, these students, said Agnes. The director always tells them where she grew up there was no time for dreaming. Only work. So most weekends they play their instruments. Here, for weddings, for parties. She played on the yacht for the tourists. The Siren, the one that belongs to Milan Savić. Hes that guy who owns the castle.

  Did Rosa know him?

  Why dont you ask him that? said Katarina. Hell be at the Gala tonight. Ill be doing Rosas solo.

  Clare turned to Agnes.

  Why do you think she left, Agnes? she asked. You seem to know her quite well.

  Ja, I did know her. Shed come and sit in the kitchen with me and drink tea, said the woman. I thought maybe the rain got too much for her. She said she missed her Oupa, she wanted to be with him more, but I dont know. She loves the sun, Rosa. Its because of where she grew up. On the West Coast the sun is hot. Very hot. She used to go walking. Thats what shed do a lot. Walk, here on the mountain. I told her mos about the skollies that go up there. How people walk up and never come back. She wouldnt listen, though. Shed just tell me, Agnes, Ill be fine. I know how to look after myself.