Dead People's Music

by Sarah Laing

  ‘I’m a person with diabetes,’ I said, rising to the bait that others had ignored. The psychiatrist had an elegant moustache and a languid air, hooking his hands behind his head and crossing his legs to reveal argyle socks.

  ‘Why? Why do you say that?’ he asked, as if it were a stupid answer, as if the lazy ‘I’m diabetic’ answer had sufficed.

  ‘Because it’s only a small part of me.’

  ‘But is it?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it a big part of you? Don’t you have to think about it all the time?’ He twisted the ends of his moustache to Dali-points.

  ‘No!’ I said, louder than I meant. Even though he was right, it filled my head, it extended into all my capillaries.

  ‘Oh, stop picking on Rebecca,’ said the diabetes nurse-educator I recognised from the hospital. ‘She’s new here. Kylie, you’re next up to see Dr Summers.’

  The broad-shouldered girl sitting to my left stood and jogged up the stairs.

  ‘So have you just been diagnosed?’ said the chinless girl to my right.

  ‘Yeah, I was in hospital a couple of weeks ago. How about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve had it since I was four. But I’m not going to have it for much longer. I’ve been faith-healed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We had a special ceremony at my church. The priest laid his hands on me and cast the demons out, and then I collapsed on the floor and started talking in tongues. Or at least that’s what Mum says happened — I don’t remember. All I remember is waking up and feeling filled with light.’

  ‘So when do you think you’re going to give up injections? Or have you already?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not yet. I’m waiting for Jesus to show me a sign.’

  ‘What kind of sign will he give you? How will you know?’

  ‘Maybe he’ll speak to me. I pray all the time.’ She looked uncertain, biting hangnails that were already bloody. ‘Mum says we’ll know when he’s ready. Right now it’s a burden that I have to bear so that I can understand Jesus’s suffering.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, looking around for someone else to talk to. Someone who wasn’t completely deluded.

  ‘If you kids want supper, there’s bread in the kitchen,’ said Nurse Jenny. ‘Make sure you don’t eat too much — I know that insulin makes you hungry. And if anyone wants to see the dietitian, she’s in her office.’ I’d met the dietitian in the hospital: she was chunky and slightly breathless, not taking her own advice.

  A couple of boys left for the kitchen. The girl from my school crossed the room to my side, to get an out-of-date magazine from the stack.

  ‘Hi, you’re at my school,’ I said.

  She looked at me, her eyes dull yet challenging.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘I’m in the fourth form and you’re in the sixth form, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, but it sounded like a sneer. She grabbed a magazine and slouched back to her seat. She turned to her friends and said something, and they all looked at me and whispered some more. I sank lower into my chair, then changed my mind, going into the kitchen to investigate the bread.

  Already stinking out the room, hairy limbs thrust in diagonals, the toast down to the last crust, the boys were having competitions as to who was the staunchest injector.

  ‘Bro, I even did one behind my kneecap,’ said a slight boy, his voice high and unbroken.

  Why would he do that? It sounded crazy. I slid two white slices from a fresh bag into the toaster (my mother always bought multigrain) and searched for a knife.

  ‘I stick ’em in my ear,’ said a Neanderthal boy. I’d heard him talking earlier; he did construction work and had to eat two breakfasts to keep his blood sugars high enough. ‘Did you know that junkies sometimes inject in their eyeballs? Goes straight to the brain.’

  ‘Has anyone got syringes?’ said the guy with the purple tongue.

  ‘I’ve swapped to pens. They might have some in the drawers, for demonstrations,’ said Neanderthal. He pulled open the cabinets and pushed them shut in frustration.

  ‘I keep spares in my bag, in case I get lost.’ said Slight Boy, looking sheepish. ‘Hold on.’ He left the room, and Purple Tongue followed him. I heard their voices in the corridor — Jesus, bro, what do you need rope for, preparing for Armageddon? — then, Here they are mate, into the bathroom. Shush, no, shut the fuck up.

  My toast popped, and I buttered it directly on the bench. I deliberated over the spreads, choosing low-calorie Vegemite over peanut butter. No jam or honey made the decision easier.

  There was some shuffling and banging in the corridor, then snickering. Slight Boy came in, followed by Purple Tongue.

  Only now, his face was filled with syringes. Five needles on each cheek, inserted at a diagonal. He held his fingers out like claws, his lips pulled back to show his teeth. He staggered towards us, zombie-like.

  ‘Oh my God, that’s fucking classic,’ said Neanderthal. ‘You gotta go show the girls, and does anyone have a camera?’

  ‘Maybe Jenny has,’ said Slight Boy.

  I followed a few steps behind, toast in hand, scared that if I got too near he might trip and gore himself. Neanderthal opened the living room door, and Purple Tongue staggered into the circle. The previously bored, glazed girls shrieked, the whites of their eyes showing, their fingers crammed into their mouths. One leapt onto her chair, laughing hysterically.

  ‘Are you insane? Dr Roberts, can you take this guy into a private session? Better still, get him a strait-jacket,’ roared the mean girl from my school.

  ‘Ah, Gary, do you think that’s wise? Why do you want to cause yourself harm?’ said the shrink.

  ‘Why do you want to cause yourself harm?’ mimicked Neanderthal.

  ‘I hope you swabbed your cheeks in alcohol before you did that,’ said the nurse.

  ‘Nah, mate, I drank the bottle. Better from the inside out,’ said Purple Tongue.

  Flash! Eyes adjusting, I saw the dietitian holding the camera. She looked pleased with herself, two deep-set dimples in her fat cheeks. ‘You can go on the youth group hall of fame,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll nominate you for a Diabetes Youth Achievement Award.’ She retreated into her office smirking, her collection of plastic fruit, buns and meat patties arranged on her desk.

  Purple Tongue pulled the syringes out in handfuls, offering them to others. ‘You want to have a go? Go on, it doesn’t hurt much. It’s like acupuncture.’

  ‘Get off, we might catch Aids.’

  And then it was over. Deflated, we sat back down again, pulling chunks of foam out of our chairs. We waited for the specialists to call our names.

  CHAPTER 6

  New York, 1936

  As Klara made her way down the stairs behind Esther, she thought she might never return. Her father had read her The Odyssey before they were sent away, and she’d listened to stories of the Cyclops, Scylla, Circe and the Sirens, who would shipwreck Odysseus and his sailors if they didn’t plug their ears with wax and lash themselves to their mast. She’d loved hearing about those monsters, but had also been terrified by them. Would she know how to escape if need be?

  Esther knocked on the door; she wasn’t scared of anything.

  ‘Who is it?’ said the voice, in English.

  ‘Esther and Klara Rosen, from upstairs,’ said Esther, in German.

  There was the ring of something being set down, then a clatter, a squeaking and a rhythmic click-thud moving towards the door. The chains were drawn across, locks turned. The door opened.

  Klara clutched her sister’s hand, even while Esther was trying to shake her free. She pressed her legs tightly together. She looked up at Herr Weiss. He had a long white beard; he looked like the Goyim Saint Nikolaus. ‘Esther, hello, and your little sister. I have seen you on the stairs. Come, come inside,’ he said, his crutches loose in his armpits.

  Esther stepped boldly across the threshold, Klara shuffling behind her. The place smelt salty, like the sea. It was dark and close, the windows nea
r the ceiling, letting in a faintly greenish light. Underneath the windows was an ottoman covered with a wrinkled grey blanket. This must be where Herr Weiss slept. The bookshelves were crammed, the armchairs covered in rugs. The cello lay on the floor in front of a wooden chair. Beside a stand there was a stack of sheet music. There were watercolours on the wall: distorted uniformed men, bare-breasted women, looking as if they had escaped from nightmares. In the corner of the room, between the ottoman and the bookshelf, stood a strange post. It was wooden, like the cello, hinged in the middle, with leather straps at the top. Klara couldn’t see the bottom.

  ‘You like my leg, huh? I don’t. Too clumsy, it slows me down. I’ll get it out for you, so you can look.’ He swung to the corner of the room, the lower half of his body not as heavy as it ought to be, and reached forward to grab it by what must be the thigh. He brought it over, the lower leg swinging. ‘My brother made it for me. I think he was better with instruments.’ He pulled a face at the cello that was lying on its side, handing the leg to Esther, who had her arms outstretched.

  Klara was scared to come near at first, because the knee began to rise, the thigh and lower leg sloping back towards the floor. It looked as if it could leap out of Esther’s arms and perform a one-step around the room. But she was also relieved; if Herr Weiss already had a leg, then he didn’t need hers.

  ‘Look, Klara, toenails!’ said Esther, delighted. Klara leant forward — the toes were beautifully carved. They had little cushiony bits on them below the joints, follicles for hairs. The toenails were broad and flat, ridged on the big toe. They might wriggle — but no, she was being silly. It was wood. She reached her hand forward and knocked — hollow.

  Esther put the leg behind her, placing the foot between her shoes. ‘I have three legs! Roll up, roll up, come see the freak of nature, the three-legged girl!’

  ‘You’d better be careful, young lady, or they’ll have you down at Coney Island before you can say boo. You’ll be in a sideshow between the girl who defies electricity and the fattest man in the world,’ said Herr Weiss.

  ‘Coney Island?’ said Esther. Klara was embarrassed by Esther’s outburst, but Herr Weiss didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Ah yes, they have Luna Park, which is lit up like a fairyland at night, and the roller-coasters, a hundred feet tall, oh, they’ll steal your stomach, they’ll steal my only leg! But what a thrill, girls, I would take you except it is run by a bunch of crooks and your tante is a sensible woman.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind!’ said Esther, her eyes glittering.

  Herr Weiss shook his head.

  ‘Well anyway, will you please play something for us?’ blurted Klara, surprising herself. That’s the kind of thing Esther would say. She should have gone about it in a far more polite way.

  ‘I am not a concert cellist — I am just testing this cello out. I made it, my first in America, but I don’t think I have got the wood right. The American trees, they are all Yankee-doodle and Porgy and Bess. They don’t sigh like German trees.’

  ‘But I heard you,’ said Klara. ‘You sounded like Papa.’

  ‘Really? I hope you are not meaning when your Papa breaks wind.’

  Embarrassed by the man’s earthiness, Klara looked at the floor.

  ‘I haven’t upset you, have I? Tell me, would you like a cookie? I made them myself.’

  Klara wasn’t sure; Circe turned Odysseus’s men into swines because they ate her food and drank her wine. But she did like cookies, and Tante Dagmar never made them, not wanting to waste butter and sugar. ‘Yes, please,’ she whispered.

  ‘And one for me too,’ said Esther, hands on hips.

  ‘Of course, of course. The big sister must have what the little sister has. Otherwise there will be fights. Oh, how I used to fight with my brother. It was not until the Great War that we were on the same side.’

  Herr Weiss click-swung over to the kitchenette, his one leg reminding Klara of the pendulum in a clock. He opened a cupboard, pulling out a tin. He shook his enamel plate, wiping the last drops with the elbow of his flannel shirt, and placed two brown biscuits on it. ‘And milk? Children like milk, don’t they?’ He poured two glasses full from a jug. ‘Come and get them, girls. The milk will jump out of its glass if I bring it over.’

  Klara and Esther took their glasses, and perched on either arm of the chair. Klara sipped the milk slowly, licking her finger to retrieve fallen crumbs from her lap. The taste of cinnamon and nutmeg zinged around her mouth.

  ‘You bought these, didn’t you,’ said Esther suspiciously.

  ‘No, no, I made them. I like making things. And an old bachelor like me learns a trick or too.’

  ‘So you never married? Didn’t the right girl come around?’ said Esther. Klara was horrified: you didn’t say things like this to grown-ups. What would Mama think?

  ‘Well, she did, and then she married someone else. C’est la vie. I should have snapped her up when I had the chance.’ Herr Weiss looked wistful, and Klara caught a glimpse of a dashing young prince with two strong legs and a gold buttoned blazer, not noticing the beautiful girl slipping away. ‘So do you want me to play something or what?’ He launched into ‘Yankee Doodle’, not waiting for their requests.

  ‘“The Swan”,’ said Klara when he had finished. The cello sounded rich and full to her ears; she didn’t know what Herr Weiss was complaining about.

  ‘Ah yes, written for children. So kind of Saint-Saëns — his two died in infancy. I think I have the music somewhere, although I should remember.’ He rummaged for a while, then giving up, placed his fingers and bow on the strings. The cello looked funny, only one leg to lean upon. What if it escaped?

  Gliding into the room, from far away, from Berlin, came the swan. Klara hadn’t seen any swans since she’d arrived here. She’d only seen pigeons, stuck like fat ticks on Tante Dagmar’s windowsills. The wooden floor turned into a pool, and Klara, Esther and Herr Weiss floated on top of it, their necks elegant S-curves, their beaks bright orange. The walls dissolved and around them rolled green grass, a castle across the lawn. The sky was a vast horizon of blue, not boxed in like the Lower East Side sky. The doors of the castle flew open, and out came the princess, not blonde, but dark-haired like Klara. She lifted up her silvery gown and ran through the grass in her bare feet, a sparkly train floating from her pointed hat. When she got to the pond, she dived into the water and became a trout, streaking between them. Klara the Swan put her head under water and everything was green, weeds whorling, pebbles flecked with light. The trout swam towards her, between her webbed orange feet.

  ‘You play very well,’ said Esther, breaking the spell with her loud, bossy voice. ‘You could be on stage. Papa sometimes is and you sound almost as good as him.’

  ‘So your Papa played the cello too, did he?’

  ‘Yes, when he wasn’t at the office. He works very hard, our Papa, trying to find places in America for Jewish children to live.’

  ‘Important work indeed,’ said Herr Weiss, stroking his beard, looking serious now. ‘Has he found many places?’

  ‘I don’t know, a few. It’s easier to find families in England, I think.’

  ‘I would offer, but I am in no fit state to run after children. If I had a wife, then perhaps it would be different …’ Herr Weiss looked troubled, and Klara tried to imagine living here. She thought she might like it, with cellos to play, cookies to eat.

  ‘Papa played in a chamber orchestra: I went to see him once, but Klara was too little to come.’

  ‘Well, I am not so bad, but I have known many fine musicians in my time, and compared with them, I am second-rate.’

  ‘I would like to learn the cello, but Papa says I’m too small,’ said Klara.

  ‘You are tall enough, I think. Maybe a three-quarter size would be better, but your fingers could almost stretch to a full-size.’

  ‘You’ve grown, Klara,’ said Esther.

  ‘So have you,’ said Klara, looking at the knobbly bumps that were
pressing against Esther’s dress, the waist that she had recently acquired. She had heard Tante Dagmar talking to Esther about rags and buckets, but when she had mentioned it to Esther, she blushed and told Klara to mind her own business.

  ‘Would you like to try?’ said Herr Weiss, extending his cello to Klara.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Herr Weiss moved aside, offering Klara his wooden chair. Klara sat down on it, feeling guilty at stealing a cripple’s seat. But Herr Weiss bounced over to the ottoman — perhaps he wasn’t the old man his white hair suggested he might be. Perhaps he was Papa’s age.

  Klara took the bow, careful to mimic Herr Weiss’s grip, her thumb and fingers around what Papa called the frog. She pulled it across the string, and a huge, rumbling sound leapt out. She played all the open strings, then pushed her fingers into them, adjusting them to make a simple tune.

  ‘I see you are a natural. A cello is a hard instrument to learn, and yet you can already play it.’

  ‘I’ve been watching Papa,’ said Klara. She would position herself outside the parlour when she was meant to be in bed, eye pressed to the keyhole as he did his scales and arpeggios. If she was lucky, he would begin his pieces before she was discovered. The nights when Mama played the piano accompaniment were the best.

  ‘I can play too, watch me.’ Esther glared at Klara, who got up off her seat. Esther took her place and played ‘Blau sind alle meine Kleider’. ‘I’ve never played the cello before either. See, aren’t I good?’ She flashed a smile at Klara, smug and superior, oblivious to her out-of-tuneness, the thin squeaky sound her bow made. Esther had learned the violin, impatiently, rushing through her practice so that she could run out and play, banging her music stand with her bow when she made too many mistakes. Always in a hurry, never really listening. She had yelled at her teacher, Why are you making me do this over and over? The teacher had gone to Mama, complaining that Esther was impossible and he didn’t want to teach her any more, and Mama had to pay him twice over to make sure he would return the next week.