Music From Standing Waves

by Johanna Craven

  Matt shrugged. “I don’t know. Do I?” He grinned. “I got us a gig at the music ball! They want us to play between courses, then they’re gonna put the DJ on for dancing when we’re done. How great is that!”

  I dropped onto the bench outside the lecture theatre. “The music ball?”

  He nodded excitedly. “They’re not paying us much, but it’s gonna be great exposure. Half the Con will be there.”

  I nibbled my thumbnail. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all the other musos to hear me play your stuff.”

  Matt chuckled and wrapped his arms around my waist. “You’re not getting stage fright are you, Liberace?”

  I began to wander towards the cafeteria, kicking through a pile of dead leaves. “I don’t know,” I mumbled again. “Hey, do you want to meet Jess and Roman for lunch?”

  Matt stared at me. “Why the hell would you not want to play?”

  I swallowed hard. “I just don’t know how we’ll be received.”

  “What? I can’t believe you’re doing this!”

  A group of girls looked over as Matt raised his voice. I heard them giggle.

  “Shh,” I hissed. “People are looking.”

  He let out his breath in frustration. “You know everyone will love our stuff! You’re just scared to be seen doing something different!”

  “It’s not that. It’s just that Clara was saying-”

  “Clara again? Why the hell do you listen to a word she says?”

  I tried to take his hand, but he pulled away.

  “You know I love your music,” I said desperately. “It’s just that I’m really serious about becoming a performer. You know that.”

  “And yet you’re turning down a chance to perform. There’s some logic for you.” Matt’s voice was icy. “Why-” He stopped abruptly. “You think my music will affect your credibility. That’s it, isn’t it.”

  I was silent. Matt glared at me, his dark brow knitted.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me, Abby. I thought you were different. If that’s the way you feel, I wish you’d bloody told me from the start. I wouldn’t have wasted my time on you.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Jess paraded around the house in legwarmers and a tiered skirt, giggling that ‘Return of the Rad Eighties’ was the best possible theme for a ball imaginable. I stirred my coffee and leant on the bench.

  “I’m not going.”

  Jess kicked off her costume. “You are so going.” She climbed into her jeans. “Are you worried that Matt will be angry with you still?”

  I sipped my coffee. “He was really pissed off.”

  Jess turned on the TV and started flicking channels. “What else are you going to do? Stay home and watch Titanic for the hundredth time? I think we’ve all worked out it wasn’t unsinkable.”

  I wandered into the lounge and sat cross-legged on the floor. Examined the black elastic waistband of the disco skirt. “This is truly ugly.”

  Jess snatched the skirt. “Don’t change the subject. Tell you what. I’m going to ditch that guy from the pub and go as your date instead.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to. You have to come. Roman’s going to try and pick up that hot singer, Thomas. Besides, I’m kind of over that pub guy anyway. He keeps trying to impress me with baked goods.”

  “Baked goods?”

  “Or,” said Jess. “You could just play. Who cares what those snobby divas think? How hot is this weather man by the way?”

  I glanced at the TV. “I don’t want to ruin my reputation.”

  Jess rolled her eyes. “You sound like Clara. Nothing’s going to get ruined, okay. Just do it for yourself. No, do it for Matt. You know how much this means to him.”

  Roman shone like a beacon in his vintage eighties attire; his luminescent clothes glowing among the dinner suits and ball gowns. He tugged testily at his fluoro orange shorts.

  “Why isn’t anyone else in costume?!”

  “I’m in costume.” I bent my head so he could see the blue feather pinned into my hair.

  “One lousy feather. What kind of lame-arse costume is that?”

  “We’re pretty early,” I said. “There might be more people dressed up soon.” I clutched the white arm poking out his cut-off t-shirt. “Come on, I need a drink if I’m going to get through tonight.”

  After a few champagnes, Roman’s gay-dar spotted the proclaimed tenor, Thomas, strutting into the ballroom in an expensive pin-stripe suit.

  “Oh. My. God.” He sunk into his yellow slouch socks and dashed desperately back to our table. I stumbled after him.

  “Roman! Go talk to him!”

  He shook my shoulders. “Abby! Look at me!”

  I couldn’t hold back a giggle. I wondered if Thomas would find slap bands erotic.

  Jess and the disco skirt staggered to the table in mile high pink stilettos. I sat between her and Clara, clutching a glass of champagne. We looked up in surprise as Richard the viola player swanned up to our table in green tights and britches.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” I laughed. Richard tossed the white plait on his wig over one shoulder.

  “I thought I’d bring back the seventeen-eighties,” he said proudly. “I’m Mozart.”

  Jess shrieked with laughter. “Oh my God, you are such a music geek…”

  Matt had been setting up the P.A. and he squeezed an extra chair up to the table as entrée was served. “Thanks for saving me a seat, guys,” he drawled. “Now they’re not going to give me any food!”

  I poked tentatively at the fluorescent pink crabmeat. “Have mine.” I pushed my fork into his hand. “I’m not hungry.”

  He rolled up his shirtsleeves and speared a limp piece of seafood. “What’s wrong? You nervous?”

  I wound a strand of his hair around my finger. “Are you?”

  “Nah. It’ll be sweet. You’ll see.”

  I glanced across the table at Julian who was swigging from a bottle of red; giant sunglasses over his eyes. I wrapped both my hands around one of Matt’s. “Do you think you should tell Jules to stop drinking? He’s going to be too drunk to play.”

  Matt laughed. “Relax. He’ll probably come up with some really great alcohol inspired riffs or something. I know I do my best work after I’ve had a few.”

  To illustrate his point, he raised his beer and took a swig. He turned back to me. “Are you glad you decided to play?”

  I nodded uncertainly. “You know when you said you wouldn’t have wasted your time on me? What exactly did you mean?”

  Matt put his beer down. “I meant I wouldn’t have written you all that music if I’d known you weren’t going to perform it,” he said. “That’s all.”

  “I thought you meant you didn’t want to be with me if I didn’t play in Standing Waves.”

  Matt shook his head. “No. I’m sorry you thought that.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.” He stood up and pulled me to my feet. “Let’s go tune up.”

  Julian flung his bass strap over his head and draped an arm around my neck.

  “D’ya like my costume?” he babbled. I glanced at the wide lapelled brown suit he wore for every special occasion. “I’m myself frum las chear’s music ball.”

  “What’s with the sunnies, man?” laughed Matt. “You look like you’re watching a 3D movie.”

  “You’re choking me,” I spluttered, pushing Julian away. “Are you going to be able to play?”

  “Sure.” He plugged in his bass and plucked out a tangled riff. I took a deep breath and began to tune my violin. I wished I was as relaxed as Matt. No one had seen me yet. There was still time to back out.

  I shot a nervous glance across the ballroom. With three napkins hanging from the back of his shorts, Roman swanned past the stage and pirouetted with David Bowie. A guy dressed as Madonna was showing a group of
shrieking girls all the moves from the Vogue film clip. Another girl was hitting on one of the waiters. Maybe the Con would be too pissed to be critical.

  I lifted my violin. In the corner of my eye I could see Clara and her boarding house friends perched on stools at the bar. Clara was sitting with her legs crossed, her black dress sliding up her thighs. She and the other girls were clutching champagne flutes, watching with tiny smiles and exchanging whispers. I felt Matt’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “They’re just freaking out because they’re about to hear a real violinist play.”

  I angled my music stand so my back was to Clara. I could hear the syncopated rhythm before we began to play. The beat was inside me and I began to tap my toe subconsciously. I didn’t need to count myself in, my entry felt so natural. Matt caught my eye and smiled. Hell, I thought, if I was going to ruin my reputation, I might as well enjoy it.

  Matt crawled into the back of the taxi. He threw an arm over my shoulder and howled out a pissed rendition of We are the Champions.

  “They loved us, didn’t they?” He stumbled up the stairs above the coin laundry. I unlocked the door and followed him into his bedroom.

  “Yeah, they loved us.”

  Matt knelt over me. “You are the best,” he told me between kisses. “The best there is. You’ll be my star violinist forever, won’t you? You won’t listen to those divas.”

  I giggled and pushed him onto his back. “Fuck the divas.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  I hadn’t done enough practice.

  I stood awkwardly in my violin lesson, swinging my bow on one finger while John listed the faults in my questionable rendition of Bach’s Partita in B Minor.

  “Hmm,” he would say before each correction, as though thinking about it made the mistakes less obvious. I shot a sideways glance at the clock. It was only twenty past. I needed a pearler of a question if I was going to escape the last ten minutes without playing the Allemande again. Subtracting twenty-five percent ‘hmm’ time, I wondered if John could talk for seven and half minutes on the benefits of German resin.

  “Is everything alright with you, Abby?” he asked finally.

  “Everything’s fine. Why?”

  He sat down and crossed his legs, his trousers sliding up his knee and revealing a stripe of skin. “You just don’t seem to be getting as much practice done lately.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just working two jobs at the moment. And I’m playing in two ensembles. You know how it is.”

  “No wonder you’re falling behind. Can you give up one of your ensembles?”

  I chewed my lip. Perhaps I could find another violinist for the quartet. But not in time for their next gig.

  “Maybe.”

  John nodded. “Alright. But please try and fit in a few more hours a week. I don’t want you to undo all the good work you’ve done, particularly with the concerto competition coming up. It would be a shame if your performance didn’t reflect your talent.” He shot me a pointed glance and I nodded obediently.

  “I’ll try.”

  When I let myself into the unit, Jess was opening her seventh bottle of pink grapefruit juice in three days.

  “Help me!” she cried. “I have to stop this madness!”

  I threw my violin onto my bed and climbed over the couch into the kitchen. I held up the bottle and read the label. “It’s organic. And ninety-nine percent fat free.”

  “It’s also four dollars eighty a bottle. We need to move away from that gourmet market.” Jess carried her glass lovingly into the lounge room. “I saw a ghost today,” she announced. “I went to my piano teacher’s house for a lesson and the dust particles in the light made the shape of a man. He was very tall with big shoulders.”

  “Spooky,” I said. “Did he hang himself in the bathroom?”

  “What?”

  I smiled to myself. “When I was growing up, we used to think this house across the road was haunted. Justin told this story about some guy stabbing his wife in the bath and then hanging himself from the light fitting. It used to scare me to death.”

  Jess raised her eyebrows. “You know Justin pops up in a lot of your stories, Ab. Does Matt know about him?”

  Matt didn’t know about Justin, and I didn’t see any reason to tell him. After all, he’s nothing to me now. I’ve pushed that night to the furthest corner of my mind. I’ve pushed all his memories as far away as I can. But I admit, sometimes they refuse to stay forgotten.

  Sometimes moving on isn’t as easy as moving away.

  John was taking master class that Friday. I slunk into the hall and hid my unpractised self at the back. Two fourth-years played through their pieces for the concerto competition. Their movements were polished and memorised. I was still learning the notes of my Dvorak. Then Clara strutted on stage and handed the accompanist the score of her Tchaikovsky. She played faultlessly, her technique sound, intonation carefully rehearsed. She was an exact replica of the Vengerov CD she had listened to constantly in our boarding house dorm.

  “Thank you,” said John. Clara looked smug while he rattled off his critique. “Class? Any comments?”

  I raised my hand. “I thought it was a very clichéd performance.”

  Clara planted a hand on her hip. “Clichéd?”

  “You played that piece exactly the same way it’s been played by thousands of other violinists before you. You didn’t put any of your own musicality into it. You’re just copying someone else’s interpretation. Like a parrot.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s just my opinion,” I said. “If you can’t take criticism, don’t play in master class.”

  The other students began to murmur and giggle. Clara glared like she was trying to make me catch fire.

  John cleared his throat. “This class hasn’t heard from you in a while, Miss Austin. Perhaps you’d like to show Clara how you think it should be done.”

  I hesitated. I had nothing prepared. My concerto was under-rehearsed, my Bach a mess. Clara stood with one hand on her hip. I knew she was testing me. So was John.

  I took my violin and climbed up the steps onto the stage, without a clue what I was going to perform. Clara shot me a death stare as she stomped past me to her seat.

  “Abigail?” said John. “What will you be playing for us today?”

  “It’s called Stratosphere,” I blurted. “By Matt Greenwood.” Clara rolled her eyes.

  I brought my violin to my shoulder. Closed my eyes and imagined myself back in the apartment above the coin laundry playing the piece for only Matt. I dug into his joy and flung it out over the audience. Rippling thirds, glassy, whispering harmonics and magic chord progressions. Stratosphere was a light in the eyes after two hours of Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. I lowered my bow confidently. I had never played anything better. A giant, musical up-yours to Clara.

  “Well.” John spoke first. “Now I see why your Bach has been suffering. Miss Byrne? I think you have right of first reply.”

  Clara snorted. “I can hardly comment on that, can I.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t even know what that was. It just sounded like noise to me.”

  Anger shot through me. Caning my performance was one thing, but criticising Matt’s music was something else. I opened my mouth to retaliate.

  John leapt in. “Regardless of your views on the piece, you can’t deny Abigail gave a very passionate and convincing performance. She managed to convey the powerful emotions the composer is giving us.”

  “Well,” said Clara. “She has a distinct advantage. After all, I’m not screwing Tchaikovsky, am I?”

  The class snickered. Colour rose in my cheeks.

  “Alright,” John said hurriedly. “Thank you, Clara. I think you’ve made your point. That’s enough for today, everyone.”

  I turned away from the class and drew in my breath. I waited until the room had begun to empty before returning to my seat for my
bag. John’s voice at my side made me jump.

  “You play new music very well, Abby. Why have I not heard this piece before?”

  “Oh, you know…” I shrugged. “It’s nothing serious. Just a bit of fun.”

  “It won’t be taking precedence over your classical work then?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “So your concerto will be up to standard on Tuesday?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” said John. “I look forward to hearing it.”

  I clicked my case shut and hurried off the stage.

  “Oh and Abby-”

  I paused on the top step.

  “It was good to hear you speak your mind today. I’d like to see this happen more often.”

  I had no idea where the rest of the quartet was, but I was willing to put good money on the fact that they were not in the same place I was. Perhaps not even the same piece.

  I sat on stage at the Dromana Senior Citizens Ballroom Dancing Society’s annual dinner party, wishing I had gone to rehearsal the night before. I drifted through a few random B naturals. Then Roman struck an emphatic B flat and the whole phrase deteriorated into an ugly mishmash of strings. I scanned my part frantically for a bar that resembled the triplets Clara had launched into. Just keep moving your bow, I thought, and no one will know the difference. Hell, most of them were probably deaf anyway.

  We rushed off stage to polite applause. Roman and I dissolved into giggles.

  “Hmmm,” said Richard.

  I smacked Roman’s arm. “What the hell were you playing? I was following you!”

  Roman laughed hysterically. “I was trying to follow you! Then Clara started making up this little tune…”

  Clara glared at him. “That little tune was the countermelody! Or at least it would have been if Abby had been playing her part properly!”

  “Give me a break, Clar, it was just some old people’s dinner. It’s not like any of them knew the difference anyway.”