We turn at the sound of footsteps. Doc, his hair bushy from running his hands through it, seems to float into the kitchen, his smile wider than a keyboard. He slaps me on the back. ‘This young man,’ he says, ‘is destined for greatness.’
‘Greatness at what though?’ I ask. Maybe fishing for compliments. ‘Eating the most meatballs?’ I pinch one from my bowl and lob it into my mouth.
Doc pulls out a chair. ‘Your parents don’t mind that you’re staying for dinner?’
I haven’t asked them. They won’t be home for hours and would expect Maria to feed me.
Dinner turns into a couple hours of talking about music genres and their strengths and weaknesses, and Doc reveals a secret passion for cricket. By the way Astrid stays silent, I’m pretty sure they don’t usually do sport talk over dinner. Afterwards, he wants us to listen to a new talent from Italy. We return to the music room, Astrid and I in an armchair each, while he paces the room and describes the technical strengths of the voice we’re studying.
‘Before you go,’ says the doc as he packs up. ‘Astrid’s competing in a contest for young singers in Vienna at the end of the week. Heinrich Vogel-Jung was meant to be entering too, poor soul, but his laryngitis has resulted in vocal-cord paralysis and he cannot attend. I think you, Jacob, should take his place. I can pull some strings. I’ve worked with the organisers.’
It’s like he locked me into a box and I can’t breathe.
‘No.’ I gulp in air that’s thick as cold soup. ‘Not yet.’
The last time I was on stage was the last time we – my blood brothers – were together.
‘That’s terrible for Heinrich,’ says Astrid. ‘Will he be okay?’
‘It could be permanent, I’m afraid. His career could be prematurely over.’ He turns back to me. ‘We’ve got three days to rehearse. I’ll discuss the expenses with your father. What else have you got to do? I can adjust my schedule to give you some extra hours.’ The doc’s whole body seems to sparkle with excitement, as if he’s impressed with me. It’s a big contrast to Dad’s air of disappointment.
I toe the piano leg. My blood brothers and Harper have gone. I’m lonely. And singing is all I have left. As Astrid said in my studio, they’d be okay with me singing again. ‘Would Astrid and I sing together in the competition?’ I glance at Astrid. She’s nibbling on a thumbnail.
‘No. Astrid has her own repertoire. But you don’t need to sing together. What you have on your own is enough. It could get you some interest – live festivals, scholarships, vocal agents, something to add to the Con application.’
From lead singer of an indie band to popera soloist? It’s all fine behind closed doors . . . No. I don’t think so. It’s not who I am. ‘No. It’s in three days.’
‘Son. If you want this enough, you’ll find a way. If you fear it, you’ll put obstacles in your way. Blithely declaring it’s too soon is an obstacle. Never let fear dictate your decisions. Do you want a career in music?’
‘I do. But I wasn’t expecting this. And the style of song –’ Inside my mind, the boys are busting a gut laughing.
Doc drops the lid on the piano, now copying my dad’s disappointed expression. ‘You’re going to reject an enormous opportunity because you weren’t expecting it?’
I shrug and go to crack my knuckles, but can’t because of the cast. It has been kinda cool converting pop songs into popera this week. I mumble, ‘I can be pretty dumb.’
Astrid passes me some sheet music, adding, ‘You said it,’ without looking at me. It’s maddening how she does that. ‘Jacob’s more of a bar singer, Maestro. He likes to stay within certain limits.’
‘Think it over,’ Doc adds. ‘But sometimes a disparity exists between the music you’re mad about and the music your voice was meant to sing. I need your answer by tomorrow morning.’
Could that be right? I peer at the sheet music Astrid gave me. It’s a pop song she’s written. It’s called ‘Touché’. The word releases snippets of memories from that day in my studio and with them, a ripple of happiness. Instinctively, I know I need to grab hold of that happiness before I get lost down a path I might never return from.
Astrid’s pouring juice. She rolls both lips and bites down on them, smirking. Alone in my studio with a beer for company or performing in Vienna with these two nut-jobs? No-one will know where I am or what I’m singing. Except my parents. And Dad will totally approve.
For all those reasons, and to prove Astrid wrong, I say, ‘I’ll do it.’
12
Astrid
It’s after midnight and I should go to sleep because we leave for Vienna in the morning, but I have to finish this song; melodies are pouring out of my head and onto the page as though my brain is an overflowing jug of notes.
I’ve played the USB Jacob slipped me every night. If I hadn’t remembered which songs I sang, I swear I wouldn’t have known it was me singing. It’s the acoustics in his recording studio. I want to go back and sing opera and see how that sounds. And this new song.
Maestro busts into my room, hair sticking up like a mad professor. Black storm clouds appear to follow him in. ‘Astrid. Tonight of all nights.’
‘Two minutes.’ I hold up two fingers, clinging to the last phrases of the song. My pen jerks across the page as Maestro snatches away my book.
‘Now you’ve made me forget the end.’ My throat bloats with unshed tears as I climb off the bed.
I brace myself for his reaction, but it’s not like I’m breaking the law. It’s just chart music. Maybe it’s better he finds out this way. He scans my work, a puffy sourness mauling his features. This is the erratic version of Maestro, when the smouldering fire inside him burns most fiercely. I remember going to see the musical Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde and sometimes Maestro can be scary like that – Dr Dad and Mr Maestro. I recall how the actor fought with himself, as if a demon lived inside him, one moment showing the open, concerned face of the doctor, the next turning to reveal the pinched, angry expression of Mr Hyde. It’s only me that ever gets to see Mr Maestro.
‘What is this?’ he demands.
‘Music!’ I rummage for a clean PJ top, having spilled hot chocolate earlier.
‘I can see it’s music. But you’re writing pop songs?’ He paces, studying the book, then spins back to me. ‘And tonight? We leave for Vienna in the morning. You should be sleeping or you’ll sing worse than a cawing raven.’
I stiffen. He’s never talked to me this way before.
‘I should never have invited Jacob. You are not focused. Vienna is a huge event –’ His fingers spear his hair.
‘And this helps my nerves how? What happened to having fun and not worrying about the win?’
The cords in his neck twang. ‘This is not the time for that discussion. It’s after midnight and you’re writing pop music. Is this because Jacob prefers this sort of music?’
Exasperation balloons inside me. I’ve never felt so breathless with it before; I want to slam doors, punch walls and jump out the window. ‘I won’t sleep anyway.’ My voice is a high-pitched bark. ‘I’m too nervous.’
Maestro’s face pinches. ‘Do not shout at me, Astrid.’ He points a stern finger.
‘Maybe I have to because you’re not hearing me. I prefer writing songs to singing them.’
There. I’ve told him. With no way of taking it back. Except I want to when Maestro pulls himself tall and the storm clouds he brought in with him thunder across his features.
‘Enough. This is Jacob talking. Get yourself to bed, Astrid Bell. Vienna’s calling.’ The music book in his grasp, he stalks from my room.
I stare at the door as if it slapped me. I expected him to listen and then we’d hug and say sorry – like the time I hid in the cupboard because he wouldn’t let me miss a voice lesson to go to the cinema with Kara. Or when I refused to wear an orange dress until he discovered it was becau
se Savannah hated the colour; he’s not worn orange since.
Something has changed. He’s changed. It’s as if the older I get, the more the unpredictable side of him is taking over. Mr Maestro’s winning. It’s like living inside my own opera and the demon has gained ground.
And I’m to sing, whether I want to or not.
13
Jacob
Astrid’s brown boots march alongside my black ones on the cobbled street. She has to walk fast to keep up. I slow down. Even though it’s September and the leaves are only just starting to turn in Vienna, the evening temperatures drop to ten degrees. It means thongs and shorts are out and I’m as uncomfortable in woolly gear and boots as I was the time I lost a bet to JW and wore a bikini to the Aquadrome.
‘Your dad told me that Savannah is the place he loves visiting the most.’ I tug at the neck of my jumper. ‘Guess that’s why she was conceived there,’ I tease. ‘Where’s the place you love most?’
‘Paris. Maestro says he scattered Mum’s ashes there. It was her favourite city.’
‘Paris is a good name for a girl. Don’t go conceiving a kid in Zimbabwe or Lahore though.’
Astrid punches my arm. ‘Zut. Don’t mock.’
The doc had arranged to meet an old friend and I argued we needed a break while he swanned off. He swirled on his cloak while inspecting us as though I’d asked if we could get drunk and go skinny dipping. What’s got his knickers in a twist? He borrowed that critical expression from my dad. ‘Don’t be a bad influence, Jacob. Two hours free time. Competition’s tomorrow.’
Like we needed reminding.
To humour Astrid I agree to watch a performance of the Spanish Riding School. It is pretty cool: one of the horses springs off the floor, four hooves at once. And it’s pure white, similar to the walls of the Hofburg palace we walk past afterwards.
‘Vienna’s stupidly clean,’ I say. ‘Every building’s spotless. Even the apartment blocks. Isn’t this city about a gazillion years old? Reckon the pavements are scrubbed with toothbrushes. No gum or litter, cigarette butts.’
‘It’s like an historical movie set. I keep hearing a music score in my head.’
‘Which one?’
‘Something dramatic. Empty Chairs and Empty Tables or Phantom of the Opera.’
Astrid has dyed her hair auburn and straightened it. She resembles her mother in that portrait above the fire even more now. I tweak her hair. ‘You realise you don’t need to look identical to Veronika Bell to sing like a star.’
‘I happen to love the colour.’ She ups the pace. ‘That’s all.’
We walk past a news billboard on the pavement. The headline declares ‘Day of terror in Thailand’ and I remember we have to fly back to Australia via Bangkok. No matter where you live in the world, we must deal with death.
‘Yeah, it’s a nice colour,’ I say. ‘But reckon you’re kidding yourself. You have crazy amazing talent of your own, and great hair.’
She wraps her arms around herself, peers at me sideways, eyes filled with shadows. I’m surprised by the urge to hug her, but she’s about as rigid as a music stand right now. I ram my hands into my armpits.
‘My dad gave me this leaflet about the stages of grief,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember them all, but one of them was the guilt stage. And we’re meant to pass through all these stages – shock and denial and anger and stuff – until it doesn’t hurt so much. I reckon you got stuck at guilt – if you keep living your mum’s and your sister’s dreams for them, you can feel better about being the one who didn’t die. And until you get past that guilt, you’ll never move forward with your own life.’
Astrid’s steps quicken. I can see I’m right: blame and grief leak out of her – they’re even in the way she clutches at herself. And I know how the guilt’s tearing at her organs, leaving her bruised and aching – because I’ve felt it.
‘And what stage are you stuck on, Jacob?’ Her jaw set firm, she’s suddenly fired up.
I scan for a distraction because the air has become too chunky to breathe.
A man wearing a felt grey hat with a green feather poking from it blocks our way. ‘Kutschfahrt?’ he asks, then points to an open white carriage drawn by two white horses. It reminds me of something out of a fairytale.
Astrid studies the horses. ‘No thanks, it’s okay,’ she says. But by the way she glances at the horses again, I can see she wants to.
‘Why not?’ I say. ‘We’re tourists today.’
Astrid pinches her bottom lip but then goes ahead and negotiates a price.
‘I owe you,’ I tell her, as we climb into the carriage.
The buildings are draped in a twilight that adds to the movie-like atmosphere of this city. While we clip-clop down cobbled streets, I wish Harper was here. I commit each sight to memory so I can tell her every detail. First, we pass St Stephen’s gothic cathedral with its intricate spires and coloured roof tiles that resemble pieces of a kid’s puzzle. Then Demels, the famous royal confectioner; their wood and brass doors open to let loose the aroma of sugary Bundt cakes. Outside Mozarthaus a trio of violinists plays for coins and we lean over the edge of the carriage to toss our spare change into their open violin cases. We pass Mozart’s statue and Astrid stands and gives a dramatic bow. We’re chuckling and joking until the sight of the Vienna State Opera House muzzles us, our words sealed behind face-aching smiles.
The lights are coming on, highlighting the pale-green domed roof. The building sparkles like a palace and each dramatic arch promises entry into a grand world of musical dreams. The history of this building, the people who have walked up those stairs – Pavarotti and Maria Callas, Mozart, Strauss and Wagner – even a non-classical ignoramus like me can appreciate the enormity of what we’re about to do. But to walk in the shoes of her stupidly famous mother, here in Vienna, must be more than overwhelming for Astrid.
Sitting opposite Astrid, I watch her, both lit up and pensive.
‘My parents met here. On the stairs to the left.’ Astrid points to one end of the building. ‘Whenever we visit, I feel closer to my mum. She sang here often – Evelyn Bolena, Il Trovatore. She won the Belvedere Singing competition here, when she was my age. It launched her career.’
‘And you have her blood in your veins. Wow.’
Astrid’s face crumples. She folds herself over, clutching her trousered legs. I jump across the carriage and put my arm around her. Way to go, dickhead.
‘What if I can’t do it?’ She clings to her legs, talking into them.
I lean in closer. Her hair smells of flowers. Different ones to Harper. ‘Do what?’
‘I get performance anxiety,’ she says, muffled. ‘And this is bigger – way bigger than anything I’ve ever done. In Berlin, only recently, my gullet constricted and my voice didn’t flow. I struggled to reach the upper register or keep my breath. The higher I went, the worse the strangling panic. My skin was soaked with sweat and the theatre walls wobbled and throbbed around me. I’m amazed I sang at all.’
‘You’re kidding.’ I fall back in the seat. She’s such a pro – what hope is there for the rest of us? I add, ‘You’ll be fine. I mean, you’re an expert and you’ve practised loads.’
I recall glimpsing her landing card at Vienna airport, and noticing how she wrote ‘student’ in the occupation box, while I wrote ‘musician’.
She straightens, dry-washes her face with her hands. I hop to the opposite seat, grasp her wrists. ‘It’ll work out okay, yeah?’
She reads what I’ve written on my cast in big black pen: Why wasn’t I enough, Harper? Pulling away, she gives me a weak smile. ‘Bien. Course it will.’
The carriage stops and I recognise the Hofburg palace, the ride now finished.
‘I could eat both my legs,’ I say. ‘Let’s go get some food. I owe you.’
Astrid wraps her arms around herself. ‘I feel sick. Sor
ry.’
‘The sight of me makes you sick?’ I joke. But Astrid doesn’t laugh. She walks in the direction of our hotel and I almost put an arm around her, but stuff my hands into my pockets instead. She’s not Harper, after all.
The air con in the hotel room whispers like a ghost.
I can’t sleep. It’s 3.14 am.
I haven’t stayed in a hotel since that night.
All hotel rooms smell the same – carpet cleaner and stale, dead air. Memories pace inside my skull. My legs jig. The lost remote control, the freezing air con, the weighty voice of the policeman. I pulled on the socks of a dead man.
I’ll never hear their voices again.
Blood rushes until the need to get out of the room makes me roll out of bed. But there’s no balcony. I slam my arm against the window. The memories thicken. They take hold. I re-live that night; grief and guilt burn through me until I’m feverish. I pull off my T-shirt. When my breaths come faster, and I’m sucking back sobs, I yank open the minibar fridge.
‘Here’s to you, boys.’ I raise the small bottle of Jack Daniels and take a swig. ‘Jesus effing Christ.’ I slap my thigh, kick the bed. ‘I miss you idiots.’ They promised to have a designated driver. A-holes. My body trembles and I sink to the floor, prop myself against the bed. ‘Why? Why did you have to die? I should’ve been with you.’
Instead, I get to sing in Vienna.
Their faces parade around a dozen merged-into-one hotel rooms; Skittles going through the running order for the next gig. No-one’s listening and he’s calling us all neanderthals. He chucks a Skittle into his mouth, swigs at his beer – he swore the Skittles stopped hangovers. JW’s on the phone to his mum – such a mummy’s boy.
His mum’s totally alone now.
Emery’s combing his flick to one side, then backwards, then to the other side, smiling idiotically into the mirror. ‘Doesn’t matter what you do, you’ll always be a dumb arschloch,’ yells Mad Dog, snapping open another can. Emery’s baby daughter has no father now, dumb or not.
The Astrid Notes Page 9