The Astrid Notes

by Taryn Bashford

  ‘Is Astrid here?’ Maestro booms. He strides into the studio and when he sees me, says, ‘Astrid. I was worried.’

  I smooth my hair. ‘I needed to talk to Jacob.’

  Maestro’s expression sharpens as he inspects me, my dress.

  Jacob stomps to the fridge, opens it, slams it shut, then leans on it. His leg jigs crazily.

  ‘Why was the door locked?’ demands Maestro. ‘It’s never locked.’

  ‘I lock it at night,’ says Jacob, pre-set.

  Maestro draws tall. ‘You’re both lying.’

  Jacob snorts. ‘Coming from you?’

  He points a finger at Jacob. ‘Didn’t I warn you what would happen if you broke the rules?’

  Jacob cracks his neck. ‘So what? You’re no longer my voice coach.’

  Maestro’s glance slides from left to right. ‘You’re angry with me, Jacob. And I’m sorry for that. But I did what I thought was right. And to punish me by leading Astrid astray –’

  ‘Stop. Jacob’s not leading me astray.’ My voice trembles. ‘I do have a mind of my own. And you have to believe that if I’m with Jacob it doesn’t mean I’ll get distracted. You have to have more faith in me. You can’t cage me forever.’

  Maestro spins away. ‘Trust me. I’m protecting you.’ I can hear he’s clenched his teeth as he speaks to the opposite wall.

  ‘See what happened the last time you were protecting me. You had to lie for seventeen years. You have to stop protecting me, because it’s just hurting me.’

  Maestro swirls round. ‘I did what I thought was best at the time. I may have made a mistake before, but I must continue to protect you now.’

  I stop myself from saying he’s not my real dad. ‘But you’re suffocating me. I have no life other than you and music. No friends. No activities outside of the house. Today I climbed a tree for the first time in forever. I want out of this cottonwool you’ve got me wrapped in.’

  ‘The last time you climbed a tree wasn’t a happy time.’ His tone is low, taut. ‘You were six and you jumped out of it and sprained your wrist.’

  I remember the tree, the hospital, the disappointment that I had not died. ‘And do you know why I jumped out of the tree?’ I ask. Maestro is rigid as a double bass. ‘Because I wanted to follow Savannah to heaven to ask Mum how she died because you wouldn’t tell me. That’s why there were all those “accidents”.’ I let loose my final round of ammunition. ‘It’s as though I’m your puppet. And you’re strangling me. When I think back it all looks different now. Did you refuse invitations to rehearsal dinners because it was bad for my voice or bad for your big plan to “handle” me? Or were you hiding me from other people who might know the truth about Mum? Did you homeschool me for the same reasons? Perhaps Mum ran away because of you. Maybe you suffocated her. And she couldn’t stand it and ran away from you. All this stuff about her being selfish and a bad mum, it could be more lies.’

  He steps nearer, but I back away.

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Maestro. Because I never got the chance to ask Mum. You kept me in the dark because it suited you. It meant I went along with the idea of becoming an opera singer.’ Finally, the words are out there.

  ‘You have always wanted that too,’ Maestro yells, the house fire blazing in his eyes.

  I skip backwards, glance at Jacob through a puddle of tears.

  Maestro looms over me. ‘This is not the time to discuss every decision I’ve ever made. The issue is I do not want you singing together at the Met. Or anywhere else. You have a solo career, Astrid, and I do not want Jacob distracting you from it. Likewise, he cannot be distracted by you. He has his own path to follow.’ Maestro turns to Jacob. ‘I do want you to have a successful career, son. It’d be a tragedy for the musical world if you didn’t. But Astrid is always my priority. She’s relying on you too much, Jacob. She needs to learn to stand on the stage alone or her dreams of being a soprano are gone.’

  ‘And she will.’ Jacob’s tone is as flat as a gravestone. ‘The media in Austria loved us?’

  Maestro mumbles, ‘Yes. Very much.’

  ‘I’m assuming you’ve rejected other offers on my behalf,’ Jacob says.

  Maestro swallows and contemplates the jostling storm clouds through the high windows. I get a sinking feeling and there’s the discordant slide of a violin bow in my head as it screeches and descends.

  Jacob kicks the fridge with the back of his heel. ‘Where? When?’ he demands.

  ‘What does it matter now?’ Maestro flicks his hand at Jacob.

  I fold my arms. ‘You’ve been so – manipulative. You’ve proved what I said. You have to let me go my own way. I need to make my own choices. It’s you who I rely on too much. You’ve made sure of it. I do need to learn to stand on the stage alone, but more than that, I need to stand independently of you in life. I can’t be your pawn any longer.’

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic. Of course you’re not my pawn. But you are my daughter and right now you will do as you are told and meet me at home.’

  ‘You kept other offers from Jacob.’ I stare him down and don’t move. ‘There are things you’re still not telling me about Mum, aren’t there? You have to be honest, or we can never move forward.’

  Maestro turns away and takes in a deep breath and I brace myself for more truths. But when he faces me again, he takes a few steps in my direction, his hand extended toward me.

  I back away. ‘And I’m not your daughter.’

  My words instantly put out the fire in Maestro’s eyes. They empty as he lowers them. More gently, I say, ‘Go home, Maestro. I need to talk to Jacob. I need to – think. And make some decisions.’

  ‘You are not staying here.’ He fires up again.

  ‘She said to go home, Maestro.’ Jacob is red-faced, his lips curled into a snarl. ‘For once, do what’s right for her and not you.’

  ‘I always do what’s right for her. And Astrid, while you live under my roof –’

  ‘She can live under my roof,’ shouts Jacob, expression wolf-like. ‘Let her breathe without your help for one night. I’ll make sure she’s safe. She can sleep at the house and I’ll sleep here.’

  When Maestro cuts to me, I fill my glare with ice. ‘Go home, Maestro.’

  Fury slips from his face.

  He wavers on the spot and rubs his eyes, like a child. It’s as though he’s jumping from one character role to another in an opera. ‘Please know that I was just protecting you from a truth that I believed was too terrible to hear. I can barely say the words. But I can see now that it’s the truth that’s important. Without it, I’ll lose you.’ Before I can say anything, Maestro adds, ‘The night Veronika left, I was performing in La Traviata. The nanny called in sick so Veronika had to take care of you both by herself. When I got home I found you strapped into your baby seat in the car. You were floppy and covered in vomit. And beside you was that note you found about people not being what they aren’t. Inside I discovered Savannah unconscious in her bed. Her breath smelt of wine. Veronika had a habit of letting your sister have a sip of her drinks to help Savannah go off to sleep. But this time, she’d let her drink too much. As I held you in the hospital while they tried to revive Savannah, I swore I’d never leave you alone with that monster again. I promised that if Savannah lived, I’d stop performing. You had overheated in the car and Savannah’s blood pressure had dropped. She didn’t have enough glucose reaching her brain. They told me you both could have died.’

  Maestro reaches his arms out to me, but it’s too much to take in. I step away.

  ‘Please understand how I couldn’t tell you this,’ he says. ‘I wanted you to feel loved by your mother. I wanted you to love her. So she had to be dead to you.’

  I can’t find a single word to say and drop my face into my hands.

  ‘I’ll go now, and let you decide what you want to do,’ he adds. He
sweeps across the room to pick up his satchel and stops to the side of Jacob. ‘Look after her for me. Do the right thing by her.’

  The veins of Jacob’s neck protrude like tree roots under the surface of the ground. A nerve jumps in his temple. As soon as Maestro has left, Jacob’s arms surround me. ‘It’s awful, I know. But at least you know everything now.’

  I pull back. ‘Do you believe him?’

  Jacob takes my hand. ‘Not even the doc would make that story up. I’m so sorry you had to hear it. People should have to pass a test to become parents. I don’t know what to say. Except, even if he had good reason to lie to you, he still shouldn’t have manipulated your life – and mine. He’s tried to keep us apart, he’s isolated you from friends your own age, he’s made you sing when you wanted to write songs instead.’

  ‘Plus he hid other offers you’d had, and the Met . . . And that day he said he’d told me the whole truth about Mum – he was still lying. How do I know this is the truth now?’

  Jacob darts to the fridge for a Coke, opening the can fiercely. The tab snaps off and the drink fizzes over his fingers. He slugs it back, watching me over the can. Rage, confusion, frustration crowd each other for space.

  ‘Neither of us can trust our parents. So we’ll have to come up with our own plan.’ His voice is rickety, his tone off. A misplayed chord.

  I slump into the Lego sofa, let the air whoosh out of me. A terrible melancholy grips me. Maestro and I have sunk to the point where we can’t even be under the same roof. I remember wandering under the Eiffel Tower together with crepes au chocolat; running for the Staten Island Ferry; learning to cook roast potatoes on a rainy day; waiting under an ancient bridge in Rome for the rain to pass; sharing the story of how he and Mum met and fell in love. Where did those versions of us go? Did they ever even exist?

  Jacob glares through the walls. I sense the anger humming beneath his skin. ‘What did you mean – you’re not his daughter?’

  I’ve not lied to Jacob, but I’ve kept the full truth from him. Like Maestro did to me. The thought of saying the words out loud – perhaps I understand a little what Maestro meant.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. But my mum had an – affair. Maestro’s not – not.’

  Jacob crushes the empty Coke can, discards it in a bin, then makes for the iPad. ‘Time for a new soundtrack for our life. You seen the movie Almost Famous? Remember the scene on the bus when everyone’s fed up and kinda lost and that song comes on the radio and they’re all singing it and by the time they get to their destination, they’re not lost.’

  The intro to Elton John’s ‘Tiny Dancer’ fills the studio.

  ‘This is our new soundtrack?’

  Jacob hurdles over the arm of the sofa, nearly landing on top of me. I giggle and his face is close, and for a few moments we gaze at each other.

  He says, ‘Somehow we’re going to get to the Met, we’re going to sing together, and we’re going to be famous.’

  31

  Jacob

  ‘This has to work,’ says Dex, as we watch his latest YouTube video over breakfast at a café. Breakfast is my way of making it up to him after I bailed on our session yesterday – he always seems half starved. ‘We leave for Italy in five and a half weeks.’

  In the video, the lights are low and Dex, wearing a red leather jacket I bought him and black nail polish I did not buy him, is doing his trick with the gas lighter and holding fire in his hand. Behind him, a line of fire seems to hover in midair thanks to a friend in the restaurant business letting Dex take apart the old gas fire from his pizzeria. The intro to ‘A Forgettable Life’ begins.

  I check my phone, anxious to hear from Astrid. She went back home last night after we decided going home suited the plan we hatched to the beat of ‘Tiny Dancer’. I nicknamed the plan Operation Rumspringa, and it’s going to get us both to the Met, singing on stage together. Astrid will pretend that nothing’s changed, and she and Maestro are going to the Met together, but in the meantime, we’ll let Yolanda’s team know that I’m able to make the performance after all, and we’ll get my visa and travel stuff organised, including a new flight for Astrid. We plan to leave the day before Maestro had intended, so he can’t stop her – or me – from going. And I won’t tell my parents. They probably won’t even notice I’m not in the country.

  As if she’d read my mind, Astrid’s text appears on my screen: Never mind eggshells. Treading on broken glass over here. Told Maestro he can never ever lie to me again about anything. Though her words are laced with humour, it can’t be easy being in her shoes right now.

  Dex peers at the text. ‘What’s she on about?’

  I drop the phone into my lap and reach for the salt. ‘She had a row with her dad.’

  ‘At least she has a dad,’ says Dex.

  ‘Sometimes, parents don’t make the right choices. Sometimes, we’re better off without them.’ I think of my own parents and renew my vow to strike out on my own, no matter how hard it might be.

  We’re almost finished watching the music video, where Dex is the embodiment of charm and charisma, when Astrid calls.

  ‘How are we today?’ she trills. And just as music can fill every corner of a room, the sound of her voice fills every niche in my heart.

  ‘We’re fine. Dex and I are doing Sunday brunch. But how are you?’ I place the phone between us. ‘We’re at a café. You’re on speaker phone.’

  ‘We’ve been watching the YouTube video,’ says Dex. ‘Your songs are – I can’t even find the words. I might fall in love with this girl, Jacob. You better claim her quick.’

  ‘She’s not some prize anyone can claim.’ I decide to tease a little. ‘Besides – you prefer guys.’

  Dex gives a self-satisfied grin. ‘True. So I think we should film my next video with me wearing nothing but shaving foam. It would go viral, right?’

  I’m used to Dex’s humour and chuckle, but Astrid objects.

  ‘Kidding,’ Dex says. ‘Anyhow, I gotta go meet my boyfriend. You still wanna drive me, Jacob?’

  I nod, switching speaker phone off before saying to Astrid, ‘Not even a bishop in Italy can stop this kid.’

  She replies, ‘Just like Maestro can’t stop us.’

  32

  Astrid

  Every day I rehearse my solo with Maestro as though the plan for us to go to New York in ten days remains in place. He thinks he’s back in the driving seat and in return, he’s acting extra flexible and considerate by letting me choose the songs I want to perform at the Met. Songs chosen by me and Jacob. He thinks that’s enough and I let him hang onto the idea; soon he’ll learn I’m about to dance to my own tune.

  I still feel like my life has been split into before and after, and I can’t stop thinking about my real dad and the inevitable question – should I try to find him? There are no clues; the impossibility of it daunts me. But I want to know someone who has my blood in their veins.

  More and more, I escape into Jacob’s curtained soundproof booth where the outside world can’t hear me. I can relax there and let my voice do what it knows how to do. The voice is similar to a spirit level. It can be tweaked, and the body used to support it: a muscle released, the shape of my mouth adjusted, my diaphragm modified, the chin lowered, until the voice becomes stable and, like the vial of liquid in a spirit level, balanced in exactly the right position. But in the booth, it feels like hiding inside a safe bubble and my voice somehow balances automatically, without me stressing and criticising.

  Today when I come out of the booth, Jacob is sitting in the dark. Only the light from the TV and the computer stops me bumping into things. I watch from behind while he checks Dex’s fire video, now ready for YouTube. As he waits for the upload he checks an Instagram profile on his phone, a guy called Mad Dog. I remember he’s one of the band members. Someone has tagged a photo of a man they believe committed a hit and run to
Mad Dog’s profile, asking people to re-post till they find the culprit. Jacob re-posts it.

  I rub his back, squinting at the pic of Mad Dog. ‘Nice hair.’

  Jacob rubs the back of his neck. ‘The henna dye was bloody messy though.’

  His response makes me stupidly happy because he’s talking about the band without his eyes turning bruise-coloured, and without seeming as if the oxygen had been vacuumed out of his lungs.

  My phone rings. Maestro. Checking on me. I turn off my phone.

  Sometimes Jacob records me singing in the booth and I listen to myself in the dark before bedtime; it’s a huge confidence boost. But it doesn’t stop the sensation that the ground beneath my bed seems to whirl and swish as though life is now a raft on a surging river, and I’m a little afraid of not surviving the rapids ahead.

  33

  Jacob

  Shadows press in on me.

  I haven’t switched on the lights in my parents’ house, but I’d know my way to the drink cabinet in a blackout. I clutch the vodka bottle in my hands.

  We loved the demo you submitted and would like to invite Purple Daze . . .

  Just one drink. Anyone would after receiving that email. Just to deaden the feelings.

  The grandfather clock in the corner gongs nine times.

  Mum likes a contemporary style of interior design; slick clean lines preferably in the form of steel or glass, and then she adds one old piece so it stands out. Her bedroom contains one of those antique full-length mirrors. An oak hat stand lives in the marble and mirrors entrance hall. A 300-year-old writing desk impresses guests in the spare bedroom. I’ve always known I don’t fit into any of these rooms – I’m not charming or stylish enough, and I’m not a highly desired item.

  Tick. Tock.

  The sound of a car makes me stand. Headlights sweep across the room. They’re early. Mum had texted it’d be a late night again. My solar plexus thumps as I put away the stolen vodka, untouched, and flick on some lights. I can’t escape through the side entrance of the kitchen though because that means going through the hallway and footsteps are already clattering across the tiles. The smell of takeaway Indian makes my stomach growl.