I break into ‘What I Did For Love’ without holding back. She pushes at me, tries to clap her hands over my lips, but I stand on tiptoe and turn my head, still singing.
‘Arrête.’ She jumps to reach my face, and I collar her wrist, and grab her mouth with my mouth. I cling to her, breathing through every electrical sensation darting around my body. And finally I’m inside a love song of my own.
34
Astrid
That night in Jacob’s studio, after we cleared up that Jacob hadn’t been getting drunk, and after we finalised the plans for Operation Rumspringa, Jacob fell asleep on the sofa. I hunted for a blanket to cover him. His parents weren’t going to do it.
Something tells me he won’t be needing them anymore. He’s moved further away from his grief and healed so many wounds, including the ones his mother and father inflicted.
Now, back in my bedroom, I pull out my music book. But I don’t write a song. I write the hardest words I’ve ever had to write.
Dear Maestro,
Notes are best kept short so you don’t skip over the middle to get to the end. I’ll make this quick.
Jacob and I have gone away for a couple of weeks to get some headspace. I don’t want to go to New York with you unless I can sing with him. Jacob has pulled out of the Con because he needs to make his parents hear who he wants to be in his future.
People shouldn’t try to be what they are not. It only leads to unhappiness.
I hope you hear me when I say I want to be a songwriter as well as an opera singer, and it’s my choice to be who I want to be. Listen again to Dex’s demo because he’s singing the songs I wrote.
Astrid
35
Jacob
Mum and Dad leave for the Hamptons the day before Astrid and I leave for New York City. Then Astrid and I will fly one day before she was due to fly out with Maestro. Even if Maestro turns up in New York, which he probably will, we’ll be there and he can’t stop us singing together.
We’ll arrive four days before the performance. The doc had planned for three days to let Astrid get over her jetlag and to rest her vocal chords. Plenty of time to let the organisers know we are there, despite any contradictory messages.
Before we board the plane, Harper texts me to say she’s finally found a house to buy in Florida. She’s out in the world being who she should be. So is Aria. Now it’s my turn.
Astrid’s sneaking a peek at my phone screen as we wait in the queue to board. I show her Harper’s text. ‘She’s got her life. I’ve got mine – with you. Got it?’
Astrid kisses me, then says into my mouth, ‘You might need to keep reminding me.’
On the flight, we watch movies, fingers entwined, listen to music with shared earbuds, lean on each other while we sleep, and play-fight over Astrid’s butterfly pen to fill in our landing cards. I glance at Astrid’s card. She’s written ‘Singer-Songwriter’ in the occupation box.
It’s another bittersweet moment as I’m reminded of how we’re not getting very far with the submissions for her and Dex. Our meals are placed on our tray tables and I can’t help thinking Dex and Maria will be on a plane to Italy soon, eating cardboard food too. By the way Astrid’s staring at me, her nose wrinkling, she’s clocked my change of mood. I make zigzag shapes with a plastic knife in what’s supposed to be mashed potato.
‘I didn’t want to spoil the trip,’ I say. ‘But we’re at a dead end with the labels. I’m so sorry. I’m pissed for you as well.’
‘That’s okay.’ But her flippant tone doesn’t match the tightness in her mouth. ‘I’m disappointed, of course. Maybe I’m not good enough because it’s not Dex’s voice that’s the problem. It has to be my songs.’
‘No way. It’s just a tough world to break into. It’s not your songs.’
‘I’m more worried for Dex than myself. I’ve got time to learn and improve.’
I ball my hands. ‘Dex will leave for Italy. He’ll have nowhere to sing and nowhere to record. I’ve failed him.’ Dex has had an effect on me as much as Astrid has; he got me singing again and made me realise I can make it without my parents’ backing. The mountain he’s climbing is way steeper than mine. Mine’s a hill compared to his.
‘You’re not his dad. I know you want to support Dex in a way your own parents have never supported you, but you can’t let this become something else that eats at you.’ She elbows me. ‘You’ve done everything you can.’
‘He was depending on me.’ I stab my knife in the mound of potato, lean back against the headrest, wracking my brains for a way to not let Dex down. He’s walking along a road to a forgettable life. If I’m to live with myself, I have to turn him around.
36
Astrid
Jetlag means we sleep through our first day in New York, and I miss Maestro’s texts checking if I’m all right. I text back, asking him to give me the headspace I requested in my note, but that I’m fine.
Jacob and I emerge from our rooms the next day – we’re taking things on the relationship side slow so Jacob booked two rooms – ready to attend the tour of the Metropolitan Opera House that all the performers for ‘An Evening with Yolanda Gustav’ are invited to. On arriving at the Met, we’re given a map. We laugh at the possibility we’ll need one, but it’s soon apparent we do.
Most of the performers aren’t rookies and the tour becomes a private one for me and Jacob. We wander along low-ceilinged cement passageways, some lined with lockers, others with ladders or coils of electrical cords.
‘Why are there soap holders everywhere?’ Jacob asks our guide, a sober, hunched-over man who walks slowly and doesn’t appear to want to give a tour to a couple of youngsters.
‘To stop the spread of germs, of course. It’s recommended you use them often. To the performers here, their voice is their instrument. If they become sick, their voice can no longer work and we avoid that at all costs.’
Jacob cracks his knuckles and I wonder why the guide talks as though we wouldn’t already know this; like we’re not performers, too.
He talks of Pavarotti, Placido Domingo, Jose Carreras, Renee Flemming, Violeta Urmana, Maria Callas and the other famous singers who have graced the opera house. And how Veronika Bell gave her astonishing performance as Carmen right here on this stage. I could be standing in her footprint, or walking past her dressing room. Except unlike in Vienna, she’s no longer this dazzling movie-star mother who was tragically taken from us; she’s simply a selfish singer who abandoned her children and smoked herself into an early grave.
The guide walks us onto the set on a picture-frame stage that has to measure 100-feet wide and 100-feet deep. The cavernous theatre seats 3,800 people and contains at least five tiers of red velvety seating. The starbursts of light make the giant gold petal formation on the ceiling glow. But the stage and the theatre are a tiny part of the building and we tour past a myriad of workshops containing carpenters and scenic artists, costume designers, milliners, wig makers, even a cobbler. It’s as if a whole busy town has formed right inside this building.
Below the stage are three more levels containing additional work spaces and storage for instruments and sets. I study the map to make sense of it, but give up. I hope my dressing room is near a toilet so I don’t get lost and miss my call.
‘Awesome,’ says Jacob, throwing an arm around me as we exit through one of the revolving doors under the huge arched windows.
‘Ah, zut. That tour made me more nervous than ever.’ I pull free of him to button up my coat and wind the scarf around my neck. ‘It’s as though the staff are the important ones and the performers are transported in and out like we don’t belong.’
‘But everyone in the building is working to make our performance perfect. Make-up, set design, orchestra, lighting. And without us, all that means nothing.’
I pull on some leather gloves. ‘Don’t. You’re not helping.
’
Jacob’s face falls and I feel a little guilty. He’s nervous too. But when I follow his line of vision, I realise his face didn’t fall because of me. Maestro is here. Maybe ten metres away. He looks different, wearing a navy single-breasted overcoat instead of his cloak.
He makes a beeline for us. I circle back, unsure if I should make a run for it, but Jacob latches onto my elbow. ‘No point,’ he says. ‘He’ll only find us another day. Back me up.’
Maestro looms, two metres away. One metre. But I don’t see anger in him. His brow creases. He hugs his briefcase to him in a death grip. His watery eyes press a question into mine.
‘You didn’t buy Astrid’s note then,’ says Jacob.
‘Your dress was gone, the one you’d chosen to wear for the performance.’
‘You’re not stopping us from singing together,’ I say, clutching Jacob’s arm.
Maestro shifts to survey the pedestrians and traffic opposite. He points at my scarf around my neck. ‘It’s cold. Breathe through your scarf. Protect your voice.’ He rests his briefcase on a lifted knee and produces some sheets of paper. ‘Your rehearsal times, practise room protocol, other important information. I’m here to help.’
I accept them, wordless.
‘I’ve just heard they’ve had a last minute change to the programme,’ he adds. ‘Instead of two duets, they want one song with both of you singing, then a solo from you, Astrid.’
‘What? Why?’ I shout-whisper between gritted teeth. ‘You’re manipulating things behind the scenes again. More lies?’
‘No! A soprano cancelled this morning. She’s sick. And the programme is male heavy. You’ll step in and close the evening, with Yolanda joining in on the last third of the song. It’s a good thing.’
My stomach drops. Sweat prickles my head, my pulse shifts gear and revs to a hundred kays per hour. ‘This is exactly the kind of behaviour I would expect from you. You’re like some terrible Svengali from a tragic opera,’ I shout, then retch onto the pavement.
‘Let’s go.’ Jacob hails a cab and I walk unsteadily toward it.
‘I promise I had nothing to do with it,’ yells Maestro from behind us. He adds, ‘I contacted your father, Jacob. He knew nothing about the Met or that you were missing the Con audition. They’re coming to see your performance.’
His hand on my elbow, Jacob grips a little too hard for a split second then pulls me toward the waiting cab. I stumble blindly beside him.
Inside the cab, I crave the icy air and lean out the window. When I glance back at Maestro, he waves. His smile appears to hurt his face as he sticks his finger in his ear and presses his nose like it’s a button. Our secret sign for I love you.
It’s like I’ve tumbled over a cliff.
The taxi pulls off from the curb and the bond that has held us together tugs and stretches. But it will never break. Even if I’m not sure he’s telling the whole truth about why Mum left, or about the change to the programme, the bond is indestructible. Our history is the history of a father and daughter, flawed and filled with regret and mistakes perhaps, but he is my dad.
I remember how once I was happy with the life Maestro made for me. But I’ve grown up and changed. As I settle back into the seat and take slow breaths, I wonder if Maestro can change.
Jacob is mute and lost in his own head. As a wave of queasiness hits, I hang out the window again. Jacob’s hot palm rests on my back. I can’t do this.
In my hotel room, Jacob settles on the edge of the bed, passes me a glass of water.
I can’t bring myself to sip it. ‘Later. I feel sick. I need to sleep.’ I hug a pillow. ‘Jacob, it never starts this early.’
‘It’s the shock of the doc materialising and the change in the programme.’
His phone beeps with a text. As he reads the screen his face drains of colour.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘Dad. It’s a long list of people they’ve invited to watch my performance. Such-and-such from some big law firm and so-and-so who Mum used to go to school with. They should book the frigging royal box. Fourteen people! Way to crank up the pressure.’
‘They’re not mad at you though, for skipping the Con?’
‘That lecture will probably come later. The only thing they’ve insisted on is I keep lunch free the day after the performance. It’ll probably become a discussion about my future after I sing like a strangled bird.’
Nausea swirling, I gulp at a block of air.
Jacob pinches the skin at his neck. ‘They’ve never come to one of my performances – ever.’
‘That’s because this is the Met, not some bar.’
‘What if I freeze? A textbook humiliation and proof for Dad that he was right all along. He’ll probably make good on his threat to pull down my studio.’
‘I thought you didn’t care if they kicked you out. You’re doing this alone now.’
‘True.’ Jacob rubs his jaw back and forth. ‘I guess I’ve never admitted this to myself. But despite everything, I still want them to approve – you know – be proud. And here’s my one chance. I don’t want to stuff it up.’ He suddenly stands. ‘Sorry. I’m not helping. I’ll let you sleep. Or do you want me to stay?’
After I tell him over and over that I’m fine, he slides out of the room. But I’m not fine.
I wanted to say that he’s practised and ready, that he’s good enough to get asked to be here, but if that’s the case, why can’t I tell myself the same thing? Funny how he wants his parents’ approval like I wanted Mum’s, even from heaven. And now it seems I was seeking the approval of a – was she crazy? Or just neglectful.
Heat pricks behind my eyes. I hate this, so why am I doing it? Certainly not for Mum.
Everything is organised though. I’ve booked an appointment at the hairdresser. My dress for the performance hangs on the curtain rail because it won’t fit in the cupboard. It’s a strapless emerald green with fitted bodice and full skirt. Maestro chose it from Mum’s closet. She wore it at this very opera house.
Even the thought of wearing the dress makes it seem as though I’m breathing through a straw. I make a run for the bathroom. This is going to be the worst performance yet.
37
Jacob
The next morning, Astrid and I are freezing our arses off at a near deserted café in Central Park. The cold helps with her queasiness. She’s sipping on peppermint tea and I’m downing a double espresso when my phone rings. I almost don’t answer, but when I pull it from my pocket, it’s my home number, back in Sydney.
‘Hello?’
‘Yo. Dude.’
‘Dex.’ I give Astrid a thumbs up as she nibbles on a ginger biscuit.
‘Got it in one. I’m at your house, bro.’ The grandfather clock in our hall gongs.
‘I can hear that. What can I do for you, kid? I’m not sure I can help with your carpet-ironing technique.’
‘When’s the big night?’ he asks.
‘Two more days, dude.’
‘You got access to YouTube?’
‘Sure. What’s happening?’
‘Check out my account.’ I put him on speaker and open the YouTube app while Astrid sips on ginger ale. Dex’s face jumps onto the screen, a puff of fire on his palm. Astrid leans in.
‘What am I looking for?’ I ask.
‘Check out the numbers, dipstick. And the comments.’
Astrid points at the thumbs-up icon by the recording of ‘A Forgettable Life’. At first, I think it says 34 but then I see the ‘k’ at the end of the number.
‘Thirty-four thousand. And 667,000 views. Jesus, Dex.’
‘Nah, just Dex will do. Thanks though.’
‘You have over ten thousand subscribers,’ adds Astrid.
‘Reckon your dad sent out my stuff to his hotshot mates,’ says Dex. ‘It’s gone viral!’
‘Are you telling me this came from my dad?’ asks Astrid. She gapes and slaps the table. ‘Maestro must’ve done it before he left for New York, after he read my note and so after he knew I wrote the songs.’
‘Your dad’s ace,’ adds Dex. ‘And you might want to check out the comment from Angel Records.’
I scroll until the pink angel wings logo shows up, read it out loud. ‘Your music speaks the truth, Dex Firebender. Get in touch if you’re interested in signing with us. Your writer, too.’
Jumping out of my chair, I punch the air. ‘Yes. We got this.’
Astrid shouts, ‘Knew you could do it, Dex.’
‘Couldn’t have done it without ya both. That song is immense.’
‘Thanks Miss Scusami,’ said Astrid
‘We have to get this sealed fast,’ I say. ‘So your mamma doesn’t take you to Italy.’
‘Lucky for us she can’t get the money together with the Christmas flights being three times the normal cost. She thought they’d come down the closer we got to Christmas, but they’re going up and up. Plus the PROUD group are doing a fundraiser for us in January. Get this – a charity drag show. So we have more time to get this deal sealed and to convince her to stay.’
Astrid’s ginger biscuits pushed aside, we talk non-stop about meeting the talent scouts at Angel until Dex has to hang up. Afterwards, Astrid and I wander through the park toward the Met where we plan to take silly selfies. I’ve only ever seen Central Park in movies. It’s weird to see it’s not always green and summery, or full of trees heavy with golden autumn leaves that twirl in the air and carpet the ground. They must have to wait for the right season before they film.
We walk along a black path, shiny with rain from earlier today. The morning is misty, making the spindly twigs that intertwine and weave above us look like spider webs on the end of each dark bough.
‘Bit bigger than the Purple Woods.’ I chuckle.
Astrid gazes at the bare trees on either side of us. ‘So Maestro must like my songs, to have sent them out to his friends.’
The Astrid Notes Page 22