A Thousand Perfect Notes(14)

‘Bist du bereit?’ the Maestro says. Are you ready?

She’s immune to the stares of the other parents and their tiny prodigies. This is the moment Beck should be proud his mother is famous. Instead he wants to climb on top of the piano and shout, ‘IF ONLY YOU KNEW THE TRUTH.’ She’s a monster. Maybe once she was a dream of glory and excellence, but taking her talent took everything good.

Beck wipes his hands on his trousers again. ‘Ja.’

No

no

no.

Focus, Beck. Snap out of this. The music in his head crinkles and stops.

‘You understand the importance of this contest, mein Sohn?’ The Maestro grips his elbow and pulls him to a quiet corner of the room. Her accent is thick. She’s stressed. ‘You will not let me down.’

‘I won’t,’ Beck mutters. He feels smothered by stuffy backstage air, the deluge of hairspray to keep the Keverich curls controlled, the yards of material in the Maestro’s gown from her glory days.

‘Your time to prove yourself has ended,’ the Maestro hisses. ‘When you step on that stage, you represent me. I played these pieces when I was your age. Your uncle and I –’ she makes a small noise of disgust, since she usually avoids talking about her brother, who is still famous and accomplished back in Europe and therefore annoying ‘– played these pieces until they became legacy. If your schreckliches Spielen disgraces me, I will not stand for it.’ Her voice lowers, a deep growl. ‘And there will be consequences. Do you understand me?’

Couldn’t she say ‘good luck, and remember to have fun!’ and then promise ice cream no matter what?

Instead Beck imagines the slaps – or worse, something happening to Joey.

Why does she have to demand that he become her?

‘Ja,’ Beck says. Thanks for the pep talk.

The first pianist is shown on to the stage in a wave of thundering applause. Then music – perfect music. Flawless with feeling and grace and the intricate detail of a lifetime of practice. Beck stands with the Maestro and the fidgeting Joey and tries to find his music again. His safe place.

The Maestro’s fingers dig into his shoulder, her voice a knife in his ribs. ‘Prove to me you are worth something.’

An ‘or else’ dances across Beck’s vision. He flinches and says nothing, because nothing will convince her or please her or save him.

But the notes inside him roil and break and press so hard against his skin they’ll rip the seams and he’ll burst and – maybe they’ll call him empty after all. Maybe no one can see his music, his own music, but him.

‘I miss these days,’ the Maestro says. ‘I owned the stage and the music was mine. But look at me now.’ Her shaking hands clench. ‘You are a poor Keverich replacement.’

Beck shuts his eyes and waits until it’s his turn to be executed.





Last? Why did they make Beck go last?

Listening to the other pianists is excruciating. The blueberry plays unbelievably lightly, each note a clear ring of Mozart. There’s no hesitation, no stumble. When the last notes have faded from the hall, the blueberry stands and bows and the applause is thunderous.

What if Beck fumbles the études, the Maestro’s precious études? A cold shock of dread numbs his spine.

Every player, every piece, makes Beck feel like he’s moving blindfolded towards a cliff. One slip and he’s over.

The pieces are all under ten minutes, although one girl pushes to the very last second with her Rachmaninoff concerto. Beck’s playing two Chopin études, back to back, numbers eleven and twelve, and it should take him six and a half minutes.

Unless he passes out in the middle which, let’s face it, is highly probable.

The rabid little Erin is directly before Beck – which is terror because she’s wickedly good and melts the audience’s hearts with her petite features and winning smile. Her hands dance an impossibly fast Liszt piece in B flat with a flawless finish. The audience are on their feet with applause.

When Erin struts off the stage like a sparkling cupcake of doom, she smirks in Beck’s direction. ‘Say bye-bye to the trophy, Keverich.’

Keverich.

It’s the heaviest name in the world.

Every single thought flees Beck’s head.

Everything is

fragments.

No, no, he can’t be like this—

Pull yourself together, Schwachkopf.

They’re ready for him to go on. The Maestro’s fingers wrap around his arm, the only pressure keeping him from floating away. The world is a broken mirror, each shard reflecting his terrified face.

‘Do not fail,’ she hisses.

Beck’s legs take him onstage. The silence pounds a symphony on his temples. The stage smells of wax floors and hot lights and shined leather. He tugs at his cuffs, wishes them longer, stops because he’s being conspicuous. The lights are so bright the audience is reduced to unidentifiable black blobs.

Is that supposed to make them less daunting? Instead of eyes, he’s watched by a sea of faceless ghouls.

He’s at the piano. Meine Güte, it’s huge.

The audience shifts, trying to remain patient after the hours of music, wanting to leave and hear the judges confirm their personal favourites as winners. Beck will be unmemorable – too gangly to be cute, too old to be incredible, too stupid, stupid, stupid. The piano is a beast and it owns him.