A Thousand Perfect Notes(35)

This is the most she’s talked about Beck’s father.

She slams the knife down. ‘He was too jealous of the piano, always too jealous. Even after my hands …’ Her voice roughens. ‘He did not come back, the Schwein. Those without music in their bones are not to be trusted.’

No music? Sounds like paradise.

‘That girl,’ the Maestro says, ‘August. She does not love you. She loves broken things.’

Beck’s eyes snap to hers.

‘It’s obvious, Schwachkopf.’ The Maestro scoops the chopped onions into a bowl. ‘The way she dresses, her hippy hair –’ she says it with a sneer ‘– the way she fawns over you.’

‘She doesn’t.’

‘Don’t be blind,’ she snaps.

Emotion strains the Maestro’s voice, and Beck can’t understand it. He can’t understand this entire conversation.

‘She is the kind of girl,’ the Maestro says, ‘who falls in love with a broken toy, but once it’s fixed, she moves on. She wants to “save” you.’ She drips with bitterness. ‘No doubt you’ve painted me the monster. Well, fine. I shall be your monster. But I will also get you into the greatest concert halls in the world, get you the best tutor, make your name be known, make you a famous pianist who will want for nothing. Your little girlfriend will take that away.’

Stop it. Stop it.

‘This August is … sweet.’ The Maestro probably chokes on the word. ‘But you are her project for happiness, not something real. You are a puppy to cuddle. So stop. Be done with this. You are like me and relationships are not for us.’

He’s not like the Maestro. He’s not. He’s –

not?

Except …

The times he punched the wall so his knuckles bled, the macabre fantasies of chopping off his hands, the way he loses hours in the music he claims to hate, the way he wanted to kill that bully …

‘And you are going to Germany.’ The Maestro gets out an egg, flour, butter for the potato pancakes. ‘Here is advice you need to learn, Junge. If you do not say hello, you do not need to say goodbye.’

He hates her in that moment, utterly hates her. When she doesn’t say anything else, he walks away, fighting fear that she’s right. She can’t be right. August isn’t – but she is. A rescuer. A fixer. A saviour. And that’s why he likes her, isn’t it?

‘The Kartoffelpuffer will be ready for those who practise hard,’ the Maestro calls out.

As if he’s hungry.

Beck wants to punch a hole through his chest and rip out his own stupid heart. Why did he think he could get away with being near August? He doesn’t deserve her, anyway – not the happiness, the kindness, not the way her smile rubs off on him, or the flippant promise of a kiss.

He is like the Maestro. Why would he want to inflict himself on August?

Beck shuts his door – quietly – and slides on to the piano stool. The keys stare at him, blank, cold, unforgiving.

He just wanted a friend. A real friend.

One

single

friend.

His fingers crash against the keys so hard the room shakes around him. He hammers the Chopin with hate, hate, hate. Every single note of agony and fury and suffocating despair.

And when his door cracks open, and he’s ready to scream at the intruder, the Maestro appears. She nods at him, just once. ‘Gut gemacht,’ she says. Good job. ‘Now come for dinner.’

He could cry.

He’s waited for the words good job for so long. But now that they’re finally given, he can only hold them in tired, hollow hands and hate himself for craving them so desperately.

But he doesn’t cry. He unchains himself from his eighty-eight keys and eats dinner and does the dishes, and speaks politely, and understands that the Maestro plays a mind game with him. But maybe she won’t win this time?

When he closes his eyes that night, he composes August’s song.





There’s a wall of ice between Beck and August, ice with doubt taped over the cracks. Every time Beck snatches a glance at her, he’s not sure what he sees any more. The August of trees and coconut and bare feet is blurred with the August who’s only interested in rescuing broken things. Either way, he’ll have to say goodbye to her one day. Maybe it should be now.

It’s easier than he thought. He suddenly has nothing to say.

At first, August doesn’t notice the ice, the silence. Although, on the second day, she stops pummelling jabs and quips at him and just walks in silence. It’s a heavy silence. Her walk lacks its usual bounce, she keeps stealing swift glances at him, and she doesn’t hum any Twice Burgundy melodies under her breath.

Beck should be relieved.

Pretty soon she’ll wander back to her real friends. Or she’ll adopt another battered kid in the class and feed them sesame crackers and do their homework. She’ll move on.

With Joey still suspended on the third day, Beck nearly walks home alone.

Well, he tries.

August is also a fast runner.

She catches up with him, satchel rattling with her ever-present collection of Sharpies. She falls into step beside him. ‘Hey there, Beck.’

They haven’t spoken today. Why break it now? Beck shrugs and keeps walking. There’s a knife in his throat.