A Thousand Perfect Notes(38)

‘No,’ Beck says. ‘I just – I’m hungry …’ I want to rescue Joey from you.

‘Food is for those who play well.’ The Maestro throws her cutlery down and rises. ‘That goes for you too, Johanna. If you refuse the piano, you refuse dinner.’

Joey drops her own pink plastic fork. ‘I hate the piano. It’s noisy and mean. And I hate how Beck plays when I wanna sleep.’ She hiccups. ‘I won’t play the mean piano. No, no, NO.’

She slides off her chair, ready to run, but the Maestro grabs her elbow.

The Maestro scowls venom at Beck. ‘This is all your fault, Schwachkopf. You’ve poisoned her to me.’

Beck doesn’t think. He just speaks. ‘Joey’s too young, Mutter. She shouldn’t have to—’

‘She should do what I say!’ roars the Maestro. ‘As should you.’

Joey squirms in her grip. ‘No, no, no. Ich hasse dich. I hate you!’

The Maestro slaps her.

She’s never struck Joey – usually it’s not-so-subtle hints of what might happen if Beck doesn’t fold to the Maestro’s will. But she never actually hits her. Joey is the thing he cares most about in this upside-down world. But the Maestro lashing out at a kid while Beck stays quiet? He can’t slink away and let her rage.

So Beck, who does nothing, does something.

He moves like a wraith, grabbing Joey as she goes boneless against the Maestro, and pushes her behind him. He throbs with rage, disgust, that she’d let loose on a five-year-old.

‘She’s just a little kid.’ Beck’s teeth are clenched.

Purple veins bulge in the Maestro’s neck. ‘You started when you were younger than—’

And you want her to end up like me? Beck tries to keep his voice level. ‘There’s only one piano anyway and Joey can’t even sit still and she probably can’t—’

The Maestro hits him.

The blow sends him stumbling away from Joey and he just hopes the Maestro didn’t use that kind of force on her. Joey’s on the floor now, quiet, wide-eyed. Trembling.

Joey is made for glitter crowns and robots constructed with yogurt boxes and muddy puddles and untamed hair. She is not made for the piano.

‘You are a disappointment.’ The Maestro’s teeth are gritted. ‘You fail me on purpose, I know it, du nutzloser Junge. Mayhap my daughter will try harder to carry my legacy.’

‘I do try,’ Beck says. He should shut up, but – this time? This time is so, so different. ‘I swear, I do. I’m just not good enough.’

‘No,’ she says coldly. ‘You’re not. You are a disgrace to my name. You play for hours a day and what do I hear? Rubbish! I’m sickened by the very sound of your mistakes. And yet you cannot do better – nein. You do not try to do better.’

Beck tells himself he doesn’t care. He doesn’t, doesn’t – doesn’t—

‘I wanted a prodigy. And what did I get? You. You worthless disappointment.’ The Maestro snatches her plate of half-eaten sausage and potatoes and flings it against the wall. Food makes a wet splatter. Crockery shatters.

Joey scoots forward and hugs Beck’s leg. ‘Don’t hurt him,’ she whimpers.

The Maestro grabs the vase of pebbles and fake flowers from the bench top. She slams that against the wall too, but doesn’t let go, so glass bites her flesh. Blood flows. Beck backs away as shards rain across his arms. She’s lost it. She’s – this can’t – no.

‘Go to your room, Jo,’ he whispers, prying her off his leg.

‘Did I say you could leave?’ the Maestro screams.

‘I’m sorry.’ He has nothing else to say.

‘SORRY IS NOT ENOUGH ANY MORE.’ The Maestro is gone, gone, deep into the agony of ruined hands and abandonment and frothing hate. But she can still hit.

She grabs Beck by the throat of his shirt and rams him into the wall. He’s not a plate. He doesn’t shatter. But the wind goes out of him in a whoosh.

Her fist connects with his jaw.

It’s OK, Beck, just go away, go somewhere else in your head. Where’s your music? Find your music. Better you than Joey, right? Right.

Or stand up –

fight?

Beck shoves the Maestro away. Hard.

The surprise on her face is matched by the catastrophic pounding of his heart. He’s going to regret that. Her eyes are too white, her face discoloured, her hands trembling violently.

‘She’s not playing the piano,’ Beck says, ragged. ‘If you try, I’ll smash the piano. I swear I’ll smash that gottverdammte piano.’

But his voice trembles, and how can you take a wavering threat seriously?

‘I sacrificed everything for that piano,’ the Maestro shouts. ‘Everything, you ungrateful brat. The thousands I needed for therapy on my hands, I spent on you. Thousands!’ She slaps him for emphasis. ‘So you would have a future. You will play, you will—’

‘Maybe I don’t want to.’ What is he doing? He’s bitten his tongue and his mouth is full of blood. Stop. Stop talking. But there is a crack across his soul and something red and vicious and desperate crawls out. ‘Maybe I hate the piano too. But you never ask. You never care. You hate me because I’m not like you. Well, guess what? I’ll never be like you.’