A Thousand Perfect Notes(49)

‘Um, Uncle … Jan?’ Beck says like the complete idiot he is.

‘Ja,’ his uncle says. ‘I meant to introduce myself whilst offering you food, because I hear that is how one wins favour with small children, but it escaped me as I watched Johanna encounter pickled onions.’

Joey puts a hand – unfortunately tainted with chocolate and cream – on her hip. ‘Are you tricking us?’

‘Joey,’ Beck hisses.

Jan shakes his head, sorrowful. ‘I did trick you, little Johanna. Allow me to make it up to you with a small gift of chocolate.’ He pulls three small chocolate bars, wrapped in gold foil, from his pocket.

Her eyes narrowed, she takes one. Then she takes a second. ‘This is for Mama,’ she says, and Beck knows there’s exactly no possibility the Maestro will receive one of those chocolates.

‘You are so sweet,’ says Jan, smiling.

Joey swipes the third and runs off.

Jan straightens, still chuckling softly. ‘Ah, children. They are so delightful.’

They are when you give them chocolate.

‘You two make me regret marrying my music and never having children,’ Jan says.

Beck says nothing. He’s not sure what to do now. This is Jan Keverich, the famed pianist, the estranged and childless uncle, the rich possible benefactor. Everything the Maestro said made Beck think Jan would be as terrifying as her. He’s built the same – tall, broad, with long slim fingers and the trademark Keverich pepper curls. But he’s butter in Joey’s paws.

How is he brother to the Maestro?

Jan smooths his jacket and does up a single button. His suit fits like he was born for it, and staring at it just makes Beck tug harder at his sleeves.

‘I have wanted to meet you for years, Beethoven.’

‘I go by Beck,’ he says. ‘If that’s OK.’

Jan smiles. ‘I don’t blame you. Musician names are the Keverich curse. Still –’ his long fingers knit together ‘– great names beget wunderbare pianists.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Beck says.

‘I do not believe your sister,’ Jan says with a wink. ‘I have utmost faith in your playing, Beck. I also look forward to our private time tomorrow to discuss music without audience. Music is more relaxing without expectations.’ He indicates the ballroom with a polite sweep of the hand. ‘Shall we return?’

Time to begin the torture? But Beck is strangely heartened that Jan prefers to play alone too.

‘You feel – um, judged – when you play?’ Beck follows him between rows of paintings.

‘Absolutely,’ Jan says. ‘I often lose myself in a piece, but other times? Keine Beziehung.’ No connection. His tone is factual. ‘Often an inexperienced audience cannot tell. Let us hope, though, that you and I both feel the music this evening. Passion is more important than perfection.’

Has the Maestro heard that? She needs to.

Half the guests are seated when they arrive before the monstrous piano. People still chat and mingle with glasses of champagne until a man with the physique of a bowling ball instructs all to find seats.

‘That is our host,’ Jan says quietly, ‘Audwin Denzel. He is a good friend of mine and in awe of our work.’

Our work. Jan is in for a headache of embarrassment when Beck pounds the piano keys. The audience blurs a little before Beck, lost in sweat and nerves. If he stares too hard at the piano, he can see his own petrified face.

The Maestro sits in the front row. Joey, smeared with chocolate and busily playing with her three empty wrappers, is sprawled on the floor beside her.

Jan approaches her and she rises, her face impassive.

‘Ida,’ Jan says. ‘I have met your son.’

How can he be so cheerful? How can he not flinch at the stone and ice in her eyes?

‘I need a word with him before you begin,’ the Maestro says.

Jan nods, ‘Ja. Of course. We will start when you are ready, Beck.’

He crouches to talk to Joey as the Maestro strides a few paces from them. Beck has nothing to do but follow. Behind him, Joey garbles, ‘I wuv chothlate,’ with a sticky mouthful.

In front of him, the Maestro whispers in ice.

‘You are to play first,’ she says, ‘and then next is your uncle and the true performance of this evening. I refuse to be embarrassed by you, Junge, do you hear me? I know this piece is inside you.’ She jabs a finger at his skull. ‘There will be consequences if you fail and you will pay. Whatever it takes. I will not be made a fool.’

Pay. Consequences.

Pain.

Beck says, ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘No.’ The Maestro wraps her useless fingers around his arm and draws him close, close, so the ice falls down his neck and his lungs fill with glaciers. ‘You will do better, or …’ Her voice hardens. ‘Or I will break your hands.’

Beck jerks away, the glacier splintering, stabbing his heart.

Would she? Is it a threat of desperation and fury?

Or

would

she?

Beck tucks his hands behind his back.

‘Go play.’ The Maestro gives a dismissive wave.

He takes himself to the piano. She would do it. She would.

How could he let her?

How could he stop her?