A Thousand Perfect Notes(50)

Beck stands beside Jan without realising he got there. The crowd hushes and several lights dim.

Jan raises a hand for silence and then, in the hush, he says, ‘Willkommen! Ladies and gentlemen, friends and associates and, of course, willkommen to the guests of honour – my dear sister, my niece and finally my nephew, who will play for us this evening.’

There’s a gentle wave of applause. They swim before him, like his icy insides are melting and he’s being forced to swim. His head is gone, gone, gone.

The clapping subsides and Jan continues. ‘My nephew, named after the famous Beethoven –’ his German accent caresses the well-known name ‘– will be performing two études for us this evening. Then I have a concerto to share with you, my friends. My nephew is a prodigy of the piano and considers returning to Germany to study from the greats.’

Applause again.

Beck didn’t know he was considering. He thought he was either being picked or dismissed. He wonders if, perhaps, the Maestro hasn’t been relaying what Jan says.

‘I do thank you,’ Jan says, ‘for honouring me with your presence on my brief Australian tour. Many thanks to our host, Audwin Denzel, for providing his home for this musical rendition.’ He leans towards Beck and whispers, ‘Would you like to announce your piece?’

Beck seems to have lost his wits. He’ll probably find them at some point. But right now, he’s blinking furiously as the crowd transforms into a sea of sharks with hungry eyes. He forces his brain to the Chopin. Remember it, remember it. The Maestro won’t let him live past a second bout of stage fright. He knows those études, the notes are burned to his bones.

He’ll do this, he can do it. He’s not going to fail. He takes a deep breath.

And then he sees her.

Why – what –

how is she here?

Her dress is a wispy green, her feet confusingly shod in silver high heels, and her hair is braided with silver ribbons. She looks comfortable, excited, sitting beside her parents, and her eyes are only for him.

August burns with admiration.

She can’t be here. This isn’t the place for her. She belongs in the stars with a turtle on her lap and Twice Burgundy in her ears. Not here. If she sees him, she’ll know.

She’ll know how much he hates music. How scared of it he is. How it controls his life.

Vaguely, he’s aware of Jan announcing the Chopin études in the wake of Beck’s silence, and then, with a gentle but firm push, he sends Beck towards the piano. August is gone from his vision. He only sees the rows of piano teeth and wonders if they’ll devour him.

Jan’s voice is in his ear. ‘Are you all right?’

He has to be. He has no choice.

He has to play perfectly.

As answer, he slips on to the cushioned stool and his fingers glide across the keys. How can something so terrifying be so beautiful?

How can his future depend on seven minutes on the piano?

Why couldn’t he be more than this?

He has to stop thinking of the Maestro’s threats. Think of something else. Think of – August. He imagines the hammock, the galaxies painted like glitter across the black sky above, her kiss that stole his heartbeat.

Beck’s fingers tremble into the keys for the first few bars – and then he plays the fire and wild dancing passion of Chopin.

He plays perfectly.





Except for one note.





For seven suffocating minutes, Beck plays those études. Notes tangle at a thousand kilometres an hour, complicated, exact, powerful. Those minutes crack his ribcage and pry music out of his soul like his life depends on it.

And then –

fumble.

He launches for the finale, for the chord that will linger across the room – but when his fingers land, it’s wrong.

Dissonant. One incorrect note and his world falls to ashes.

Beck snaps his hands away, panicked, hot with terror. Howcouldhedothat? He’s never made that mistake before. Does he replay the ending? Does he try again for the last chord? But he can’t – a professional musician ignores his mistakes.

But –

no.

His shoulders hunch.

He nearly doesn’t notice the cascade of applause behind him, and it takes him a second to remember to stand, to bow. His face is beetroot. How can they even clap for that? He looks for August, but the mass of faces blur and he feels dizzy with the effort of staying on earth.

But he can see the Maestro just fine.

Joey stands on a chair and claps furiously, pausing to whoop, which is as flattering as it is embarrassing.

And the Maestro? She doesn’t clap. For once her hands don’t even shake as she curls them into fists. Her eyes shine with furious tears.

How dare she cry.

Beck moves away from the piano. He feels like he just swam through a frozen river and each step is a sluggish effort. He wants to throw up. Or combust. He takes the seat beside Joey and waits for his heartbeat to calm, for his senses to return. He’s dimly aware of more music as Jan begins to play – light and cheeky at first, and then cascading down into a waterfall of swift, passionate notes. Beck can’t focus. He doesn’t even react when Joey whispers, far too loudly, in his ear, ‘You’re my bestest brother,’ and gives him a chocolate-smeared hug.