A Thousand Perfect Notes(54)

‘I don’t need rescuing,’ Beck says, voice stretched thin. ‘I’ll save myself.’

He didn’t know, until that moment, that it was true.

But it is.

Jan seems to read between the lines, because he nods and his eyes glow with a thin shred of satisfaction. ‘Gut. I am glad, Beck, I am glad. But I hope you will not refuse a little aid from someone who wants to be part of your life. And I apologise, again, for coming at you so violently. I know Ida’s tempers. It appears they have not changed much, ja?’

Beck just shrugs.

He’s being dissected and it’s hard to breathe.

‘I wish I could give Ida her music back. She is lost without it.’ Jan’s eyes cloud. ‘But it is no excuse. I want to make your life better, my nephew. I want to make your existence exciting and spectacular.’

Beck would prefer an OK life. Where he goes to school and doesn’t worry if there’ll be dinner on the table and never touches a piano and maybe runs to August’s house some nights to stargaze.

‘What do you want, Beck? What do you want of this world?’

He checks to see if Jan is serious – and his uncle’s gaze is level, expectant.

Great.

Beck screws his eyes shut and digs his thumb and forefinger into his forehead, massaging the ache. What does he want? He never used to think about it – until August shoved her way into his life. Now he wants so much that the cruel sharp ache of never being able to have it is unbearable.

He wants Joey to be safe. He wants to eat until he’s stuffed. He wants to walk far, far away without a care in the world. He wants every string that ties him to the piano to snap. He wants the Maestro to say well done. He wants to write the music in his head, pages and pages of it, and never show it to a soul if he doesn’t want to. He wants to own it.

He wants August. He wants his hand to fit into hers – all the time, whenever he wants. He wants to eat cake with her, listen to her teasing, laugh a little, carry her home from school when she forgets her shoes. He wants to kiss her a million times. And then once more. Because he can’t put a number on how many times he wants to hold her, to feel safe next to her, to feel possibilities.

He doesn’t want her as a friend.

He wants more.

She is the girl his songs are for.

None of these are answers he can give Jan, or even say aloud.

‘I want to be a good pianist,’ Beck says. ‘I want to be a true Keverich.’

Disappointment crosses Jan’s face and Beck feels ashamed.

‘I thought you’d be honest with me, Beck.’

‘I was,’ Beck says, without thinking. ‘I mean—’

‘Do not worry.’ Jan’s smile is sad. ‘I cannot demand your full trust when you barely know me. Unless—’ He hesitates. ‘Are you sure there is nothing else you want?’

What Beck Keverich wants most in the world is to cut off his own hands – and

let a girl named August

teach him how to

smile.

‘Yes,’ says Beck, ‘I do want something. I wrote a piece, a song –’ a confession of everything inside me ‘– and I want to play it and record it.’ He hesitates, his face burning. ‘Please.’

He knows it’s not what Jan means, but this is a chance, a request, and if Jan is claiming to be a fairy godmother, he can give Beck this.

‘Who is it for?’ Jan asks, but his tone is curious, maybe even smudged with excitement.

‘A – friend,’ Beck says.

‘The girl from the concert?’

Well, there goes that.

‘August,’ Beck says. Her name tastes like earth and sunshine. ‘I know people have iPods and all that, but I want to make a CD.’

Jan’s nod is slow at first, then vigorous. He bounces off the chair, enthusiasm sprouting like wings. ‘I have a video camera. The quality will not be excellent, but the acoustics in this room are not bad. Good. We can do this. Right now.’

The worm of doubt has come – he hasn’t even ever played the song before without stopping. And Jan will hear it.

‘It’s a mess,’ Beck says, ‘just – um, just know that the middle is rubbish, and I don’t have the ending sorted so—’

‘Nein! Nein!’ Jan claps his hands together sharply. ‘That is not how a creator talks about his music. I refuse to believe your music is wrong or rubbish. Someone has told you that and you believe it. Believe yourself.’ He leans forward and taps Beck’s chest. ‘You said you would save yourself – do it.’

Jan gets the camera.

Beck gets hit with nerves and a thousand regrets.

As Jan sets up, Beck slides on to the piano seat and gets a feel for it. The keys are always deeper on a grand, and he works them with the pedal and feels the rich, moody tone. His scribbles are at home, in the bin, crumpled under his pillow, scattered over the floor where Joey’s drawn on them.

Beck closes his eyes and remembers.

‘It is recording,’ Jan says. ‘Play whenever you are ready. Viel Erfolg.’ Good luck.

Beck plays.

He stumbles. Seriously? His fingers are going to feel like worthless splinters today, of all days? The entire first movement comes out thick and messy. He stops, drops his hands into his lap, and hates himself.