A Thousand Perfect Notes(55)

‘Maybe,’ Jan says, his voice soft, ‘you should play this for August. For her, not at her, not to her. For her. Play what August means to you. Play it as if you love her. As if you …’

All Beck can hear is –

play

as if

you love

her.

So he does.

Jan, the camera, the room, even the oddness of the white piano, all shrink into microscopic factors. Beck’s life is a flood of music, a kaleidoscope of blue and yellow and pink and orange, the smell of summer and rain. His fingers race away and he doesn’t trip. Not once.

He plays for August.

And about her.

Then his fingers tremble, and the staccato bass line runs to the higher register, and he plays like he has the courage to kiss her when he absolutely doesn’t.

He plays as if he loves her.

And some time while his heart breaks and skids across the universe like diamond beams of starlight, his thumb catches crookedly on a key and splits. Winter makes for dry skin and easily ripped nails. And now? His fingers dance bloody fingerprints over the white keys, as if the piano and Beck have finally become blood brothers, and then the song is finished.

Beck puts his hands in his lap.

He leaves a smudge of blood on his new jeans and he totally just ruined a millionaire’s piano.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

Is he crying?

He doesn’t want to be crying.

Stop. Stop.

The recorder beeps as Jan shuts it off. Then he slides on to the stool next to Beck and they sit there, shoulders touching, admiring the reddened piano keys.

‘I have never,’ he says quietly, ‘seen a student bleed over a piano. Oh, I’ve seen them bleed, but they always stop and coddle themselves because their music hurt them.’

‘It always hurts me.’

‘Ah.’ Jan smiles. ‘We are being honest now. But Beck, you – you wrote this. I – I am in awe.’

Beck puts pressure on his thumb before he, well, dies or something awkward.

Jan stares at him. ‘If you can compose music like this, it is a sin for you to play from other composers. You are brilliant, Beethoven Keverich.’

And for once, Beck doesn’t correct his name. He just swallows the words, lets them fill his heart, his lungs, his soul. It’s not his name he hates. It’s what people think it means.

Jan sounds like Beethoven and Beck are the same – not the dream versus the failure.

‘Let me take you to Germany.’ Jan’s voice turns low, urgent. ‘I am not your mother, I swear to you. You will have the best school, the best Universit?t. You are my nephew and brilliant and you do not deserve to be hidden.’

‘I-I can’t.’

It’s like Jan didn’t hear. ‘I am often away on tours, but I have trusted friends who would check in on you while you get your bearings in the city and then, eventually, you’ll have your own apartment. Your own life. I will give you the world and you will be my protégé.’

You could be away from the Maestro.

You could be free.

‘I know there is this girl,’ Jan says softly. ‘August. And she makes you play like nothing in this world. But you deserve more. You deserve a life of promise, not fear. And if you decided to come with me but never play the piano again? So be it. I would not force you.’

It’s like being beaten – but with hope instead of fists. Beck shuts his eyes, but a tear still frees itself and streaks down his face. He’d never see August again. And what about Joey? He couldn’t leave her with the Maestro, for her life of glitter and gumboots to be cut from her soul while the piano took its place. The Maestro would never let her go. She’d never let Beck go either, if she knew Jan planned to be kind to him instead of chaining him to the piano. Beck could tell what she does to them. But she’s his mother and she might still love them – she might she might she might she—

Jan clears his throat. ‘I don’t expect your decision immediately—’

‘I already know,’ Beck says.

He can taste the blood in his mouth from when she’ll hit him. He can feel the tremble in his bones as he stands between her and his baby sister.

When he opens his eyes, Jan’s face is lit with expectation, excitement.

‘No,’ Beck says. ‘I can’t be your Beethoven.’

In his mind, it’s like

cutting off his hands.





He made the right choice. He did, he did.

Stop doubting yourself.

Beck climbs from the car – Jan insisted on driving him home – and forces himself to act casual, calm. But his insides are an ocean of regret and loss and confusion, because he should feel calm about staying. He should feel strong. He’s no Cinderella to be rescued by magic.

He’s a kid who writes music, who’d never leave his little sister behind.

He’s a kid who’s going to kiss a girl tonight. No more wishes, wonders, dreams. He’s the one who’ll act.

Jan lowers the electric window. ‘Wait.’

Beck hesitates.

‘You can change your mind.’ Jan leans over and passes him a card. ‘I am not sure this is your decision.’

Beck clutches the card like it might save him from drowning. ‘It is. I’m sorry.’