Dissonance (12 page)

‘I look like I'm six,' he said.

‘You have to make a good impression,' she replied.

Erwin returned to his room and gathered his scores. He folded the letter to Grace, put it in an envelope and addressed it. Then he joined his mother in the sitting room. ‘Ready,' he said.

She just stared at him. Fifteen years of hard work and sacrifice, endless hours of practise, disappointment, broken plumbing, the humiliation of the truck, the dicky farm and the Valley. And now … ‘You reap as you sow,' she whispered.

Erwin tried to smile.

Madge opened the door and they walked out onto the dark landing. They passed down the marble steps and emerged into daylight. The street was filled with noise; two teams of
Jungvolk
, ten- and eleven-year-old boys battling each other in a tug-of-war in the middle of the street. Their leather shoes slipped on the cobblestones and their socks gathered around their ankles; their legs were muddy, bruised and scarred. They wore black shorts with leather belts with swastika buckles and brown shirts with scarves and woggles, part Boy Scout, part soldier. One by one they dropped to the ground and then got up, never letting go of the rope, pulling, moaning, biting bottom lips and baring teeth.

Neither team gave an inch. The crowd of boys, girls and shopkeepers didn't seem to favour either side. There was just noise – clapping and whistling and calling out, and two boys with oversized drums decorated with S-runes, thumping away as hard as they could.

Madge put her key in her purse and said, ‘Typical.' This was not what she'd expected. The Germans were a temperate race, a race of thinkers, of pianists, artists and writers. Where did Brahms fit in to all this? This is what she'd expect from the Russians. She noticed a poster of a blonde boy super-imposed over Hitler, both of them looking dreamily eastwards. ‘Come on,' she said.

The street narrowed towards the conservatorium. Horses ate from chaff bags and shat into leather pouches as they waited. A few men on the corner of Ramckeweg laughed as they ate pastries and one of them looked at Erwin strangely. They found the conservatorium, and the studio entrance, and went into a big, open waiting room full of winter sun. Beethoven and Bach hung beside Hitler, decorated with a wreath of ivy and dried flowers. There was a noticeboard covered with clippings and reviews and notices of recitals.

Madge approached the small window to an office and called out. ‘Herr Professor Schaedel, bitte?'

Meanwhile, Erwin heard laughing. He turned to see two girls, both with clarinet cases in their laps, looking at him and smiling. ‘Wie geht's?' he asked, and they laughed even louder.

He could feel his jacket, tight, smelling of starch, and his shirt, ironed flat and full of sharp creases; his pants were tight around his legs and they were too short. His hair felt cold and hard and it stuck to his head like a steel helmet. His curls had popped up in a few places and he tried to flatten them.

Madge was having some luck. A woman was showing her a wooden box, like a spoon rack, where you could press a small ceramic button with the name ‘Prof. Schaedel', or whoever, to ring a bell in his room.

‘Ring only once and wait,' the woman said. ‘He may be busy with a student.'

But a few moments later he was there: the Great Professor, the
German
Professor, the man they'd travelled halfway around the world to meet.

‘Yes?' he said, to the big, frumpy office woman, and she introduced Madge. Madge took his hand and smiled for a moment. Erwin thought she was going to curtsey.

‘Mrs Hergert, from Australia?' he asked, whispering in almost perfect English, staring at her through small, pin-hole eyes, as brown as the wood veneer around the waiting room.

‘Yes, and this is Erwin.'

Erwin extended his hand before walking across the room towards them. As he shook hands with his new teacher he smiled and managed, ‘Goodness.'

‘A real sunburnt Australian,' the professor observed. ‘We don't see many around here. Does that sound strange, Erwin?'

Erwin didn't know what to say. ‘There are plenty of us.'

‘You don't look Australian,' he continued, clearing a tuft of hair from his eyes.

Erwin almost smiled. ‘What does an Australian look like?'

‘My father fought Australians in the war. They weren't like the English, he said. They were big, strong men. They were workers.'

‘Erwin is quite strong,' Madge added, and the professor looked him over. ‘I'm sure he is,' he said.

The suit, Erwin thought. He thinks I look effeminate. He was expecting a Digger and he got Cinderella. He looked at his mother and she was talking to him but he didn't hear a word she said. My mother's made me like this, he wanted to tell his new teacher. I'm really quite sporty. I can run for an hour without stopping. I crave filthy magazines and I feel full of an energy I can't describe.

Madge had stopped talking and she was looking at him. ‘Well, Erwin?'

‘I'd like to thank you for taking me on,' he managed, remembering what Madge had told him to say.

‘That's good,' Professor Schaedel replied, holding Erwin's arm and squeezing it. ‘As much as anything, I was curious.'

‘Curious?' Madge asked.

‘Why you'd give up so much to come here, to study with me.'

‘You were highly recommended,' Madge replied.

‘You sold your house?' Schaedel asked.

‘Rented it out.'

‘And how long will you stay?'

‘As long as it takes.'

‘For what?'

She held her son's other arm. ‘For Erwin to be recognised.'

Schaedel raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, that may take some time.'

‘He's only young.'

‘The piano is a very popular instrument.'

‘As long as it takes,' Madge repeated, smiling.

Schaedel had seen plenty of Madges in his day: pushy cows who had something to prove. It was nothing to do with the piano, or even music – it was about them. And they couldn't be told: that their kid's chances were slim, that they could be left with acres and acres of disappointment, that they'd need something to fall back on (which they generally didn't have, having spent all their time playing piano). He guessed that the stakes were even higher for Madge and Erwin. Yes, there were more piano teachers here, but there were also more students; there were more opportunities, but there was also a lot more competition for them. All in all, he wanted to say, you might've been better off as a large fish in a small, colonial pond …

‘Well, this way please,' he said.

He led them down a hallway and up a flight of stairs. ‘You've brought some music?' he asked, looking at Erwin's satchel.

‘Yes, some technical pieces and … Scarlatti, Beethoven, Grainger.'

‘An Australian?'

‘Yes.'

‘Whatever happened to him?'

‘I think he lives in America now.'

‘
Country Gardens
?' He whistled a few bars.

‘Yes, but he has more … solid works,' Erwin defended. ‘He was a concert pianist.'

‘I know, I saw him in London.'

‘A stretch of an eleventh.'

‘Percy Grainger,' Schaedel smiled at Madge. ‘See, one day everyone knows your name, and then …'

‘He's very famous in Australia,' she defended.

‘In
Australia
.'

‘Last year he recorded with Goosens,' Erwin explained.

‘Now he writes band music.'

‘Transcriptions of – '

‘And didn't he collect folk songs?'

‘So does Bartok.'

‘Grainger is no Bartok.'

Erwin was getting furious, and Madge could sense this. She poked her son in the ribs to prompt him. ‘I've been practising since I was four,' Erwin said, his mother still in his ear.

‘Good,' Schaedel replied.

‘I practise at least six hours a day.'

Schaedel looked at Madge again. ‘I'm sure you do.'

‘Erwin is very determined,' Madge explained.

Schaedel could've laughed. ‘Nonetheless, Mrs Hergert, it may take some time.'

‘We understand. But he's only young.'

‘They're all young,' he half-sang, as he opened the door to his office and led them inside.

Erwin played the Scarlatti. His fingers were trembling. He could read Schaedel's mind and it said, An amateur, a hack, a Colonial … no idea … how am I going to tell him, and his mother, that they've come all this way for nothing?

Madge was thinking the same thing. Erwin had played much, much better, but this was no time to scold him. If nothing else, Schaedel would feel sorry for them and Erwin's first lesson could begin.

Schaedel stood behind Erwin as he played. He folded his arms and massaged his chin, allowing his head to drop and twist as he listened intently. Occasionally he looked up at Erwin's fingers, and then closed his eyes and dropped his head again. After a few minutes of this he stepped towards Erwin and adjusted his forearm, straightened his back and used his foot to push Erwin's foot off the sustain pedal.

Erwin, Madge thought. How many times have I warned you about the pedal?

Eventually Erwin finished and said, ‘I think perhaps … I'm anxious, Herr Professor.'

‘Please, Erwin, my name is Ivan.'

‘Ivan,' Erwin dared.

‘No, you weren't anxious at all. Or if you were, you covered it well. You've obviously played many concerts.'

‘A few,' Madge explained. ‘A recital at the Elder Conservatorium. Five, six hundred people wasn't it, Erwin?'

Erwin looked at his mum. ‘Perhaps.'

‘We had some wonderful reviews, but they were lost.'

‘It doesn't matter,' Schaedel consoled.

The critic was a Jew, Madge wanted to say. Durackstein: a little weasel of a man. She looked at Schaedel more carefully. He was a small man, thin, stooped. She wasn't entirely sure. Schaedel? It sounded German enough, but where was his mother, grandmother, grandfather from?

‘You have a good touch,' Schaedel told Erwin. ‘Nice strong hands.' He took one of Erwin's hands and felt it. ‘Long fingers. You can make a tenth?'

‘Just.'

‘You're still growing. Anyway, power is overestimated, unless you intend spending your life playing Beethoven.'

Schaedel felt the muscles in Erwin's hand. He felt the soft, caramel skin, the knuckles, the tissue, and he looked at the top of Erwin's head, and down his neck to the suggestion of broad, strong shoulders. ‘Talking of Beethoven,' he said. He took the score of the
Appassionata
sonata from the top of the piano and opened it to the Andante. Then he placed it in front of Erwin and said, ‘Let's see how you go with that.'

‘I've never played this before.'

‘Go on.'

‘Sight reading isn't his strong point,' Madge defended.

‘You don't have to get all the notes right,' Schaedel said to Erwin. ‘That's not what I'm interested in.'

‘He has Schumann's
Träumerei
,' Madge insisted, standing, walking over to Erwin's satchel. ‘People were standing when he played it at Elder Hall.'

‘I don't care about Elder Hall,' Schaedel said, closing the satchel on her fingers. ‘I care about this.' He tapped the score with his fingers.

Madge sat down. ‘As long as you understand – '

‘Erwin will attend lessons alone?' Schaedel asked, raising his voice.

‘I thought – '

‘Alone.'

Erwin looked at his mother. ‘It would probably be better.'

Madge lifted her eyebrows. ‘Well … probably,' she managed.

Erwin played the
Appassionata
too slow for Schaedel but he didn't correct him. He watched his fingers pressing the keys just so, making sounds that blended into sweet, warm chords. There was a spirit there, too, a stopping and starting, a hesitation and a pushing forward, a tremor, a lingering, a lost note, cold and alone, like a sentence that had one too many adjectives.

‘Astounding,' Schaedel said when he was finished. ‘Much better than some piece you've over-learnt and over-played. Yes, that will do very nicely. Very nicely indeed.' He moved close to Erwin and put his arm around his shoulder. ‘I think we may have something here.'

Madge was glowing. ‘See, I told you, Herr Professor.'

‘Yes, you did, Madge.'

‘And he's only young.'

‘So you say. But what I'm interested in is the musician, not the performer.'

‘Agreed.'

‘Making the connection with the composer.'

‘And the audience?'

‘That follows.'

‘Yes.'

‘It's not about tuxedos.'

‘I know. He's a clever boy. He can move people to tears, just with these fingers.' She stood up, came over and took her son's hands. ‘I don't know where he gets it from. It's not me. I took lessons, of course, but …'

Ah, I see, Schaedel thought. I see …

‘Erwin, show the professor your
Counterpoint
.'

She took the composition from Erwin's satchel, put it in front of him and said, ‘He's a wonderful composer, too.'

Schaedel put his hands behind his back and looked at the score. ‘Well, this looks promising.'

Erwin played the piece without making a single mistake. At one point he felt a different hand on each shoulder. Madge turned the page for him, looking at Schaedel and smiling, as if to say, See, I told you so …

Schaedel could feel Erwin's shoulder muscles. As he listened he said, ‘A clever fugue … now the chord … now the pedal, not too much, lift your foot.'

When Erwin was finished, Schaedel patted him on the back and said, ‘Not at all what I expected.'

‘How's that?' Erwin asked.

‘Pianists usually compose such dreary music. A bit of Chopin and Schumann, some banging away like Liszt … but this … it's Bach, Schoenberg … and Duke Ellington.'