Dissonance (33 page)

Erwin was the first to emerge. As he walked towards the table she stared at Frans.

‘Morning,' he said, but she didn't reply.

He sat down next to her, and took her hand. ‘Do you want me to get up?' he asked.

She took her plate and returned to the kitchen. ‘No, you're a genius, remember?'

‘Don't be silly. I'll get up if you want me to get up.'

‘What would be the point of that?' Madge asked, emerging from her room, tying up her dressing-gown cord in a double knot.

‘No point,' Luise agreed, licking her fingers and throwing her plate in the sink.

Madge knelt down next to Frans and buried her head in his tummy. ‘Who's Granny's boy?'

Erwin was still looking at his wife. She put the plug in the sink and ran the water. ‘What do you want for breakfast?' she asked, to no one in particular.

‘I'll get mine,' Erwin replied, standing.

‘Stay,' Luise barked, taking the tin of bran, muesli and oats that Madge had mixed in a precise ratio (Madge having explained to Luise, ‘A person sits that long at a piano, he needs regularity.').

After a few moments Luise put the bowl of cereal in front of him. She smelt the milk and placed it next to his hand.

‘Thanks.'

As she looked at the cackling baby, and wondered if she'd ever sing again.

Erwin dressed in clothes laid out by his mother. He gathered his music, kissed Frans on the forehead, Madge on the lips and Luise on the cheek. Then he walked from the apartment, closing the door softly behind him, as if to avoid any more damage.

Schaedel was in no mood for music.

His wife had just come over, he explained, solely for the purpose of arguing with him. ‘She needs more money,' he groaned, ‘and I said, Where do I get more money?'

‘I have school fees,' she'd replied.

‘Where do I get more money?'

‘Take some more students.'

‘But,' he said, as Erwin sat beside him with his music in his lap, ‘if anything, I'd like to cut down.'

Then he explained how he had a urinary tract infection, and how it was like going through the day with someone pinching the end of his dick.

As Erwin played his scales, Schaedel went to the toilet, again and again, returning and continually adjusting his underwear. ‘I'm going to chop the thing off,' he said, shaking his head.

Erwin shrugged. ‘Isn't there something you can take?'

‘I'm taking it … but it doesn't help. Maybe it's cancer. That would be just my luck … dick cancer. Like I'm being punished.'

‘For what?'

‘For everything I've ever thought.'

Erwin started on C-sharp minor, but then Schaedel covered his hands. ‘I can't concentrate,' he said.

Forty minutes later they were sitting in an almost empty cinema. Schaedel was still adjusting himself, grimacing, running out to the toilet, trying to piss but discovering he was unable to, instead, watching a few yellow drops hanging from the end of his helmet. Wiping himself. Praying for relief from a god he didn't believe in as he looked at the movie poster on the back of the toilet door.

Jew Süss, starring Werner Krauss

A picture of a Jew with plasticine nose, prayer robes and stick-on beard. The only type of movie that cinemas screened any more. The only way he could pass long, lonely winter nights without his boys, Mendelssohn or wireless jazz. Films in which hard-working Germans were cheated out of their money by costume Jews, in this case, Süss Oppenheimer taking advantage of Duke Carl Alexander of Württemberg.

Depressing.

Schaedel settled in next to Erwin and handed him watery orange juice. ‘What have I missed?' he asked.

‘That's Oppenheimer,' Erwin replied, indicating.

Schaedel squinted. ‘Is that Clarke Gable?'

Erwin smiled. ‘I don't think so.'

After a few minutes of squirming, Schaedel leaned over and whispered into Erwin's ear. ‘It's my son's birthday.'

‘Which one?' Erwin asked.

‘The eldest.'

Then there was silence, as the duke appeared in a grand uniform, resting his left hand on his sword and smoothing his moustache with his right. ‘
Christ, I could do with a piss
,' Schaedel improvised. ‘
If I could just get this bloody uniform off.
'

Erwin laughed, still watching the screen, and Schaedel stared at him. His face: shadowy in the flickering light of the Jew Süss; his eyes clear; his teeth, with their rudimentary canines, sharp, string-lined incisors; his golden hair and small, sculpted ears; his long, steel-belted neck and the top of his smooth, unforgiving clavicle.

Schaedel moved closer to his ear again. ‘I told her, Erwin, I said, Bring the boys around. I have a present for Hans. But it was just her. I'll give it to him, she said. Cow … cow!'

Erwin could feel Schaedel's eyes on his skin. He could hear him breathing. Then he felt his teacher taking his hand and moving it. He could feel Schaedel's cock, and it was hard. Reclaiming his hand, he stared at the images. He was hot; he could feel sweat on his forehead, his cheeks and his collar. Automatically, he stood up. He started walking along the empty row and Schaedel followed him, still adjusting himself. ‘Erwin, stop,' he said. ‘That was stupid. I wasn't thinking.'

Erwin started up the aisle towards the back of the cinema. Schaedel caught up to him and held his arm. ‘Sit down, please.'

So they sat in the back row.

‘I'm a stupid old man,' Schaedel said. ‘This bloody infection … it's so sensitive.'

Erwin was still sweating, still looking at the images. ‘It's true then?' he asked.

‘What?'

‘What people say?'

‘No, it's not.'

Süss and the Duke were laughing together.

Erwin managed to look at his teacher. ‘It's true,' he said.

‘It's not.'

‘No wonder she won't have you around.'

Schaedel started shaking his head. ‘Is that what you think?' he asked.

Erwin stared at him. ‘Do you want to fuck me?'

‘No.'

‘If I let you, just once, right up the arse?'

‘No.'

‘I'll let you.'

‘Erwin.'

Erwin whispered, ‘I trusted you …'

Schaedel had no reply.

Erwin stood up and walked from the cinema. He reclaimed his satchel from the ticket booth and slowly walked out into the sunlight. And as he walked he could see Madge standing on the back porch of Killalah, brandishing a rolling pin, ­protecting him.

Forty minutes later he was slowly dragging himself up the stairs to his apartment. He could already hear the voices, his mother's at top volume, Luise trying to match her, Frans squealing in the narrow gap of silence that was left between them. He arrived on the landing and listened; he could hear every word through solid wood – every chair moved, every sigh, every groan, every head shaken … even the silence, suggesting a staring match, fists clenched, teeth clamped.

‘This isn't helping,' Luise was saying.

‘It's too late now,' his mother replied, stamping her foot on the run.

Erwin braced himself. He took a few steps forward and opened the door. Luise ran to him, handing him his child and saying, ‘I can't take her any more.'

Erwin looked at Madge.

‘What?' she replied, looking at the baby. ‘Go on, look at him.'

Erwin looked at Frans, at his small, fat body, at his right arm, with a penny-sized burn that was black around the edges and red-raw in the middle.

‘Christ,' he said, looking at both of them. ‘What happened?'

‘
She
fell asleep,' Madge replied.

‘And why?' Luise barked back at her. Then she turned to her husband. ‘It wasn't my fault.'

‘Well, whose then?' Madge asked.

Frans was still crying. Erwin held him tightly and started to jiggle him like a tea bag.

‘I was so tired I must have dozed off,' Luise explained. ‘An ember rolled out of the fire and onto the rug.'

‘You could've burnt the whole place down,' Madge ­hollered.

Erwin raised his hand to calm them. ‘Stop!' Then he waited for quiet. ‘Luise, is he alright?'

‘Yes. I was screaming. A woman, a nurse, from down the hall heard me and came and knocked.'

She went on to explain how they'd cooled the burn and treated it with vitamin E, and bound it with a bandage. Then, when Madge had arrived home, how she'd said no, a burn must breathe, and how she'd taken the bandage off.

‘Maybe, if she's a nurse,' Erwin said to his mother.

But that wasn't up for discussion. Instead, she turned to Luise and said, ‘You've got a lot to learn about mothering.'

‘You said you'd help,' Luise shot back, turning her gaze to Erwin. ‘And you!'

‘I will,' he offered, as the baby squealed.

‘No wonder I'm so tired,' she said, starting to cry, sitting on a chair and hiding her face in her hands. ‘This isn't easy.'

‘It's the same for all mothers,' Madge argued.

‘It isn't.'

‘Don't you think I – '

‘Shut up, Madge. I'm sick of hearing it. I'm tired.'

Madge fell silent. She looked at Erwin for support. Instead he said, ‘She's right.'

Silence. Even Frans, settling his head on his dad's shoulder and staring at them. Just Luise sobbing, fitting, snorting mucus and tears.

‘She's depressed,' Madge whispered. ‘Every mother gets depressed.'

‘Mum.'

‘She needs to be – '

‘It's not like your mother just died,' Luise said.

‘I've had my fair share of …' And she stopped. ‘All I mean is, this is the time when a woman needs to be strong.'

As I was, she wanted to say, remembering the day she stood at the back door of Killalah with Erwin in one arm and Jo's clothes and books in the other. She could remember him looking at her, puppy dog, as she dropped his belongings on the back porch. She could even remember saying, ‘I'll be sleeping with a knife under my pillow.'

Erwin sat beside his wife. He handed her the baby and said, ‘Here, don't worry … that will heal.' Then he looked at his mother. ‘It's also the time,' he explained, slowly and calmly, ‘when a woman needs help.'

Luise could see her mother's rubble-covered leg again. She could see her father's polished shoes, their laces tied together in a double knot. And she could hear Schubert on their old gramophone with its blunt needle – high Ds and Es floating out of windows, across Bramweg, settling in stalls full of under-ripe peaches and pistachio nuts.

Erwin was still glaring at her. She shrugged. ‘What?'

‘Try and feel,' he said.

‘What?'

‘What it's like to be someone else.'

He had a long list of people – Jo, Shirley, Declan, Father O'Gorman – an honour roll of names passing before his eyes like the credits to an overlong MGM spectacular. He turned and walked into Luise's single room. He took a drawer out of the tallboy and walked into his room. Then he emptied some of Luise's clothes onto the double bed. ‘Well,' he said to his mother, reappearing, ‘are you going to help me?'

‘This won't work.'

‘Try,' he said.

She clenched her jaw and stood up. Then she followed her son into the single room.

Luise buried her face in her son's hair. All she could hear was his breathing, and Madge saying, ‘Don't take the clothes out, you'll just have to refold them all.'

When Erwin appeared she smiled at him, whispering, ‘Thank you,' although she guessed it wouldn't last. She knew Madge. She knew the old bag liked to let a few balls through occasionally, to keep it competitive.

When Madge emerged from the single room she was also smiling. This time, she was thinking. This time.

The professor sat at his piano. He opened a camel bone pillbox and took out a small white pill. He put it in his mouth and washed it down with warm water. Then he put his fingers on the keys, starting slowly and then quickening, eventually racing through a simple fugue. After a few bars he stopped, lifted his hands and looked at his fingers.

Christ, he mumbled.

He stood up and raced to the toilet. He sat there for five minutes, coaxing every drop from his bladder, before he returned and sat at his harmonium without washing his hands.

He waited until the bellows were full and then started playing his own transcription of the opening section of Schoenberg's
Transfigured Night
.

And then he stopped again, standing, going over to the far wall and placing his mouth an inch away from the mortar. ‘Arn … old Schoen … berg,' he said, looking at his watch. ‘Four fifteen pm, Tuesday, 29 November 1940.'

He returned to his harmonium. Instead of continuing he jerked his head in a spasm, clutching the ends of his stool and saying, ‘Lovely boy …' Calming. Looking up at the music. Whispering, ‘Lovely boy.'

Meanwhile, Erwin had left his women behind. Another argument. This time over who should cook the lamb shanks. Madge wasn't about to become some sort of maid as well. She'd been at work all morning. Luise had had a taste of victory and wasn't about to give in.

So here he was, sitting on a bench in the park, his legs crossed, his collar turned up against light snow.

A woman walked past and he picked up a scent that took him back to kindergarten. How long, he thought, charting a course back through first shave, short pants and a blur of yellow plasticine, perfume, magpies in the scribbly gums along the North Para creek, school milk in a glass so big it took two hands.

A fern house, sand-bagged, looking like a giant sugar cube. A spotlight and a .88mm gun covered in grey netting. A circle of HJ boys in singlets and shorts, surrounding a pair of boxing twelve-year-olds.

As he heard himself talking to his mum. ‘Try …'