Dissonance (7 page)

‘Which is why he came here?'

‘Declan's a good worker,' Fred interrupted. ‘He loves that job. He'll end up runnin' the place.'

‘He wanted to run the shop, but that was out of the ­question,' Shirley explained.

‘Mum had to sell it,' Erwin said. ‘To get money for us … for lessons.'

‘Or to keep it away from us.'

Erwin searched, but her smile was gone. ‘No …?'

Surely she sold it for my lessons, he thought. That's what she said. Where else would the money come from?

‘I was lonely for years after your dad died,' Shirley said. ‘Until I met Fred. We were married last year.'

‘That's good,' Erwin managed. ‘It's all worked out, eh?'

‘It has.'

‘I gotta go. Say hello to Declan for me.'

‘Wait.'

‘I'm missing maths. They'll call a roll.'

‘Come back soon then. Come back and see him.'

He stood. ‘Thanks. It's been good. See you later, Fred.'

‘Nice to meet you, Erwin. Don't listen to that old …' But he trailed off.

Shirley saw him to the door and kissed him and pressed his hand in hers. ‘Promise you'll come back,' she said. ‘We won't say a word, if that's what you're worried about.'

‘Thanks, Shirley.'

He kissed her on the cheek and started down the garden path. He wanted to cry. Here was the house, the garden, the people, the jobs and the thousands of little things that could've, and should've, been his. Here was his past, but also his future. But he had to go. He was late for school and he would have to explain that.

Just as he turned out of the gate he stopped to face another boy. He was almost a man, square and strong and padded on the chest, his face unshaved and his cheeks as red as glazed cherries. The boy smiled. ‘I know who you are,' he said.

Meanwhile, Madge had caught the train to town. As lunch was ending at Nuriootpa School, she was waiting at the main office of the conservatorium.

‘Any word?' she asked the secretary, who sat filing cards in a metal box.

‘He said he'd come as soon as his lesson's finished.'

Watch your tone, Madge wanted to say. Don't you know who I am? I'm Erwin Hergert's mother.

Reg Carter came up behind her. ‘Mrs Hergert?'

‘Madge,' she insisted, turning and smiling, offering him her hand. Instead of taking it he asked, ‘How have you been?'

‘So-so.' She rubbed her hip, resisting the temptation to describe her rheumy knees and swollen feet.

‘Erwin's flying along,' Reg said. ‘It's good you can get him to practise.'

‘It's not that difficult,' Madge replied. ‘I can't keep him away from the damn thing.'

‘Excellent.' Then he stopped, and looked at her as if to say, So?

‘You wouldn't have ten minutes?' she asked.

‘I have a lesson.'

‘Five then. I've come all the way from Nuri.'

He smiled. ‘Fine. Mozart's not going anywhere, is he?'

He led her down the dark hallway. ‘I hope this isn't about the money?'

‘No,' she replied. ‘Although I intend repaying it.'

‘One day, perhaps,' he whispered, opening his office door for her. ‘I haven't seen you since the Christmas concert,' he continued, moving scores from a leather seat for her to sit down.

‘No,' she replied, hoping he wouldn't pursue it.

‘That was a strange night,' he said.

‘Yes …'

Strange. A dozen kids dressed up in black and white, a small crowd of parents in suits and summer dresses and ceiling fans clunking in the green room as Reg distributed the programs. Madge took hers and quickly looked at the order. ‘Excuse me, Mr Carter,' she said, following him around the room, ‘you've got Erwin fourth.'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘But didn't we agree that he would close the concert?'

‘Mrs Hergert …'

‘Madge.'

‘Madge, in the end I drew names from a hat … to avoid this sort of thing.'

‘Oh.' Madge studied the program. She noticed that the Leske twins were on last, as usual. They were playing a Tchaikovsky transcription, four hands. A big finish. How was that drawn out of a hat?

‘I noticed you had the Leske twins – '

‘Mrs Hergert!' He stopped and looked at her. ‘I have a hundred things to do.'

‘I know, only, Erwin's
Träumerei
would make a wonderful finish to the evening, don't you think?'

Madge knew whom the crowd would remember. Everyone knew you left the best until last, it was basic psychology, and you could hardly write on the program that the order of artists was selected at random.

‘I suggest we make an announcement,' Madge said.

‘I suggest we don't,' Reg replied.

‘Mum,' Erwin pleaded. ‘I don't care.'

‘Quiet.'

Reg shrugged. ‘Sorry, it's decided, the program's printed and everyone knows their spot … and is happy with it.'

I bet they are, Madge thought, looking at the Leske twins, done up in brand new tuxedos while her son was dressed in one of his dad's old suits. Jo, again, ruining everything. Although Erwin would prove himself the superior musician, out-playing the monkey twins – flashy music by flashy kids with flashy parents who were related to the Barr-Smiths and Elders of Torrens Park. Money buying them influence and privilege. For now. As their monkey fingers masturbated the keys to produce climax after climax – Tchaikovsky schmaltz, music to entertain the idle classes.

Reg sat down in front of her and crossed his legs. He looked into her eyes and remembered why he had a soft spot for Erwin, why he'd always favoured him over others – longer lessons, free scores, reduced fees. All because of her: the old Viking with peppermint breath.

‘So,' he asked, finally, ‘how can I help you, Madge?'

She took a moment and then said, ‘I wonder if you could recommend a teacher for Erwin.'

He was taken back. ‘But I'm his teacher.'

She smiled. ‘For now, and you're wonderful, wonderful. But the thing is … I want him to take his music all the way.'

‘All the way?'

‘Yes, Mr Carter, I want him to be the best.'

‘The best? In the world?'

‘Of course.'

Reg wasn't entirely sure what he was up against. ‘So, why does he need a new teacher?'

‘Why not?'

‘There's still a lot I can teach him, Madge.'

‘I know. But there will come a day … My thinking is, why wait?'

Reg shook his head. ‘Why not? He should finish school, do his music degree and then, perhaps …'

‘I don't agree. I'm not sure he needs to know the history of music, or how to tune a mandolin.'

‘No, Madge, he needs to know everything. There's more to music than eighty-eight keys.'

‘Perhaps.' She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and touched it to the tip of her nose. ‘You, I'm sure, have ­produced excellent students.'

‘I have,' he insisted. ‘Several with concert careers in Europe.'

‘Like who?'

‘Robert Morris – he just played the Grieg with the London Philharmonic. Anthony Peluso, MacNamara, Petchell.'

Never heard of 'em, she wanted to say.

Reg Carter was losing patience. ‘John Petchell has recorded with the ABC.'

‘The ABC? See, that's just the thing. Most musical activity seems to be in Europe.'

‘Lots, but not all.'

‘Lots … So that's what I was thinking. Do you know any decent teachers in, say … Germany?'

‘For when?'

‘Soon?'

‘Madge, he's too young.'

‘You said he was flying ahead.'

‘But he's got to mature, socialise, have fun.'

‘And he will. But it's competitive, isn't it? If he were over there, he'd experience the culture. He'd be up against the best.'

‘He's fifteen.'

‘And not as good as a lot of fifteen-year-olds.'

‘Better.'

‘
Australian
fifteen-year-olds. But what about a fifteen-year-old in Berlin?'

‘Alright, Madge, I haven't got the time,' he interrupted. ‘Even if you did this, it's a very big gamble. You'd leave your home and family?'

‘Of course.'

‘Have you thought how it would affect Erwin?'

‘I don't want to appear ungrateful,' Madge replied. ‘You're the most wonderful teacher, you've done so much for him. But that's why I'm asking you. I trust you, Mr Carter.'

‘And I'm saying I think you should wait.'

‘Noted.'

She smiled. That's why you're still here, she thought. In Australia. That's why you're number six hundred on the long, long list of the world's best pianists. That's why you're second-rate – because you didn't sacrifice enough. You are here because your parents paid for your education, not because you had to work for it. You are a monkey, too, with your rings on your fingers and your North Adelaide mansion with teal-blue tiles (oh, yes, Erwin told me all about it). You are a different beast altogether, Mr Carter. You were given music, you didn't have to fight for it. You only know it superficially, and I need someone who can breathe it, smell it, vomit it and blow it out of his arse.

She watched as he scribbled a name and address on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. ‘Schaedel,' he said. ‘I forget his first name, but my brother studied with him. Probably the best in Germany, if that's what you're after.'

‘And where is he?' Madge asked.

‘Hamburg Conservatorium,' he replied.

Madge's eyes lit up. ‘Ah, Hamburg. The
Reeperbahn
.'

‘You've been there?'

‘I have the book, Mr Carter.'

In the train on the way home Madge asked for a card-table. She opened her purse, took out a pen and a fresh piece of marbled paper and started to write a letter. On the top right-hand corner she copied the details that Reg had given her: Herr Schaedel, Hamburg Konserv, Sülldorf, Hamburg, Germany. In her best Barossa Deutsch she inquired about his terms, his availability and whether he would take a student sight unseen on the basis of a reference from Mr Reg Carter, Professor of Piano, Elder Conservatorium, Adelaide, Australia.

By five the following evening the earth was paralysed by cold. Erwin had been practising the slow movement of the
Moonlight Sonata
for hours. He couldn't feel his fingers. He wore gloves with the digits cut off but they didn't help. When he had finished the entire movement, he called out to his mother, ‘How was that?'

‘It didn't make me want to cry,' she replied, standing in the laundry, ironing, straining to see lost cattle through frozen window panes.

‘Slower … softer?' he called.

‘Concentrate on the right hand. Play the melody more … legato.'

‘I did.'

‘Phrases … like a voice singing. That's what the ear picks out.' And then she started singing the tune in a flat, spasmodic voice. Erwin was soon playing along, his left hand generating mechanical arpeggios as his right hand sang, as Madge's strong, brown hand guided the iron along a narrow collar. She warbled, getting faster and slower, and he attempted to keep up with her. ‘How's that?' he asked.

‘Better,' she replied, between snatches of melody, taking Erwin's school shirts and almost gliding into his room to hang them up. When she finished she noticed a pile of books strewn across his bed and picked one up:
Vocational Maths
. She flicked through. Fractions, percentages, compound and simple interest – stuff that even she could understand. She wondered what maths was really good for – counting change? That's what shopkeepers did. Erwin noticed her voice had stopped, but played on. The C two octaves down from middle C was stiff and he knew he tended to over-compensate. ‘Mum,' he called out, ‘we should get this key fixed. I always hit it harder on Mr Carter's piano … Mum?'

Madge appeared at the door, holding his school diary. She looked at him with a frown. ‘What does this mean?' she asked.

Erwin stopped and looked at her. He didn't know what to say. ‘What?' he asked, nervously holding his fingers above the keys, starting to feel them tremble from more than just cold.

‘This note,' she asked, staring at him, putting her left hand firmly on her hip.

‘What note?'

‘Here,' she replied, tapping the diary with her finger, stepping towards him. ‘“Erwin was absent from school Tuesday afternoon.”'

‘I wasn't,' he said.

She held out the diary. ‘Well?'

‘I was late for roll.'

Madge bit her bottom lip. ‘Then why did they write this?'

‘I don't know. You're meant to be on time.'

‘And where were you?'

‘Practising.'

She put her other hand on her hip. ‘Erwin?'

‘It's true.'

‘This has never happened before.'

‘So?'

The first thing to enter Madge's mind were the letters from Declan. She could see them blowing out of the truck window, unfolding, scattering along the creek bed.

‘You weren't late,' she said.

Erwin bowed his head and squinted. ‘I was.'

‘Tell me the truth.'

‘It is.'

She put her face to his and shouted. ‘Now!'

‘I am!'

Her face was red, blue blood pumping across her temples. She turned towards a hutch, bent over, opened a door and produced one of the old horsewhips she'd used on Jo. She let the leather thong fall loose and then turned to Erwin. ‘Would you lie to me?' she asked.

‘No,' he replied, compressing into a ball, hitting his head on the keys and starting to cry.

‘Tell me,' she said. ‘It was that boy, wasn't it?'