Music From Standing Waves (26 page)

“Very good. Let’s play slowly through the
first line. Violins up. Fingers out of noses. No, keep your hands
to yourself, thank you. Is that an appropriate place for your bow
to be? Fingers out of noses!”

Two hours later, I stumbled gratefully into
the violin-less street, praising the exquisite sound of peak hour
traffic. The icy chill of winter had disappeared, but the spring
evening was edged with a cold breeze. I tucked the ends of my scarf
inside my jacket and walked towards the station.

After two weeks, I was missing Matt like
hell. He would always wait patiently for me outside the hall, lean
on a pillar and casually bring a cigarette to his lips. I’d kiss
him gratefully and he would carry my violin back to his car while I
whinged about my incompetent students.

Now there was no welcoming smile to signal
the end of work, no-one to complain to about the regressing talent
of the junior school orchestra and, I thought as I shoved my way
onto the packed train, no lift home. We had spoken a couple of
times at uni, after countless frosty stand-offs in the middle of
the Con foyer.

“We should try and be friends,” he said. “For
the sake of everyone else. For the whole Friday night thing.”

“Sure. I can be civil.” I was sure the gulf
between the two of us had become too big to ever get over. Losing
Matt left a hole not even Dvorak could fill.

I clung to a pole as the train rattled over
the tracks. Someone was pushing against my violin case and ripping
my arm from its socket. I sighed. This wasn’t what the Con was
supposed to be about. It was supposed to be glamorous; a
stepping-stone to my illustrious performance career. Instead, it
was the point on my résumé that had secured the job teaching ten
little shits who exploded into giggles whenever I asked them to
play the G string. In the back of my mind was the conversation I
had had almost three years earlier with Andrew’s friend Lily. Her
words had stayed with me since the moment they were spoken.

“It’s a bitch, you know; the Con…”

I didn’t want Lily to be right.

Jess pulled me out of the choir hall before
the final cadence had even ended. Her latest obsession was an
American exchange student named Mickey and she had been counting
down the hours until she saw him again.

“Let’s go!” she sung. “I’m getting the
six-forty train. We can make it if we run.” She swished her hips in
the bright green printed skirt she had found at the op shop. She
had pinned the broken zip with a safety pin and I could see her
undies but Jess said she didn’t mind. It was a statement. I thought
she probably hadn’t realised they were showing until after she had
left the house.

“I’m going to stay and practise,” I said.
“There’s only a month to go.”

“Three weeks, five days and counting…”
groaned Jess. “Don’t be silly. Mickey and me will be out late, you
can have the whole house to yourself. You don’t want to be alone in
those tiny little practice rooms all night.”

“I don’t want to get distracted. I’d rather
stay here.”

She unscrewed the lid of her water bottle and
took a sip. “Okay, honey. If you’re sure that’s what you want to
do. But don’t be too late home.”

I trudged down to the practice rooms at the
back of the Con. The grey walls were peeling and the whole dingy
corridor smelled of rotting fruit, courtesy of an apple left in the
common room by someone who had graduated circa 1973.

I pushed the door of my room closed and tuned
my violin. Across the hall, I could hear the muffled sounds of an
oboe and one bar of a Chopin etude being repeated like a broken
record. I opened my score. It was full of grey-lead scribbles from
John.
‘Rhythm’
he had scrawled.
‘Watch position change.
Broader vibrato…’.
I was still trying to take it all in.

I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to
empty my mind of everything except the music. My bow moved slowly
through the tuplets. I imagined how it would sound with the
orchestra behind me. I could hear my dramatic solo rising up over
the horns and woodwinds. I shivered in anticipation.

One by one, the muted sounds from the other
practice rooms disappeared. The security guard poked his head
around my door.

“I’m locking up,” he said, jangling his keys
on the end of his finger. “You got an access card to let yourself
out?”

I nodded and turned back to the music. The
light under the door had vanished; the rest of the Con now bathed
in darkness. I began to play louder to drown out the eerie creaks
that moved through the old, deserted building.

Finally, I flicked closed the music and
rubbed my aching head against my arm. Once more, from memory, start
to finish. I rolled my arms in a wide circle, then sat my violin
back on my shoulder. I struck the opening note and let the rich
tone vibrate around the room. In my mind, I filled the bars rest
with the dark orchestral melody. My bowing arm stretched sluggishly
over the leaps and I struggled through the final cadenza, a sharp
pain shooting through my wrists and hands. When I lifted my fingers
at the end of the piece there was blood on my strings.

The clock in the Con foyer was five minutes
fast. After I discovered this at the end of first semester, I would
sit there every Tuesday, watching the seconds tick by until it
showed twenty-five to four and I couldn’t put my lesson off any
longer. As I watched the clock, my mind would overflow with
anxiety. Every week I would sit there, knowing that once again I
hadn’t done enough practice. Even the weeks when I had worked my
arse off- the way I had since quitting Standing Waves- I would
still sit there, staring at the dusty white face, knowing it hadn’t
been enough. And then I would draw in my breath, cross my fingers
and walk into John’s studio.

But lately, my unease had softened. I could
feel the Dvorak piecing itself together, slowly bringing back my
confidence. I let myself into the studio five minutes early.

John opened my score and waited for me to
begin. I closed my eyes and imagined myself playing the opening
bars perfectly. Then I inhaled and lifted my bow to the
strings.

As I played, John began pounding out the beat
on the edge of the piano, slowly at first, then faster and faster
until my bow flew over the strings. I had no idea what my fingers
were doing and I didn’t stop to think about it. John reached up and
flicked the score shut. I didn’t miss a note. The music swirled
inside me. I felt Dvorak’s passion and the flood of the rippling
cadenza. It was as though everything that had flowed from his head
as he wrote the piece had somehow been transferred to me.

Suddenly, my problems seemed so petty. Matt,
Clara and the junior school orchestra all blended into
insignificance. Nothing mattered except the music. I remembered
suddenly what real inspiration felt like. I remembered why I had
cried for joy when I had been accepted into the Con. The passion
that had carried me through my childhood in Queensland had suddenly
come rushing back.

I touched the final cadence and let the eerie
A minor fill the room. John held the silence for a moment. He
crossed his legs.

“It’s improving,” he said. “But not quickly
enough.”

I dropped onto the piano stool. My adrenalin
plummeted through the floor. I longed for Andrew’s musty basement
with the blue wallpaper. I longed for his calm voice.

“Beautiful, Abs…”

“I know it’s hard work, Abby, but you’re
going to be in front of the orchestra in two weeks and they won’t
stop for you. You need to do better.”

Angry tears simmered behind my eyes. I
clenched my fist around the neck of the violin. Suddenly I didn’t
care about keeping my composure. I wanted John to see me cry. I
leapt to my feet.

“I can’t do better!” Tears spilled down my
cheeks. “I have practised for hours every day to get this right and
I can’t do any more! This is all I have!”

John lifted my flailing bow out of my hand.
He touched my shoulder. “If that’s how you feel, maybe performance
isn’t for you.”

“Don’t tell me that,” I sobbed.

He rifled through his briefcase and handed me
a tissue. I squeezed it between my fingers, without wiping my
eyes.

“Performance
is
for me! It has to
be!”

John watched me choke down my tears. “I think
you ought to pull out of the competition. You’re not handling the
pressure.”

“No. No.” I snatched my bow. “Just tell me
what I need to improve.”

John began to pace across the creaking
carpet. “Abby, you know what you need to improve. We’ve been over
it again and again. I just don’t feel as though you’re really
getting anywhere.”

“I’ll do it again.” My hand trembled on the
fingerboard. John held up his palm to command silence.

“You’re in no state to play any more today.
Put your violin away.”

I moped across the room and packed up my
things. “I’m not pulling out of the competition,” I said.

John nodded. “If that’s what you want. But
please think about why you’re doing this, Abby. Is it really worth
it?”

I sat on my bed with the phone in my lap.
Rain pounded the roof and headlights flashed through the gap in my
curtains. In the lounge, Jess was practising scales, smacking the
keys with her fist at every mistake. I pulled my doona up over my
head. Dialled with a shaking finger and pressed the phone to my
ear. It rang three times.

“Andrew?”

“Yeah, speaking.”

I swallowed heavily. “This is Abby
Austin.”

“Abby,” said Andrew shortly. “It’s nice to
hear from you.”

A sharp pain stabbed the back of my throat
and I tried to push it away. “I’m sorry it’s been so long,” I
croaked. I heard Andrew exhale and imagined him running his fingers
through his hair the way he did when he wasn’t sure what to
say.

“How have you been?” he asked finally.

“Good,” I lied. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Just teaching and
stuff.”

The muscles in my throat tightened. “Where
are you?”

“Driving home.” I heard a swishing sound as a
car passed his.

I tried to force a lightness into my voice.
“Very naughty.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hang on, I’ll put you on
speaker.”

I sucked in my breath. “How’s Hayley?”

“She’s good,” said Andrew, his voice
brightening slightly.

I rested my head against my knees.

“She told me she saw you. That must have been
nice for both of you.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “It was great.” I wrung my
free hand around the corner of my doona. Tears stung my eyes and I
couldn’t tell if they were for him or me.

“So how’s the violin going?” he asked. “What
pieces are you playing?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but fell
speechless.

“Abby? You still there?”

My eyes overflowed. “I’m still here.”

“Are you crying?”

I sniffed. “No.”

“What’s wrong?”

I gulped down my breath. “Nothing’s wrong,” I
coughed. “I just needed to hear your voice.”

“I don’t believe you. I know you too well.”
He paused. “You can’t have changed that much in two years.”

I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my
pyjamas. “I’m just stressed out. I’ve got a big competition coming
up.”

“Well good luck,” said Andrew. “And take it
easy. Don’t forget that music is supposed to be something you
love.”

“I really miss you,” I blurted.

“I miss you too, Abs. I’m glad you finally
called. There are a lot of people here that would like to hear from
you.”

I buried myself into the doona. “Do you think
we could just chat for a while? Not talk about music or
anything?”

“Abs, I’d love to, really. But I need to get
home. I’m sorry.”

“That’s cool.” My voice trembled.

“I’d better go,” said Andrew. “But it really
was great to hear from you. Give me a call and let me know how your
competition goes.”

“Okay.” I bit my lip. “Take care.” My voice
was scratchy.

“Yeah sure,” said Andrew. “You too okay.”

I sniffed. “I’ll try.”

With a week until the competition heats, the
practice rooms at the Con had become my second home. I was on a
first name basis with the late night cleaner, who would sit at the
bottom of the stairs and share her thermos of coffee with me.

Concerto practice and waitressing quickly
replaced sleep, turning logic into a thing of the past.

Once, I thought I saw a bus driver with his
head on backwards.

A guy bought a Coke from a vending machine
and when he opened it, it fizzed all over the street. I cried for
him.

And three times in the last week I was
certain I had seen Justin on the platforms of the underground
station.

I got home from uni with wet feet and a
headache. Fell asleep on my bed without taking off my shoes. When I
woke suddenly, streetlights were glowing through my open curtains.
It had begun to rain and the windows were screened in condensation.
A waft of spices floated into my room. My stomach grumbled loudly.
I glanced at my phone and leapt out of bed. Jess looked up from the
frying pan as I stumbled bleary-eyed into the lounge. I sifted
through the pile of washing I’d left on the couch.

“Have you seen my apron? I’m late for work.”
I rubbed my eyes, desperately trying to make them function
properly. Jess slammed down her wooden spoon. It cracked loudly on
the bench top.

“You can’t be serious! You’re not going to
work in your state, you’re a complete mess.”

I rifled through the washing basket. “I’m
fine.”

Jess charged into the laundry and pushed the
phone into my hand. “Don’t be so stupid. Call them and say you’re
not coming in. You haven’t slept properly for days.”

I closed my eyes wearily. More like weeks, I
thought. “I can’t. It’s too short notice. And I need the money.” I
wrestled my apron out of the basket and sponged at the globs of
crusty tomato sauce. “I called Andrew,” I said, scrubbing
furiously. “He doesn’t even know. Hayley hasn’t even told him.”