Dissonance (16 page)

‘Planned what? To catch a ferry? Come on.'

Luise looked at Madge.

‘Well, if it's your favourite.'

‘What time are you leaving?'

‘Soon,' Madge insisted.

‘I'll have to ask. I'd love to hear it.' She took her music and almost ran from the flat. When she was gone, Madge locked the door and said to her son, ‘That was an hour and a half.'

‘So?' he asked.

‘What about your practice?'

‘That
was
my practice.'

‘This charity will put you behind.'

‘Behind what?'

‘From now on, half an hour a day,
at most
.'

‘What if she needs more help?'

Madge stormed into her room. She sat on the edge of her bed, opened her compact and started to powder her face. ‘Oh yes, she'll need more help, no doubt about that. And you …'

‘What?'

‘I can see what's happening.'

‘What?'

‘If she wants help she'll have to pay.'

‘Mum.'

Madge closed her compact and produced a lipstick. She twisted it, and started applying it, checking herself in the dresser mirror. ‘You have worked too hard for this,' she explained, without smudging herself. ‘You have a gift, like a surgeon. Doctors don't work for free, why should you?'

‘She's a friend.'

‘Don't be so simple, Erwin. Everyone will be your friend.' She stopped. Erwin didn't reply. He knew it wasn't about the money, or the time, but he didn't want to ruin their evening in town. So he turned and walked into his room.

‘Your bow tie,' her voice echoed, as he closed his door, as he heard the top of her lipstick being replaced with a satisfied clunk.

After the concert they returned to the ferry via a hive of wide, cobbled alleyways overbuilt with two- and three-storey half-timbered houses. Some of them were fatter at the bottom and thinner at the top, like dry-docked galleons, and some of the rooftops nearly touched, ensuring a lack of sunlight on even the brightest day. To compensate, most of the walls were windows, and as Erwin walked along the alleys he could see fires and women cooking or ironing through the gaps in curtains. But mostly the alleys were flooded with yellow gaslight, full of damp and shadows and puddles that never dried out.

They walked to the Bismarck monument – the Iron Chancellor chiselled from granite, gazing across a park studded with oak, elm and corroded urinals. Wherever they went they could see the spire and dome of St Michael's church and hear the horns, crashing of metal and humming of cranes from the Stülcken shipyard. Erwin ran down the side of the memorial hill, screaming, his feet thumping on the grass, nearly colliding with a tree. Luise followed a few feet behind. Her legs buckled and she fell to the ground, rolling, holding her ankle and trying to stop herself.

Erwin ran up to her and Madge trudged down. They helped her up and she tried to move her ankle. ‘I'm fine,' she said. ‘I need to get more practical shoes.'

Soon they were on the ferry, rocking in the swell of the Elbe, trying to make themselves comfortable on torn leather seats. ‘What sort of service is this?' Madge asked, as the engine revved and they pulled away from the dock.

Luise just looked at her, and then at Erwin. Madge watched the girl's eyes, staring at her son. Then Erwin turned to his mother and said, ‘Lusty.'

‘Pardon?' she replied, straining to hear him.

‘The pianist,' Erwin explained. ‘He really threw himself into it.'

Madge held her purse in her lap. ‘But sloppy,' she said. ‘I heard mistakes.'

‘That will happen,' he pointed out, ‘if you attack the piano like that. But it was wonderful, wasn't it, Luise? Banging away, throwing his head about, and he almost stood up.'

‘And sweat flying everywhere,' she added.

‘His hair was soaked.'

‘Flashy,' Madge observed. ‘Remember, Erwin, we saw a film of Krause playing Beethoven, and he barely moved a muscle, just two small hands.'

‘That was his style.'

‘The proper way.'

‘Different musicians have different styles, Madge,' Luise dared.

Madge? What happened to Mrs Hergert? You impudent little –

‘Krause was an old man,' Erwin explained.

‘But he got exactly the same effect,' Madge insisted. ‘You'd think a German, playing Beethoven, would know better.'

‘What's being German got to do with it?' Luise asked.

Madge stared her down. ‘It's just something I've noticed.'

‘What?'

‘Pardon?'

‘What?'

‘It seems to be the fashion over here. Lots of drama. Missing the point of the music … the subtlety.'

‘Germans are dramatic?'

‘Herr Hitler puts on a very good show,' Madge continued.

‘He's very popular.'

‘I know.'

‘And a very good leader.'

‘So it seems. We have parades past our window every day. Sometimes at night, with their torches lit. All very dramatic.'

Luise sat up. ‘Is there anything wrong with that?'

Madge shrugged. ‘Not unless you're a Jew.'

‘Mum, let's not get started,' Erwin moaned.

By now Luise was on the edge of her seat. ‘But you're not.'

‘Thankfully.'

Magda-Madge looked out of the window, her head tilted up to see a car flying through the air in a crane-sling. She squinted, and imagined it dropping, and falling on someone.

‘Madge?'

‘Mrs Hergert.'

‘Mrs Hergert, please don't say these things, if you don't understand. The Jews had taken over this country. Every lawyer, every doctor – '

Madge looked at her. ‘Every lawyer in Germany?'

‘Lots. You've been here, how many weeks?'

‘Long enough,' Madge explained. ‘These things wouldn't happen in a civilised country. Look at this paint on my dress.' She showed them a faint yellow stripe she'd tried to get out with turpentine. ‘Do you know how it got there?' She was looking at Luise, but Luise was watching the steward making coffee in an improvised cafeteria.

‘I'll tell you,' Madge continued. ‘The other night I was walking home and there were these … men … painting on a shop window. “Buy at German shops”, or something like that. As I walked past the shopkeeper came out and they started pushing him about. The next thing, he falls against me, and I fall against the window.'

She stopped to let her words settle.

‘Stockbrokers,' Luise continued. ‘A few years back, ninety per cent of them were Jewish.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘It's a fact.'

‘Stop it, you sound like a pair of kids,' Erwin interrupted.

Madge looked at him. ‘I won't say another word.' She crossed her arms and stared ahead. ‘Dramatics,' she whispered, finally.

There was silence for a full minute. Erwin closed his eyes to think, and then looked at Luise. ‘You hate Jews?' he asked.

‘I didn't say I hated them,' she corrected. ‘I said they had … taken over. You'd have to be German to understand.'

‘I think what Mum's saying is, the way they get treated …'

‘It's not me. I'm not a whole country.'

‘No … but …'

‘I wouldn't go out and paint windows.'

Erwin let it go. He wasn't entirely shocked by Luise's views, but more than anything, he liked her spirit. He turned to his mother. ‘There's nothing worse than brown eyes,' he dared, smiling.

But she just looked at the yellow paint on her dress, and refused to answer.

Erwin prepared for his lesson the usual way. He sat at the piano in Schaedel's office and opened his Czerny exercises; he cracked his fingers (and was told off for it) and adjusted the height of the stool.

‘Shall I begin?' he asked, looking at Schaedel, who was searching through a small mountain of paper on his desk.

‘Yes, I'll be with you in a minute.'

Erwin began the scales disguised as fugues. He knew them well. Soon his eyes drifted from the music to a framed photo propped up against scores on top of the piano. It showed a woman in her late forties with a slim build and straight black hair, and two boys, fifteen or sixteen, pretending to kiss her. He remembered what Luise had said, and asked (as he kept playing), ‘Is this your wife?'

‘Concentrate … yes.'

His eyes returned to the music.

‘I have a piece here somewhere,' Schaedel explained, as he flicked through scores.

‘For me?' Erwin asked.

‘Concentrate!'

‘I've played this a thousand times.'

‘All the more reason.'

Erwin looked at the photo again. Mrs Schaedel was a plain woman, and her face was serious. She might have been Italian (from the North, Erwin guessed) or Spanish, or even French. She wasn't unattractive, just plain; like the cleaner who mopped out the foyer and hallways of their building twice a week.

Have you finished with her, Erwin wanted to ask. Is this photo just for show? Or are you still a happily married man, dabbling with some young flesh on the side?

Erwin thought he was about to find out. Schaedel sat next to him and put his hand on his knee. ‘Here,' he said. ‘Mendelssohn.'

But then removed it. He unfolded a piece of sheet music that was yellow, torn and stained with what looked like gravy. Then he laid it across the Czerny. ‘This will be perfect,' he said.

‘For what?' Erwin asked.

‘Your recital.'

‘Recital?'

‘Yes, once a month we have a student recital … in the evening. All of the students and teachers come, and when it's finished, there are questions, and comments.'

Erwin grimaced. ‘People can say what they think?'

‘Exactly. Too slow, too fast, too soft … but it's nothing nasty. People realise they'll be up on stage too. So it's all very cosy.'

Schaedel lifted his eyebrows. ‘Don't worry, you've got nothing to fear. But some of the singers … This is very necessary, Erwin, if you want to be a professional. It's better to hear it from friends now, than critics later. But like I said, you've got nothing to fear.' He put his hand back on Erwin's knee. This time he squeezed it and shook it a little.

Erwin froze. He tried to think of a reason to move but couldn't find one. So he looked at the music and hoped for the best. ‘
Andante and Rondo Capriccioso
,' he whispered. ‘I've played the slow movement before.'

Schaedel's hand was still there. ‘I thought, something melodic, and fun, to start off with,' he explained.

Erwin raised his right hand to play the main theme of the Andante. But then Schaedel laid his hand over Erwin's. ‘Guess what?' he said.

‘What?' Erwin replied, uneasily.

‘Today we don't need a piano.'

‘How am I going to practise?'

And Schaedel tapped the side of his head with his index finger. ‘Follow me,' he said.

Erwin took the sheet music and slipped it into his satchel. Then he followed Schaedel out of the room, down the stairs, along the hallway and out of the students' entrance to the conservatorium.

‘Keep up,' Schaedel said, skipping, almost running along a narrow, overbuilt lane that led towards a main road.

‘Where are we going?' Erwin called.

‘Hurry up. I have a lecture at two.'

They emerged onto a main road, clogged with cars, trucks and delivery vans jostling with pedestrians. There were no lanes, only spaces filled with exhaust, lame dogs and squashed cabbage. Unusually, there was no sense of order, but everything seemed to flow without incident. The street was lined with shops, and a few vans had double-parked to unload trays of meat or wicker baskets full of carrots. Schaedel sat down on a bench and motioned for Erwin to join him. Erwin sat down and laid his satchel across his lap. ‘Where are we going?' he asked.

‘Here,' Schaedel replied.

‘For my lesson?'

‘Yes, for your lesson.'

‘But how will I practise?'

Schaedel smiled. ‘There's more to piano than keys and fingers,' he explained.

Erwin was perplexed. He looked ahead, through the traffic, past piles of steaming horse shit, at rolls of fabric sticking out of a tea-chest, tins of gold and silver buttons reflecting the little bit of sunlight the sky had managed to muster. Then he looked back at his teacher. ‘So?' he asked.

Schaedel took a deep breath. He stretched back, and closed his eyes. ‘It's nice to feel the sun on your face,' he said. ‘That place is like a dungeon.'

Erwin still didn't know what to say.

Then Schaedel whispered, ‘Answer me one question, Erwin.'

‘Yes?'

‘How many of these people do you think care about Handel?'

Erwin stopped to think. ‘A few.'

Schaedel looked at him. ‘Perhaps. So, of those few, how many do you think play or listen to his music?'

Erwin looked at them, as if they might turn around and tell him. ‘A few,' he replied.

Schaedel sat up. He put his hands on his knees and said, ‘Almost no one. Out of all these people, if you could find one who'd been to a concert and heard the
Andante and Capriccioso
, if … do you think they'd be able to tell you the pianist's name?'

‘Maybe not.'

‘Definitely not. So tell me, Erwin, why are you sitting here next to me, Ivan Schaedel, the man who'll teach you how to be poor? You're a young, strong, clever fellow, why aren't you studying engineering or medicine or law?'

Erwin wasn't sure. ‘I want to be a success.'

‘But do you know your chances?'

‘Yes.'

‘So?'

‘I'm willing to try.'

Schaedel looked at him suspiciously. ‘
You're
willing to try?'

‘Yes.'

‘And what if you end up back in Australia teaching six-year-olds for the rest of your life, despising music for letting you down? Wishing you'd used your time more profitably?'