Mercy (13 page)

* * *

have bumbled well into Figure 21 when Paul Stenborg claps his hands loudly and with evident displeasure. The whole circus shudders to a halt, and you’d think the other choirmasters would be annoyed at his high-handedness, but they aren’t. It’s a measure of the respect they have for the much younger man that they wait expectantly for his words. Even Miss Fellows looks attentive, almost deferential, and I wonder at it.

‘
Infirma nostri corporis
,’ Paul says in a ringing voice.

‘
Virtute firmans perpeti
.’ The ancient Latin phrases roll off his tongue as if he, too, were born to say them.

‘Whatever,’ I hear the bass beside me snigger, hardly impressed. Though he should be, if he knew any better.

Paul’s pale eyes zero in on my neighbour with laser-like intensity and he turns his next wiseacre comment into a cough.

‘I realise we are pleading with God to “endow our weak flesh with perpetual strength”,’ Paul continues bitingly. ‘But you don’t have to be quite so, well,
weak
about it. And that goes doubly for you, Spencer.’ His voice is ferocious as he singles out the wonky tenor with his scalpel gaze, who flushes scarlet. ‘It’s an
insult
.’

And just like that, I have a name to put to the face.

Spencer
.

146

Spencer is still nuclear-threat-warning red as he pushes his spectacles back up his nose for the thousandth time, as if the familiar gesture will offer him some kind of corporeal protection from harm. A ripple of laughter moves outwards through the hall at his expense.

‘More
balls
, Spencer,’ adds Paul Stenborg in a soft but threatening voice. ‘If you please.’

Spencer nods miserably. Some of the boys around him hoot with laughter and pretend to grab at the crotch of his pants.

‘Ready, please, Mr Music,’ Paul says, with only a trace of icy humour. Gerard Masson obediently flicks the switch.

Tiffany and I make a brief return cameo at Figure 20, then the whole thing falls into a heap again as soon as Delia, Marisol and the boys realise they’re on their own once more at Figure 21 without the two powerhouse broads leading the charge.

‘Carmen?’ Paul Stenborg addresses me suddenly with his golden voice, his electric eyes, as if there is no one in the room besides the two of us. Everything seems to stop, even time itself. For a moment, I cannot look away from him.

‘I know you’ve memorised the entire score from the 147

way you’re not even referring to your music,’ he continues warmly. There is an implicit smile in his rich voice, like sunshine. It suddenly occurs to me that he’s a little like Luc that way, each of them possessing the same inherent, undeniable glamour. That ability to make others do what they want with barely any effort.

‘Would you stand beside Spencer and sing his part with him?’ he cajoles lightly. ‘It’s clear you can handle a challenge. Rachel, is it? You can stand in for Carmen.

We’ll leave Tiffany where she is, no sense fixing something that isn’t broken. That should work quite well.’

I nod, wondering not for the first time what this man is doing here in this drab backwater, governing such unpromising charges.

Tiffany’s brilliant smile dies, while a delighted Rachel — until now always the understudy, never the star — bounds to her feet. Now there are eight of us standing amidst the seated and sprawled student host.

Something about the set-up tugs at my memory, won’t come clear.

It’s true that I have no further need of the music, though I wonder how Paul Stenborg could have noticed in the general bedlam. He would be even more surprised to know that I have the entire score, from general chorus alto 148

to solo baritone, from timpani to string section, memorised now. The whole thing held entire in my head, able to be picked apart at will, attacked from any direction, any figure, any phrase, any individual bar, demisemiquaver, you could care to name.

The basses between me and Spencer part like the Red Sea as I move to a position beside him. He is so hot and embarrassed that he can’t bring himself to look at me, but I’m right where I want to be. I’m suddenly eager to get the singing over with and the guy to myself for a couple of minutes. It’s approaching five and we’re almost out of time. I need to make my move before the boy vanishes back into whatever hole he came from.

‘Good girl,’ Paul Stenborg says approvingly. ‘Shore the poor boy up. Play the Good Samaritan.’ He nods at Gerard Masson standing patiently by the sound system.

‘Gerard will beat in the altos in his inimitable fashion, then away you go.’

I realise as I tackle the tenor part — Spencer falling in a fraction of a second behind me — that it’s way lower than Carmen would ordinarily sing. Though the notes trouble
me
not at all, I have to push through the strange knot in her throat, her body’s residual reluctance to come to the party. For a second, there’s a minor 149

skirmish for control. But I always win, and so it goes on, our blended voice still pure, sublime, singular and rare, cutting through the general murk and chaos around us, clearly discernible to everyone and the cause of talk, talk, talk.

Several times, I catch Paul’s remarkable eyes snapping from his score to me in fascinated approval.

Gerard Masson doing the same thing from the podium, Carmen caught in a cross-current of open admiration.

I know that if it wasn’t for me, the girl would have faltered to a stop long ago under all the scrutiny. Even though Carmen wants to be a famous singer more badly than anything else in the world — I know, because she’s written it in capital letters enough times in her diary —

she doesn’t really like people looking at her.

I may have plenty of problems, big ones, but that’s never been one of them. The way I see it? You are what you are, so deal with it.

Only once does Paul Stenborg single out the boy beside me for further humiliation.

‘Spencer, Spencer, Spencer!’ he roars in exasperation as a passage of orchestral accompaniment begins.

‘Maybe you should leave the singing to the
genuine
talent
and sit the next section out?’

150

Chatter ceases as all eyes fly to the young man still standing beside me, anticipation of a fresh kill scenting the air.

I can practically feel the heat coming off Spencer’s skin as he hangs his head in reply.

But Gerard Masson has more patience than his Port Marie counterpart and will not be deterred, forcing us all, with patience and good humour, to attack the same stretch of music again and again until Spencer has no trouble with the pitch or the timing. There is a round of lazy applause when Mr Masson stops the music at Figure 23 after the entire chorus, and every soloist, has made it through the section several times without mishap.

‘That’s a wrap!’ he exclaims happily as people surge to their feet and begin leaving the assembly hall in noisy groups.

Tiffany storms out with her faithful entourage, without a backward glance at me or Rachel, who gives me an excited little wave, her bell-like head of sandy hair fanning out behind her as she races to catch up with the others. I almost want to tell her not to bother, because it’s obvious Tiffany’s never going to speak to her again.

Spencer turns to me with a relieved smile and murmurs, ‘Thanks. I just needed to hear how it sounded.

151

Don’t tell anyone, but I can’t, uh, really read music all that well. And we don’t have a piano at home.’

‘No problem,’ I smile back, and I’m surprised to realise that I mean it. It’s gradually dawning on me that high school is like swimming with sharks for people like Carmen and Spencer. People who are born without shells, without sufficient armour with which to face life.

‘Do you want to, um, grab a coffee?’ I say, hoping my voice is hitting the right note of casual. I don’t want him to get the wrong idea — and he looks like the type to jump swiftly to the wrong conclusion — I just need to talk to the guy.

Predictably, his eyes light up for an instant then go flat. ‘Mr, um, Stenborg will be expecting me to get back on the bus with the others. I’m down for the evening shuttle.

He’s my, um, music director. We don’t have enough tenors at school for him to, uh, use anyone else.’ His tone is apologetic. ‘You should hear the others.’

‘You don’t have to explain,’ I say quietly, my heart almost aching for him. ‘I’ll go talk to Mr Stenborg.’

I head over to where Paul Stenborg is standing holding a clipboard, a cool messenger bag slung across today’s arty ensemble of striped shirtsleeves, buttoned-up waistcoat and slim-fitting dark trousers, eight-up 152

Doc Martens. He’s like something out of the Prohibition era, a studiously tousled gangster. Spencer trails me uncertainly across the hall and stands some distance away, as if there exists some unspoken moratorium on him approaching his choir master any more closely.

‘Paul?’ I say brightly.

The man swings around, late afternoon sunshine glinting off his steel-framed glasses, his ruffled Nordic hair. His answering smile does it to me again, suspends time for a moment, the way Luc can, the totality of the man really quite heart-stopping. It hits me again, somewhere in the region of the solar plexus, how beautiful he is. And how rare is such beauty.

I give myself a mental shake as he smiles and holds out a hand to me. Charmed by the gesture, I retain my wits enough to neglect to take it, and after a moment he lowers it back to his side.

‘Carmen,’ he says good-naturedly, not discomfited in the least by my unwillingness to get any closer to him.

‘Thank you
for being such a good sport. Spencer’s always needed a little more …
encouragement
than most.’

From the corner of my eye I see Spencer stare down at the floor, wounded, scuffing a semicircle with one double-knotted, well-tended boat shoe.

153

‘But he
is
the best tenor we have at Port Marie High.’

Paul Stenborg’s voice is apologetic as he stage whispers,

‘
Sadly
.’ Not caring if Spencer can hear. He smiles broadly. ‘Now what can I do for you? You passed our wicked little test with flying colours, I must say. Gerard and I were talking about you before the rehearsal began and it was his idea to push you a little.’

As if he can hear what Paul’s saying, Gerard Masson looks up and catches my eye, giving me a conspiratorial wink and a thumbs up from across the room.

Paul catches the gesture and smiles at his colleague before continuing smoothly, ‘Now we know for certain what a remarkable range you have. Ellen Dustin did intimate how truly special you are, but we really had no idea until this afternoon. You have a range of over three octaves, surely? With ease, I should say.’

My answering smile is politely noncommittal, for who knows what Carmen is capable of without me? I can hardly separate the strands of us enough to reply definitively.

‘Would it be okay if Spencer and I did a little extra, um, practice?’ I improvise. ‘He just wants to consolidate some of the stuff we did today and we can use one of the practice rooms here. My host family can always run him 154

home later …’

Paul Stenborg’s face assumes an arrested expression, which changes almost immediately to one of open amusement. ‘That’s very noble of you, my dear. But it won’t do much good — wiser heads than yours have tried and failed to improve him. Still, knock yourself out. You have my gratitude. And you’ll have to tell me how you get on …’

As Spencer and I leave the hall together, I can’t help but look back at Paul, his back to us, standing there in a shaft of sunlight like something out of a living painting by Vermeer. He suddenly breaks the illusion of stillness by turning and openly meeting my gaze. Anyone else would have blushed at being caught staring. But this is me we’re talking about, and I’ve always liked beautiful things. Know it for a truth.

I startle an answering look on the man’s face of …

admiration? It’s hard to tell, because he looks away and it’s as if the room has gone dark just for a moment. Like the sun’s gone behind a cloud.

155

‘I’m surprised he hasn’t asked
you
out for a coffee yet,’

Spencer says glumly as we walk towards Paradise’s main drag, battling a head wind that, by all rights, should knock Carmen off her size 35 feet.

‘So he really does, uh, do that?’ I say, intrigued to hear the same scuttlebutt twice.

The streets littered with broken hearts
. I think it, but I don’t say it.

‘Yeah,’ Spencer replies through gritted teeth as we stumble through the swing doors of a faded, nautically themed joint called Decades Café. It’s deserted save for a lone, heavy-set female staffer perched behind the counter devouring a lurid celebrity mag. She barely looks up as we walk by.

156

‘He’s always going on and on about “genuine talent” and how
rare
it is. How it has to be nurtured,
like a flower
.’ Spencer’s voice is bitter as he recounts his choirmaster’s words. ‘But I wouldn’t know because he’s never asked
me
to go for a coffee and isn’t likely to. A, because I’m a guy, and B, because I’m just a no-talent filler. He’s made that pretty plain all the way along.’

We swing into an empty booth up the back, me facing the door, back to the wall. I don’t know why; it’s automatic, like breathing. The waitress throws down her reading material to take our order after a longer than polite interval. I order what Spencer’s having, because I don’t remember how I take my coffee, or even if I like coffee. I just know that people drink it a lot and that at some time, in some life, I must have tried it. The woman grunts something unintelligible at us in reply before stumping away.