Music From Standing Waves (18 page)

He slapped my bare knee. “Good for you!
You’ll get to see me every day like the sun. What do you play,
chicken?”

I giggled. “Violin.”

“Ah.” He made faint bowing movements with the
hand that wasn’t flung over the back of the couch. “Another
magnificent string player. I’m a cellist.” His bowing action
extended until his hand flew into the air and whacked me across the
chest.

“Dude,” said Matt.

Roman sat up suddenly. “Do you want to play
strings with me?”

“Sure,” I laughed. “You’ll never remember
this in the morning.”

“Yay!” Roman dug his mobile out of his
pocket. “What’s your number?” He fumbled with the buttons. “Oh my
God, this is
so
exciting!”

I took the phone. “I’ll put it in,” I said,
trying to unlock the keypad.

Clara swanned out of Julian’s bedroom at
midday, zipping up her dress for maximum effect. From my sprawl on
the lounge floor, I could see bottles and cigarette butts scattered
under the couch. Afternoon sun streamed through the blinds and
painted stripes across the lounge. The floor was covered in
blankets, pillows and empty beer cans. Pink remains of vodka and
watermelon dripped onto the kitchen floor. I felt a hand on my
shoulder.

“Morning,” said Matt. “Fish and chips?”

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Matt was
crouching beside me, a white bundle of chips in his arms. He pushed
aside the empty cans and tossed the package onto the carpet. The
smell of hot grease took over the lounge. Roman stumbled in from
the bathroom, his hair flattened on one side.

“Oh my God, Matthew I could kiss you,” he
squeaked, stumbling onto the floor and ripping open the paper. We
crowded over the food. I huddled into my sleeping bag and chewed
happily. I had hardly slept and drunk too much, but snuggled up
with my apple juice and chips, I felt more contented than I ever
had before. Matt dropped onto the floor beside me and lay back on
his elbows. I pointed to his tattoo.

“What does it mean?”

Matt glanced down at his shoulder as though
he had forgotten it was there. “It’s the Kanji symbol for freedom,”
he said. Acacia Beach had never seemed further away.

I nursed my hangover at the Saint Mary’s pool
with Clara.

“Julian said Matt was asking about you.”

“Really?”

She gave a sassy smirk. “He thinks you’re
cute.”

I smiled to myself.

“So do you like him?” Clara pushed. “I think
he’s alright, but I’d make him get rid of that ponytail.”

I hoped she couldn’t hear how fast my heart
was beating. “Maybe. Do you think he’s a bit old for me? He’s going
into third year.”

Clara laughed airily. “Of course not. That
just means he’ll be more experienced in bed, like Julian. Trumpet
players aren’t just better kissers you know.”

I rolled my eyes, riveted as I was to the
over-publicised soap opera that was Clara’s sex life. I kicked my
legs and water bounced out of the pool. Clara flicked the drops off
her red bikini.

“Can you not do that?”

I let my legs dangle calmly again. “Are you
nervous about starting uni?” I asked.

“Nervous? Why would I be nervous? I just
don’t want these holidays to end. I’ve hardly got enough time as it
is for Julian
and
my violin.”

“I’m kind of nervous,” I admitted. “The Con
seems pretty competitive.”

Clara reached a spray-tanned arm around my
shoulder. “You don’t need to be nervous, precious. Girls like us
from the College have a head-start anyway over the plebs from the
normal high schools.” She leant back on her elbows. “I suppose John
told you to get a new teacher.”

“No. He’s happy to keep teaching me.”

Clara raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
“Really? And you’re okay with that?”

“Sure. John’s amazing. Why wouldn’t I be okay
with that?”

Clara shrugged. “I don’t know. I just
thought, maybe…” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

I walked into John’s studio on the Tuesday
afternoon of my first week of uni. He reached into his briefcase
and pulled out a slip of paper.

“One of the string quartets based at the Con
is looking for another violinist,” he said. “I think it would be
good experience for you considering you haven’t done much ensemble
work.”

He held out the page. I recognised the name
as the quartet Clara played in.

“I know this group,” I said. “They’re really
good.”

“If you’re interested, I can get you the
place.”

“Okay.” I tried to gauge Clara’s reaction to
my joining the ensemble. “Do I need to audition?”

John shook his head. “You shouldn’t need to.
I’ll tell them you’re one of mine, then they’ll probably just get
you to do a rehearsal with them. See how you go.”

I rehearsed with the quartet at uni the next
evening.

“Abby’s one of John’s,” Clara said pointedly.
“That’s how she got this place.”

“One of
John’s
hey?”

I had been surprised to find the cellist was
Roman, the watermelon guy. He laughed as he spoke, but it was a
gentle, high-pitched giggle, which made me relax. The viola player
was perched on the edge of a stool, drinking a take-away coffee. He
crossed one leg over the other, revealing white sports socks
beneath his jeans. He was older than the rest of us; probably
mid-thirties. His shaggy brown hair was dangerously close to a
mullet.

“This is our viola player, Richard,” said
Roman. “He’s a techniques tutor at uni.”

Richard chuckled. “Don’t hold that against
me.” He tossed his coffee cup in the bin.

“So what’s he like?” Roman asked. “John, I
mean.” He wrestled with a screw on his music stand that didn’t seem
to do anything.

“He’s great. As long as you do your
practice.”

“Here Abby, you play second violin, okay?”
Clara placed the music on my stand.

“Okay.”

“Mozart’s
D Major
,” Richard said
reverently. “We’ll be playing this at the wedding gig next Saturday
because Mozart is God.”

I swapped humoured glances with Roman.
“Okay,” I said. “Nice.”

“Can we just tune?” said Clara. “I want to
hear how our new violinist sounds.”

The Conservatorium choir rose around Jess,
who was too engrossed in
Cosmo’
s ‘What is your shopping
style?’ quiz to be bothered with the hallelujahs. I looked at the
clock. Only three more years, seven months and forty minutes until
I was free of choir forever. I gave a perfectly pitched yawn on a G
double sharp and yanked Jess to her feet.

“
Mercy
,” we sung loudly, trying to
drown out the rest of the choir who were foolishly singing
‘
justice
’.

“Can you believe it?” Jess snorted. “We’re
the only ones singing the right words and we haven’t even been to
rehearsal for three weeks!”

The choirmaster drew us to a close. “Just a
reminder about the error in the score. Bar ninety-eight, altos
should be singing ‘justice’, not ‘mercy’. From bar eighty, thank
you.”

Jess flopped back in her seat and held out
the quiz. “I’m a C-type shopper,” she hollered over the wailing
sopranos. “I exhibit signs of recklessness, indiscretion and
impulse buying.” She clutched my elbow. “Hey, Matt’s checking you
out.”

I looked over to the bass section and caught
Matt’s eye. He placed his hand over his heart and bellowed out the
words to me. He grinned.

“Oh my God!” hissed Jess. “He is totally
flirting with you through song!” She whacked me with her choir
book. “Quick! Do something back!”

I panicked. “What should I do?”

“I don’t know. Flash your bra or something.
That’ll liven up rehearsal.”

“I can’t do that!”

“Well you can’t just do nothing,” said Jess.
“This is the first freakin guy you’ve even blinked at since that
whole Justin mess.” We came to the end of the movement. “Now look.
You missed your chance.”

Choir ended with a half-hearted A major
chord. Jess and I leapt over the seats in a mad struggle for the
door. Matt was sitting on a table in the foyer and my heart tripped
over itself.

“Hey there,” I said, sounding like a
dick.

He jumped off the table. “Did we all enjoy
choir?”

“Some of us did,” said Jess. She patted my
arm. “Meet you outside, okay?”

I shot a desperate glance after her as she
disappeared out the door. I turned back to Matt. “Hey,” I said
again.

“What are you doing tonight, Abby?” He dug
his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. His maroon t-shirt
was tight over his shoulders.

I hesitated.

“Come to my place. There’s something I want
to show you. I mean, ask you.”

I frowned. “What is it?”

“Wait and see. So come over, alright?”

I wished Jess or Clara were around for me to
ask advice. Matt touched my bare arm. His hand was warm.

“Okay,” I squeaked.

Matt lived by himself in an apartment above a
coin-laundry. I could hear dryers whirring as we climbed the
stairs. Squeezed into the tiny living room were a TV and a blue
plaid sofa. Heavy white curtains were draped across the windows,
covering the apartment in dusky shadows.

Matt took me into his bedroom. His computer
sat against one wall, surrounded by a mixing desk and big black
speakers.

“This is my studio,” he said. “What do you
think?”

Loose pieces of manuscript were scattered
across the desk. The floor was littered with coffee cups and empty
stubbies.

“It’s nice.”

“Not ‘nice’. ‘Nice’ is how you describe
someone’s nanna. This stuff is better than nice.” He reached into
his desk drawer and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it as he
flicked on the computer. The speakers jumped. “Do you want to hear
something I wrote?”

I nodded. Matt clicked open a file and
adjusted the knobs on his mixing desk. “This is for string
orchestra. They recorded it for me at uni last year. It came out
pretty good, except you can hear someone snap a string near the
end.”

He clicked play. The piece began with
driving, African-inspired rhythms as the players pounded on the
wood of their instruments. As they began to bow furiously, it built
into interlocking patterns. A leaping melody passed through the
voices. There was a sudden pause, then the final jarring chord. I
stood back from the computer and let the harmonies resonate. I
tried to pick out what notes Matt had used. The piece was unlike
anything I had ever played.

“Well?” He turned on his desk chair to face
me.

“That was incredible,” I gushed. “You’re so
talented.”

He pushed his cigarette into a saucer.
“You’re not such a hack yourself. Hell, you wipe the floor with
Clara.”

I glanced nervously into the speckled brown
carpet. Matt took my hand.

“Are you scared of me?” he asked again.

I shook my head, even though I was a
little.

“You’re beautiful,” said Matt.

I smiled. No one had ever called me beautiful
before. He kissed my thumb and I felt my heart pounding against my
chest. I didn’t want to speak in case something moronic fell
out.

“I want to write for you,” Matt said, running
his finger over the ridges in my palm. “I want you to play my
stuff.”

“Is that why you asked me here?” My voice was
croaky.

Matt dropped my hand and clicked open another
file on his computer. “I’ve got this idea,” he said, scrolling
through the first movement. “I want to put together a group that
plays only new stuff. None of this classical crap everyone’s heard
a million times before. My stuff. And maybe some other new
composers as well. But the same group of performers. This is the
first piece I wrote for it.”

I looked over his shoulder at the music on
the screen. “It’s interesting instrumentation. Rhythm section,
vocals and strings.” I glanced at the title. “
Standing
Waves
. What does that mean?”

“You know, it’s what happens when two of the
same sound waves go in opposite directions. It’s how music gets
made.” He grinned. “Doesn’t John the Magnificent teach you
anything?”

I chewed my lip. Matt chuckled and wrapped
his arm around my waist. He pulled me closer to him.

“This is gonna be awesome, Abby. We can
advertise ourselves at the Con and pinch some gigs off all those
bloody string trios and stuff. That would give us a chance to
establish ourselves as the real deal. And then who knows, we could
get some grants, make an album… It’ll really be great. I just need
the right people.”

“And you think I’m the right person? I’m a
classical violinist remember.”

He squeezed my legs between his knees. “That
can be fixed.” He reached up and touched the strand of hair that
had fallen out of my ponytail. “You’re a fucking brilliant muso,
Abby,” he blurted. “And you respect what I do. I think we’d be good
together, you and me.”

I couldn’t tell if he was still talking about
music.

He stood up. “What do you say?”

“I don’t know.” I could feel my palms
sweating as Matt stepped closer. “I really love your music, but
well… I just started playing in this quartet. And I probably should
be concentrating on my uni stuff, you know; my classical
pieces.”

“Your classical pieces? That’s not going to
get you anywhere that a million people haven’t been before.”

“You said I respect what you do,” I mumbled.
“Can’t you do the same for me?”

Matt paused. “You’re right.” He lifted my
chin with the back of his finger. “I’m sorry. It’s just… I want you
to do this so much.”

He leant forward and kissed me. I could taste
cigarettes on his tongue.

“What do you say?” His breath tickled my
forehead. I wanted to kiss him again, but was afraid of starting
something I wasn’t ready to finish. I brushed his lips with
mine.