A Note of Madness (16 page)

Radin was flicking languidly through the pages on his stand. There was a faint shuffling as some of the orchestra members got comfortable and adjusted their stands. Then screaming silence, the air hot and heavy, everyone watching him, waiting.

The flowers are made out of dots, he thought. The flowers are made out of dots. He wiped his hands on his trousers one last time and screwed his eyes shut briefly. He exhaled slowly. He turned his head. His eyes met Radin’s. Flynn gave a brief nod. Radin raised his arms and held them, suspended in the air. The violinists raised their bows. Radin’s arms came crashing down.

Flynn started playing before even being aware of his cue. The notes flowed and he was filled with an overwhelming sense of unreality, of detachment, as if he were simply a member of the audience, listening to all this and just sitting back, not playing at all. He felt sure that if he lifted his hands from the piano, the music would continue on its own. He could not be responsible for all this, there had to be somebody else behind the stage, pulling the strings. Then the tempo began to quicken and he watched his fingers gather speed of their own accord. He looked up at the conductor to get his cue, and the violins in the front were a mass of buzzing bows, and Radin’s arms were plunging
dramatically through the air. The music was extraordinary, overwhelming, larger than life, and he could not believe he was a part of this. The orchestra swelled and then died and his notes rang out, clear and smooth. He felt as if his fingers were trying to keep up with the music, as if his hands had a life of their own.

But the tempo seemed to fade unexpectedly after bar thirty-two and, momentarily disorientated, he came in late. The music was obliterated by his racing heart and he struggled to hear it again and focus, focus on the music ahead. This time he lifted his head and stared at Radin, who thankfully half turned his head and gave him a nod for his cue. And then Flynn was plunging again, through the thick fog of black and white notes, of light and dark, life and death.

The music began to build and he tried to stay in the present and not think about the dramatic finale, the series of impossibly fast chords he still had to get through. He could barely hear himself through the rising wave of strings and wondered whether he should be playing forte instead of fortissimo, thinking that if he could not hear himself, then nobody else would. But he didn’t dare change it now. And then the wave began to swell and he could barely follow the music, and he could not think or see, only hear. Now it was no longer just his hands that were playing but every inch of his body working to bring out the music, higher, faster, greater, deeper. He could only hear himself playing and could only think of getting to the end, desperately
reaching, clawing out for safety. And then suddenly he had reached the final chord and, as the sound echoed through the air, he let his arm drop and, heaving for breath, was finally still.

He became aware of the faint sound of clapping from the stalls and straightened up and looked across at Radin, who was flicking back through the score. The shuffling and murmuring started up from the orchestra. His face was on fire and his arms felt weak, lifeless, incapable even of lifting the bottle of water from the floor. Hands on his knees, he chewed his bottom lip and stared down at the innocent-looking keys, the source of his torment only moments before. He did not dare glance towards his audience.

‘Good,’ Radin said, and the orchestra was quiet. ‘Now for the real work. Bar thirty-two, what happened there?’

‘I lost tempo,’ Flynn replied, his cheeks burning.

‘Let’s try it again, shall we? Dum, dum, dum, two, three and in.’

Flynn nodded, swallowing.

‘We’ll take it from the G sharp.’

Which G sharp? There was more than one! Flynn panicked for a moment but then the red fog lifted as the orchestra gave him his cue. He watched Radin like a hawk for his re-entry and got it right. Relief flooded through him.

Radin held up his hands. ‘Good, good, thank you.’ He turned back to Flynn. ‘That sounded a bit tentative,
you need to come in with conviction.’ He hummed the first few notes and punched his fist in the air for emphasis.

Flynn nodded, feeling desperate. They played it again, still less than perfect. He felt thrown by the orchestra dying away before his re-entry. He had never heard it played that way before. He wished Radin would move on – if they went over it too many times he would start thinking about the notes and it would then become a sticking point, a terror spot, causing him to freeze. Professor Kaiser always let him absorb changes before going back to them. Pushing a point was counterproductive. It almost always ended up getting worse.

They must have spent half an hour on that re-entry alone. It got so that Flynn stalled in the end, forgetting his notes. Radin did not look too impressed but finally had the wisdom to let it go. They moved on to the melody of the middle section.

The late-morning sunlight exploded like a flashbulb in his face. ‘That wasn’t so bad!’ Professor Kaiser buttoned his coat against the chill breeze and patted Flynn’s shoulder as they descended the concrete steps. ‘You survived it.’

Flynn managed a weak smile and nodded. He was drained, an empty shell, a heap of exhaustion. He could not find the energy to speak, his legs were numb beneath him.

‘The first time you play a new piece with an orchestra
is always difficult,’ Professor Kaiser went on. ‘It takes some time for getting used to the other musicians and to the way the conductor interprets it. There are some things we must work on still but we have three more rehearsals to go, so there is nothing to worry about.’

Flynn nodded again.

‘You seem as if you need some food.’ Professor Kaiser smiled suddenly. ‘Let’s go to the café on the corner and I will buy you lunch.’

Flynn could not eat, still saturated with adrenaline, still reeling from his inability to get the timing right on bar thirty-two.

‘Don’t worry about that now,’ Professor Kaiser told him. ‘You were just a little nervous. You didn’t have trouble with that part before.’

That was just it. He was inventing problems where none existed. How many more problems could he create before the concert? The possibilities were endless.

He sat with a cup of coffee and a sandwich but could consume neither. Professor Kaiser bit into a large prawn baguette and the smell turned Flynn’s stomach. All he wanted to do was go home now, go to sleep for the rest of the day, but it was not even twelve and there was a whole afternoon of lessons to get through, including a lesson with Professor Kaiser at one.

‘We only have two weeks left before the concert, so I think it would be a good idea for you to come for a
lesson every day,’ Professor Kaiser said. ‘That will help us to get through all the points that Radin spoke about.’

Flynn nodded numbly. There was too much work to do, Professor Kaiser was saying. He was not ready.

‘I have a free period at eight thirty,’ Professor Kaiser said. ‘How is that for you?’

Flynn nodded again. He had lectures at nine but what did that matter?

‘You are not much wanting to talk, are you?’ Professor Kaiser commented with a wry smile.

‘Sorry,’ Flynn said.

He strode home through the park. He needed to move, to focus on something else and put as much distance between himself and the rehearsal as possible. He didn’t want to keep seeing Radin’s intense expression – the small frown brushing across his face as Flynn mistimed his entry, the fleeting look of exasperation touching his eyes as Flynn missed the accent on bar twenty-three. But the scenes played out again and again on the screen inside his head as he relived every painful detail, every minute embarrassment, every humiliating moment, unable to change a single thing. He thought about going running, but running would only occupy his body, leaving his mind stuck with the film inside his head. He was trapped – even in the middle of Hyde Park’s expanse of rain-soaked grass and trees and sky, he could not escape the stifling, narrow, painful confines of his own mind.

Flynn left the windy Bayswater street and, the moment he stepped into the narrow entry hall and slammed the front door behind him, his world kaleidoscoped into the five small rooms of the flat and it was an effort not to scream. Kicking off his trainers and stepping over the dirty washing on the kitchen floor, he put the kettle on and turned the radio up loud. Anything, anything to distract himself from himself. He was humming along to the radio, making coffee, kicking Harry’s washing out of the way. Everything seemed so normal –
he
seemed so normal. If anyone came in right now they wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong. Yet his mind seemed to be fragmenting, like a mirror spiderwebbing with cracks. He felt as if he were at some kind of junction; what he did now could have huge repercussions – should he try to hold on or just let himself fall apart?

His mind was running, running, running, words were coming so thick and fast he couldn’t keep up, there seemed to be so many possibilities. The window, for instance, opposite him above the sink – he could punch it, he could wash it, he could throw the frying pan through it, or he could ignore it. Four choices, many more, and that was with only one object. There was a knife on the drying rack, and a plate, and a large glass jug. There were probably a hundred things in this room alone. The possibilities were endless. A normal person would ignore it. He
should
ignore it, but yet it beckoned to him in some way, loud inside his head. He picked up
the jug, hurled it to the floor and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces. Then he sank to his knees, gazing at the broken shards of glass winking in the light of the afternoon sun.

FOR THE NEXT
three weeks, Flynn went to his daily lessons with Professor Kaiser and missed his first hour of lectures. He practised through the night, snatching a few hours’ sleep towards dawn. It was no good going to bed earlier – his thoughts encompassed him until he burst from his covers, sweaty and frantic, and went back to his keyboard. He used the kitchen tactically, to avoid Harry. He tried not to be too monosyllabic around Jennah but avoided her too. He skipped lectures to practise, but nobody complained. He went to three more rehearsals at the Albert. The concert date approached.

‘Am I allowed to come to this concert then or not?’ Rami wanted to know.

Flynn twisted the telephone cord around his fingers, watching the tips turn purple. ‘If you want.’

‘Of course I want! Can I bring Sophie?’

‘I suppose.’

There was a silence. ‘Flynn, are you really not going to invite Mum and Dad?’

‘No.’

‘Do you realize how hurt they’re going to be?’

‘They’ll get over it.’

Rami was silent.

He had not slept for two nights and now Harry was tuning at the crack of dawn. Flynn flung back the covers and stomped into the living room. Only just managed to resist the overwhelming urge to grab the cello and smash it over Harry’s head.

‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ Harry greeted him.

Flynn glowered. ‘No.’

‘You look rough. Were you practising again last night?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I know it’s only two days away but be careful, you don’t want to burn yourself out.’ Harry returned to his cello, played a very flat A and twisted the pin.

‘It’s too fast, it’s too frantic,’ Professor Kaiser shouted above the music. ‘Control, Flynn, it’s all about control. You must put in the passion but you must never, never lose the control.’

‘I am in control,’ Flynn said desperately.

‘Play it again. I want to hear it again. You are letting the music run away with you now. You had this bit yesterday – remember how you played it yesterday. Don’t get carried away!’

Jennah caught up with him in the hall, her cheeks flushed, her smile bright. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine.’

‘Really? Not too nervous?’

‘I’m fine!’ he snapped.

‘OK.’ She looked hurt for a brief moment, then recovered. ‘I can’t wait. I know it’s going to be fantastic.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re going to be great. Everyone knows how good you are.’

The phone was ringing, the flat was empty. The sunlight had turned golden – it was nearly evening already. Twenty-seven hours to go. The phone continued to ring and ring. Harry had forgotten to switch on the answering machine.

‘Hello?’ He grabbed the receiver on the twelfth ring.

‘Flynn, it’s Rami. I’m calling from work.’

‘Why?’ An emergency at the hospital? Perhaps he would not be able to make it after all?

‘Look, don’t get upset, it’s not the end of the world, but I was on the phone to Mum this morning and, um – well, they’re coming to the concert tomorrow night.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t overreact, Flynn. I know it’s rather last-minute but apparently Professor Kaiser invited them. Dad rang him about – about you, actually – and when Professor Kaiser heard that you hadn’t invited them, he invited them himself.’

‘What?’

‘Look, Flynn, I’m being paged. I’m going to have to go. Don’t worry about anything. They’re coming here tomorrow morning and I’ll drive them over in the evening. You won’t even know they’re there. I’ll make sure they don’t drop in on you, so you won’t have to see them until after the concert. Maybe afterwards we can go out for a meal or something.’

‘Hi!’ Harry came in sideways, manoeuvring several bulging Tesco bags through the narrow doorway. ‘I bought some food for tonight.’

‘Why?’ Heart still thudding painfully from Rami’s phone call, Flynn looked at him wide-eyed from the arm of the couch.

‘I thought I’d make a curry.’

‘Who for?’ His voice began to rise.

‘Kate and Jen. Didn’t I tell you?’

‘You invited them over?’

‘Yes! Why are you shouting? I’m not deaf.’

‘Why? Why did you invite them over?’

‘Calm down! Jennah wanted to pop by to wish you luck and Kate doesn’t believe I can cook, so I wanted to show her.’

‘Why does Jennah need to wish me good luck? She’s already wished me good luck at least six times! And why does Kate have to come? Why can’t you go there?’