Dissonance (21 page)

Erwin smiled. Luise said, ‘There's an idea,' and looked at her mother. Sara shrugged. ‘Why not?' And then everyone looked at Madge. ‘What about the Greig?' she asked the ­professor.

‘Greig will still be there. We don't have an orchestra booked yet.' And he laughed.

Sara looked at Madge and touched her arm. ‘Now, wouldn't that be exciting?' she asked. ‘We could go along. All the girls could share a room.'

Madge thought, Over my dead body.

They were saved by the bell, and the small man at the back of the room saying, ‘Item number nine.' Coffee was finished, biscuits stuffed into mouths and seats resumed. Programs were consulted, dough picked from between teeth and noses blown.

Erwin looked at Schaedel and asked, ‘Should I kiss you for good luck?' and he replied, ‘Just watch the bridge, and the key change, and if you're unsure, take it slowly.'

But Erwin was already on stage, holding his fists tight so his shaking wouldn't show. ‘This is the
Andante and Rondo Capriccioso
, Opus fourteen, by Mendelssohn,' he said.

A few words were exchanged among the group and Erwin even thought he heard a tongue clicking in disapproval. Then he said, ‘I haven't even started,' and there were a few muffled laughs.

He sat down, adjusted his stool and lifted his shaking hands, quickly dropping them into his lap. He bit his lip, looked at the audience and then started abruptly. Within a few bars he'd forgotten his nerves. He let his mind focus on the notes and phrases, and before long he was concentrating on dynamics, big
forte
chords and
piano
arpeggios, slowing off and quickening, slurred triplets and staccato bass notes, a melody that sang in Luise's voice, teased to life under ten strong, song-struck fingers.

When he was finished he stood up and there was the usual light applause. Schaedel was clapping and saying
Bravo!
twice as loud as everyone else. Madge was nodding her approval and waiting for Sara to congratulate her, although in the end she only said, ‘He handled that well.' Luise tried to whistle, but couldn't, so she stamped her feet a few times on the bleached wooden floorboards.

Schaedel came onto the stage and stood before Erwin. He quietened the audience and then said, ‘That's not all … Erwin has an interesting story about Mendelssohn's grandfather.' He looked at Erwin and said, ‘Go on,' and Erwin replied, ‘Now?'

‘Yes.'

Erwin told the story and some of them laughed. Then one man said, ‘I heard they were sold to a collector.'

Schaedel looked at his student. He raised his eyebrows and then asked the audience for any comments.

One man said, ‘The fast movement, in the minor?'

‘Yes,' Erwin replied.

‘Did you feel yourself racing?'

Erwin lifted his hands in the air. ‘No.'

‘I thought it ended a lot faster than it had started.'

Madge nodded. Her arms were crossed. ‘No,' she said, without looking back.

‘Pardon?'

‘No, unless you actually had a metronome?'

There was silence for a moment, then the same man asked, ‘How did you handle the trills in the Andante?'

‘I handled them,' Erwin said.

‘I mean, each of those was a crotchet?'

‘Yes.'

‘But did you feel each was played … consistently?'

‘This is music, not physics. As long as you felt the spirit, the emotion, I don't see why the trill matters.'

Madge stood up and turned around. ‘Please,' she said, playing with the handle of her bag, ‘we're talking about the performance. Was it enjoyable? Yes.' She looked at the man who'd asked the question. ‘Can we at least agree on that?'

The man shook his head indignantly. ‘No. It's about the music. The score. Mendelssohn's score. Not Hergert's version – '

‘And what are your qualifications?' she asked.

‘I am a German.'

‘So?'

‘Are you?'

‘What does it matter?'

‘What are you, British?'

‘I can't see – '

‘South African? Australian?'

‘No, wrong. We are Australian … Jews.'

Silence, as everyone waited for her to laugh, or at least make the irony obvious.

‘This music is illegal,' someone else said.

‘Please,' Schaedel hushed, lifting his hand.

‘Mendelssohn was more German than you,' Madge barked back at the man.

Hans Knorr stood up. ‘Please! Please!' He quietened them down by moving his hands in a slow arc. Erwin seemed surprised, looking at his mother for a reaction. Knorr was wearing a long frock coat that was torn and patched and a woollen vest with threads hanging loose. ‘We are here for the music,' he said. ‘So what about Mendelssohn?' He shook his head and sat down.

Erwin smiled at him, but Knorr only shook his head in disgust, mumbling, ‘What about Handel? Was he tainted by the British?'

‘Mendelssohn is illegal,' the same voice repeated.

Knorr stood up again. ‘Mr Hergert,' he said. ‘You played wonderfully.' He made his way to the end of the row. ‘Now you should play them your twelve-tone piece … and perhaps, Schoenberg, and Duke Ellington.' He opened the door at the back of the room and slipped out quietly.

Silence. ‘Can I remind everyone that these are practice recitals, for students to get used to an audience,' Schaedel said. ‘No one should expect to hear Rubinstein, or Caruso. A practice recital!' He let the words settle, then he stepped from the stage.

Erwin sat next to Madge. ‘How was it?' he asked, but she just said, ‘I must talk to the professor about these concerts.'

Then it was the turn of the grace-note inquisitor. The big, brown-eyed, square-headed boy mounted the stage with an arm full of scores and Luise whispered along the row, ‘How long will this take?'

The baritone introduced his accompanist, found his score and set it up on a music stand. Erwin took a pencil and a notepad from his pocket. Then he sat back, massaging his chin between two fingers. Luise looked down at him and smiled, and he grinned back. Schaedel watched them both from the side of the hall. He was smiling too, admiring his student with a distant longing.

The baritone started singing and Erwin started scribbling. He nodded his head and smiled with a disappointed smile.

As they walked home Madge cursed herself. Not for what she'd said, but what she hadn't.

‘
I am German
,' she repeated, huffing. ‘If that's the case, no one outside of this country would be playing Bach or Beethoven. British are no good, Australians are no good. Maybe we should've gone to England.'

Erwin pulled up his collar. He warmed his hands with his breath and said, ‘What does it matter? As long as I learn.'

Madge shook her head. ‘There's none of this silliness in Australia.'

‘Mum, remember what you used to say?'

‘I know, I know.'

They walked on in silence. After a few moments Erwin said, ‘I didn't know we were Jewish.'

‘I can be what I need to be,' she replied.

A few days later Erwin woke to find a review, carefully cut from a local paper, slipped under their front door.

The conservatory recital on Friday night brought many good things to light. Herr Professor Schaedel allowed another prodigy to show himself in public, and this young man proved beyond doubt that the reports concerning his playing were true. His name is Hergert, and in appearance he is all you could wish for in a prodigy: blue eyes, golden hair (actually golden), ivory skin and delicate features. Australia was his home, but he comes here to be made a virtuoso. He has a masterful touch and a technique as sure as it is wide in its scope. His legato playing is something to hear …

And on the edge of the clipping, a few words scribbled in black ink: Congratulations!
Do you know someone important? They didn't even mention my songs.

Erwin walked across the room to his mother's door. He tied the cord on his dressing gown and knocked. ‘Mother, come and look at this.'

Chapter Five

Luise knocked on the door of the Hergert's apartment. Further down the hallway a pair of workmen were removing rotten floorboards. Luise heard the timber crack, and then laughing, as one of them attempted an impersonation. She looked at him and smiled and wanted to ask, Who? Goebbels? Madge? But then the door opened and
she
was standing in front of her, holding a wooden spoon dripping with honey.

‘Hello, Madge,' Luise said.

Good morning, dear,' the older woman replied, holding her other hand under the dripping spoon.

‘Is Erwin in?'

Madge took a deep breath, looked at the music in Luise's hand and said, ‘No, he's just gone out for a few hours.'

‘Oh … where?'

‘Alfred's, I think.'

Luise listened to the running shower. She watched steam coming from under the door. ‘You've left the shower running,' she said.

‘I was just about to get in.'

Luise looked at the wooden spoon. I bet you were, she wanted to say, but didn't. Instead she cleared her throat and asked, ‘What time are you expecting him home?'

‘Late; best leave it until tomorrow. You're seeing him tomorrow, aren't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well …'

Luise was waiting to hear a piece of dropped soap, a ­fragment of song or the turn of a tap. But Madge was already ahead of her. ‘I'll tell him you called,' she said, closing the door.

Luise returned to her apartment and told her mum and she said, ‘You do understand what you're getting into?'

‘What?'

‘She's got her claws in his back. She won't let go without a fight. And I bet she's used to getting her way.'

‘It's not like that,' Luise explained, although she guessed it really was. ‘She just wants him to get ahead.'

‘That's all?' Sara asked.

‘Yes.'

Sara nodded her head. ‘Could you go to the butcher for me?'

‘That's all,' Luise insisted.

‘I've met her type before.'

‘She'll be happy if I let him practise.'

‘Perhaps. Now, they have my order. Here's the money.'

Luise took the money and stuffed it into her pocket, walked out of the front door and stood listening. It was Grieg, taken slowly, and carefully. One of the workmen hammered along to the melody and started playing piano in the grey, dusty air. ‘Who's that?' he asked his friend. ‘Mozart?'

‘Beethoven,' the other man replied.

‘Grieg,' Luise corrected, storming past them, standing in front of 2A and knocking as hard as Erwin was playing.

The music stopped.

‘Stay,' she heard Madge say from inside, and the chords started again. The door opened and Madge stood looking at her, smiling, wondering what she was doing back so soon. ‘Yes?' she asked.

Luise shook her head. ‘Well?' She looked at Erwin, sitting in fresh clothes with wet hair combed back across his head. He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘Hello.'

‘How is Alfred?' Luise asked.

‘Alfred?'

Then she looked at Madge. ‘This isn't very fair.'

‘This is Erwin's practice time.'

‘You could've just told me that.'

‘We'll catch up tomorrow, shall we?' She tried to close the door.

‘No.'

Luise put her foot against the door; she looked at Erwin and said, ‘She told me you were at Alfred's.'

‘She?' Madge asked, indignantly.

‘When?' Erwin asked.

‘Five minutes ago.'

Madge tried to close the door again. ‘Erwin has fallen behind,' she insisted.

The two workmen were watching. ‘Back to work,' Madge barked at them in English, and although they didn't understand, they got the message, rolling their eyes and picking up the next board.

Madge and Luise were looking at Erwin. Luise wanted him to make Madge apologise for lying, and Madge wanted him to sound out his little strumpet.

Erwin turned to his girlfriend and asked, ‘What did you want?'

‘Some help,' she replied. ‘It didn't have to be this afternoon.'

They both looked at Madge.

‘It wasn't very fair,' Erwin said to her.

Her face slowly turned a deep and angry violet. She closed the door and stared at her son.

‘What?' he asked.

‘If that's how you want it,' she said, turning, returning to her room.

‘How would you feel?' he asked, following her.

Madge took her suitcase from under her bed. She opened it on the floor, cleared her vanity of brushes, hairpins, rollers and cleansing cream and threw them all in.

‘Mum,' Erwin pleaded.

‘And when people ask why we've returned, I'll tell them, because Erwin lost interest.'

‘I haven't. Don't be silly.'

She opened a bedside drawer and, without even thinking, took handfuls of bras and stockings and threw them in. ‘You can get a job at the Apex bakery, and teach kids on the weekend.'

‘It was what you said.'

‘I said it for a reason,' she screamed.

She sat on the bed. ‘I've never asked for anything …' She dropped her head and fell silent. Erwin sat beside her. He put his arm around her shoulder and said, ‘I'm sorry, you're right.'

Sara Hennig appeared at the door of 2E. ‘What are you doing?' she called down to her daughter. ‘Where is my meat?'

The next day Erwin was cycling, into the wind, uphill, his head down and his legs pumping. He was wearing a new set of towel-clothes that Madge had just finished – a rough, blue pair of shorts with the hems neatly finished, and a top with misaligned blue stripes. The clothes allowed his body to move freely. Sometimes he would stop beside a creek or copse of birch trees, dismount, jog around, climb a tree or take off his tennis shoes and wade through a brook, and then call to Luise, ‘Come on!'

‘What are you doing?'

‘The water's warm.'

But she was dressed in near-new slacks, a light woollen cardigan and leather shoes. He'd warned her before they'd left that morning. ‘Don't you want to be active?'

‘Active?'

‘It's nature day.'

‘What's nature day?'

On the road she started to realise. ‘Slow down.'

‘Hurry up.'

Nature day: trees; fields carpeted with wild flowers; hiking trails and granite cliffs saying, Come on, climb me, I dare you.

The hill flattened out. Then the road narrowed and they were coasting along a lane. The lane twisted and turned around blind corners but it didn't worry Erwin. He rode with his hands raised, sometimes playing Grieg in the damp air, making Indian war cries or the nasal drone of a dimly remembered didgeridoo.

Erwin and Luise had been riding for two hours. Erwin was excited because he was away from cobblestones, from everything brown, from asters in vases and crocheted rugs and musty rehearsal rooms. He was back in the Barossa, on one of the small roads that sticky-taped itself to the low hills behind Angaston, following rusted-wire fence lines, paddocks full of overweight Murray Greys and unshorn Merinos, eroded valleys-cum-rubbish-dumps full of broken ploughs, old radios and used fuel drums leaking their last few drops into the soil.

‘Here,' Erwin said, and stopped.

Luise rode up behind him. ‘What is it?' she asked.

But he only nodded his head to indicate the valley below them. Then he let his bike fall to the ground. He took off his knapsack, sat down in a patch of long grass and started searching through his belongings.

‘This is it?' Luise asked, putting down her bike, sitting beside him.

He shrugged. ‘It'll do.'

‘As far as we're going?'

‘It's up to you.'

Erwin looked across the floor of the valley. It was neatly divided, mowed, fenced, weeded and aligned. The forests were square and rectangular and the trees grew in age cohorts of exactly the same height and diameter, laid out in unforgiving rows of the same colour green. The roads were all geometry too, straight lines between random points, bypassing farms and houses in their quest for exactness.

Still, it pleased Erwin: a Bach landscape.

‘What's that?' he asked, pointing to a small village beside a lake.

Luise shrugged.

‘Maybe we could have lunch there?'

She stared at him and almost grinned. ‘You're joking?'

‘No.'

‘It's already one.'

‘So? You're in a rush to get home?'

‘No, but my legs are getting – '

‘Ten minutes, then we'll go,' he interrupted.

He took a sketchbook out of his knapsack and opened to a new page. Then he found a lead pencil, licked the tip and started to draw a horizon, roads, houses and trees in the foreground. Luise lay back in the grass. She looked up into the sky and said, ‘Don't forget the clouds.'

‘The clouds come last,' he explained. ‘They're easy.'

‘No, that's not true. Look at Monet's clouds.'

‘White paint, dabbed on.'

She tried to look up at him. ‘You're so cynical.'

‘Cynical? It's a fact,' he said, as he sketched a creek line in a single fluid movement. ‘Now, trees, they're a different thing all together. It's hard to make a tree look realistic. The trunk and branches and leaves all seem … childish.'

‘Trees are simple. A big, brown stick – '

‘No, see, that's the mistake people make.'

‘Yes, Herr Professor.'

‘Dame Nellie.'

‘Concert pianist
and
art expert.'

‘Didn't say I was an expert.'

‘Student of van Gogh.'

‘Johann Hergert, actually.'

She turned her head to look at him. ‘He taught you to draw?'

‘You don't need to be taught. But we drew, together.'

He could remember sitting on a log beside his dad, hidden in the long grass behind the old vines and artichokes at God's Hill Road – sketching the house and shed, the old, crumbling chook house and lemon-scented gums along the road. He could remember his dad saying, ‘Leave out the trees.'

‘Why?' he asked.

‘Look at them. Look at their curves, and their colours. Where are the branches and where are the leaves?'

He could remember Jo explaining how the amateur artist should leave the tree well and truly alone, in the same way an amateur musician should never tackle
The Well-Tempered Clavier
. ‘See, leave the trees to Heysen,' he said, and Erwin took his advice, concentrating on the square box of a house he lived in and the shed his father had been exiled to. Asking again, ‘Why do you live in the shed, Dad?'

‘Have you ever asked your mother?' he replied.

‘Yes.'

‘And what did she say?'

‘She just said, It's best for everyone – whatever that means.'

Jo pointed to the house and there was Madge, standing on the back porch shaking out a tablecloth, calling, ‘Erwin, where are you? I want you inside this instant.'

Erwin turned to his dad. ‘I gotta do my scales.'

‘She can come and find you.'

‘She'll be furious.'

‘So?'

Jo just smiled and put his hand on his son's knee. ‘It's my turn,' he said, and Erwin smiled back.

And here he was again, this time beside Luise, avoiding the trees, concentrating on the angles and lines of a landscape so mathematical it seemed to have solved every mystery of shape and form, replacing personality with perspective and imperfection with grass mowed so low and flat it looked like paint.

She watched him as he worked. After a few moments he stopped and looked at her and said, ‘I know what you're thinking.'

‘Why was he in the shed?'

‘Because she put him there.'

‘Why?'

‘Because …' He started drawing again. ‘Because they didn't get along.'

‘Does Madge get along with anyone?'

He stopped to think. ‘Not really.'

She was grinning. ‘I was very impressed, yesterday. What did she say after she closed the door on me?'

‘She started packing to go home.'

‘Really?'

‘See, this is the position I'm in.'

‘Because you told her off, for lying?'

‘Yes.'

‘She'll come around.'

‘She won't. She'd lock you in a shed, if she had one.' He closed his sketchbook and placed it in his rucksack. They stood up and picked up their bikes.

‘No more big scenes,' he said. ‘Let her have her little lies, and big stories. The minute you stand up to her …'

‘That's what your dad should have done.'

‘He did,' Erwin replied, starting off. ‘That's why he was in the shed.'

They glided down a long, gently sloping lane. After a couple of hundred metres Erwin tried to slow himself and discovered his brakes were barely working. They vibrated and shuddered and then there was a clunk as the pads tore from their housing. Then he was coasting. ‘Jesus Christ,' he cried, holding on as the road turned to dirt, as Luise's voice faded somewhere behind him. ‘Erwin, slow down.'

He touched his feet to the ground but he was going too fast. He looked ahead to see what the road would do but it just continued dropping towards the patchwork paddocks.

All at once he was in their Dodge truck, clutching an armrest that had almost come off anyway, feeling the ­corrugations of Glaetzer Road under their threadbare tyres, cursing his mother for refusing to spend money on what was, after all (as she saw it), Jo's responsibility.

‘Mum, slow down!'

As she pumped the brakes.

As they reached the bottom of the hill and slowed.

The road ahead was long and straight. Erwin swerved to avoid a wagon stacked high with straw and waved to a farmer as if to say sorry before remembering what was happening. Then he saw an opportunity: a long stretch of soft, green grass coming up on his left. Touching his feet to the ground, he steered the bike and held on.