Heller's Regret (29 page)

Chapter 21

I was excited and nervous about Agatha’s
audition the next day. But when I arrived at the hotel, that young
lady remained remarkably calm, even as her mother fussed and
flapped around her, adjusting her cutsie-pie dress and over-styled
hair. Agatha flatly refused to wear any makeup. Her mother
disagreed, directing a few heated words her way until Agatha gave
in, her face bravely stoic as her mother applied face powder,
lipstick and mascara. It seemed wrong to witness the transformation
of a lovely, young girl into a show pony.

I was really starting to dislike Mrs Namoy.
Not that that woman had any interest in my opinion of her, or my
opinion about anything. In fact, she couldn’t even remember my name
and hadn’t once asked for my phone number. I found it astonishing
that a mother, who cared so much about one aspect of her daughter’s
life, could be so offhand about knowing more about the person
charged with her care.

We caught a taxi to the audition studio,
located on the other side of the city. Mrs Namoy spent the entire
trip fretting about the traffic, a regrettable downside to living
in this city.

Her agitation was contagious. Agatha began to
fidget too, picking at the lacy hem of her pretty dress until her
mother sharply reprimanded her, yanking her hand away from it. Even
I, with no dog in this race, tensed uncomfortably. What if Agatha
froze or forgot her music? What if our guilty little excursions had
disrupted her practice, and she played with less accomplishment
than normal? I’d wanted to introduce some fun into her life, not
ruin it forever.

At the studio, Mrs Namoy practically threw
the fare at the understandably aggrieved taxi driver. We joined the
buzzing throng of talented and hopeful youngsters, most accompanied
by their parents, many who wore the same pinched, suspicious
expression that Mrs Namoy did. Other children were surrounded by
large numbers of loving, relaxed relatives, providing support and
encouragement.

The children were summoned into the
auditorium, a huge acoustically-balanced space with a stage at one
end, empty except for a grand piano and stool. A sound booth sat
off to one side, where three judges, two men and a woman, sat
wearing earphones, microphones in front of them. An AV technician
sat at the back, surrounded by a panel of instruments, recording
and filming the performances.

“Settle down please, children,” requested one
of the men in the booth, speaking into the microphone with a soft
accent.

He went on to explain that the children would
perform in an order determined by a random draw of names, ensuring
equity in the process. He further announced there would be a number
of breaks during the day, allowing all children time to rest, so
that those whose names weren’t drawn until closer to the end of the
day weren’t disadvantaged by becoming tired. He also reminded
everyone that only five children would be chosen, a large intake
for any one country to the exclusive academy, made possible by a
sponsorship program partially funded by the federal government.
Unless there was major disagreement amongst the judges, the
successful auditionees would be chosen at the end of the day.

The children were advised they were required
to play two long pieces, one a difficult set piece that all the
children would play; the other a personal choice of a piece that
reflected the spirit of spring.

I glanced around, roughly calculating there
were about one hundred eager young auditionees. It would be a tough
battle to gain one of the five places if every kid was as talented
as Agatha.

She wasn’t called up in the first batch of
twenty children, so we sat patiently, listening to other children
playing. I’d be the first to admit that what I knew about piano
music (or any music, for that matter), would barely fill a tweet,
but it was soon obvious even to me that there was a marked
difference in the playing abilities of individual children. Wrong
notes were signalled not just by the cringing faces of the
children, but sometimes by exclamations of frustration from their
families in the audience. The judges, however, remained
stony-faced, unmoved by good or bad performances. I think they
would have looked the same had I serenaded them with my version of
‘Chopsticks’.

The audience broke only to grab a coffee,
tea, juice or water at the refreshment table set up to one side of
the foyer, or to use the ladies’ bathroom, glad to move our
sleeping butts. The children were very focussed when they
performed, able to block out the normal noises of a restless
audience – phones ringing (even though we’d been warned to turn
them off), babies crying, small children running around and
squealing, the low constant hum of conversation, and people
scraping their chairs as they stood seeking out beverage or
bathroom relief. Not to mention the pressure of proud parents,
filming every second of their darling’s audition from as close as
they could get to the stage.

Agatha wasn’t called up in the next twenty
children either. I needed a break from hearing the same piece of
music played over and over. I asked Mrs Namoy if I could take
Agatha for a walk to stretch her legs and clear her head. To my
surprise, she agreed without a fuss, letting us go.

When she joined us outside, my first thought
was that she was keeping an eye on me. But no, she pulled out her
phone, turning her back on us to speak into it. Agatha and I
strolled around the studio, not finding much to admire in its
stunted, under watered, utilitarian garden. But at least it was
good to be out in the fresh air, de-numbing our butts and escaping
the relentless pounding of the grand piano, though it was still
audible from out here.

“Are you nervous?” I asked her as we passed a
weed-infested patch of neglected, overgrown grevilleas.

“No,” she answered, matter-of-fact. “I don’t
get nervous during auditions or tests. I only get nervous when
Mother is watching me.”

“Oh.” I had no idea how to respond to that,
so I changed the subject. “Agatha, your mother hired me because she
was concerned about competitors. But I haven’t seen any sign of
competitiveness or nastiness. We’ve barely even spoken to any of
the other children.”

She dawdled near a raggedy shrub, plucking
off some leaves. “Mother enjoys drama,” she said flatly. Those
weren’t the words of a child, but an adult. Was it something her
father had said to her? Or a grandparent?

We walked for a few more metres, reaching the
depressing small back gardens. They didn’t appear to have received
any loving attention for quite a long time.

“Daddy rang me this morning to wish me luck
today,” she said, a hint of wistfulness in her voice.

“That’s lovely of him. It’s a real shame he
couldn’t be here to see you himself. He would be so proud of
you.”

“He promised to bring me back a really nice
present when he comes home.”

That was no substitute for a father’s
attention
, I thought, keeping that to myself, desperately
trying not to dwell on my father.

Agatha seemed content with her own thoughts,
so I let mine turn to Samuel again. Two assignments involving
children – one with every apparent advantage in life and an
incredible talent, yet bullied into the limelight and yet neglected
by her parents; and one who wasn’t given the chance to shine, a
shameful secret to his mother, yet whose family loved and nurtured
him for decades beyond his death.

Families – each one as complicated and
different as the next.

By the time we returned to the front door of
the auditorium, Mrs Namoy walked across the road, carrying two
paper bags, a coffee and a juice. “Here you are, Agatha. Some lunch
for you.”

When the little girl sat on a low concrete
wall to eat, her mother scolded her for getting her dress dirty.
She tucked three napkins into Agatha’s bodice, ignoring her
daughter’s embarrassed face. They opened their paper bags and
tucked into chicken and salad sandwiches.

Thanks for thinking of me
, I thought
sourly, excusing myself. I crossed the road to the sandwich bar,
which was doing a thriving trade today, and ordered an egg and
salad wrap and a diet soft drink. I ate mine in the cafe, keeping
an eye on the couple as I did. I figured as Mrs Namoy was in charge
at the moment, I was entitled to a lunch break, no matter how
rushed it was.

After slurping the last of my drink and
patting my mouth clean with my napkin, I rejoined my clients. They
finished the last of their lunches, throwing their waste into the
bin. We rejoined the crowd inside. The last child of that batch
climbed the stairs to the stage with confidence. He arranged
himself at the piano, his mother positioning herself to turn his
sheet music pages, though as far as I could tell, he didn’t even
peer at the music once. As soon as we heard him play, the audience
hushed to listen.

“He’s going to win a place,” Agatha predicted
with confident quietness. “He’s very good.”

“You’re better.” Mrs Namoy’s lips pursed
together unhappily as she noticed the judges sharing meaningful
glances, busy scribbling notes, one with his eyes closed, lost in
the music. When the boy finished, his family applauded and whistled
loudly, the rest of the audience clapping with an enthusiasm it
hadn’t shown any previous competitor.

Agatha was called up in the middle of the
third batch of auditionees. Mrs Namoy hyperventilated for a while,
leaving the auditorium to find some fresh air for ten minutes.
Agatha stayed in her seat peacefully, her eyes closed, fingers
running across imaginary keys, as her lips moved silently and head
swayed in time to the music in her head. Even away from the piano,
I was mesmerised by the swift, skilled movements of her flexible
fingers practising the complicated music.

When it came to her turn to mount the stage,
Agatha settled herself at the piano with a calmness epitomising her
style. A little flustered, Mrs Namoy almost dropped the sheath of
sheet music and took a while to set it up, making the judges wait a
couple of minutes.

When Agatha began to play, it was as if she
was swallowed by the music, forgetting her mother, forgetting the
judges, forgetting she was performing in front of an audience. In
my humble opinion, she gave the most competent and confident
performance of all the competitors who’d previously played by far.
Her playing of the difficult first piece was masterful and her
choice of spring-inspired music was a delicate piece redolent of
flowers, sunshine and the earth warming up and regenerating again.
I wished I knew enough about classical music (or
anything
about classical music for that matter), so I could buy the piece to
listen to again, it was so beautiful.

The audience sat spellbound as Agatha worked
her magic on the keys, her absorption in the music at odds with her
mother’s stiff page turning. Mrs Namoy was an unnecessary accessory
today though, Agatha never referring once to the music. I felt
half-proud, half-relieved that us playing hooky hadn’t affected her
ability to shine in her audition.

When she finished, the applause she received
from the audience was genuinely warm. She bowed politely to the
judges and to the audience, before stepping down and making way for
the poor, intimidated competitor following her. The judges talked
together for a while after her performance, microphones off.

I couldn’t contain myself, jumping up to hug
her. The three of us sneaked outside before the next child started.
Mrs Namoy praised her daughter effusively, something she either
took in her stride or ignored, not showing any change in
expression. Agatha seemed more interested in the park across the
road than anything her mother said. With Mrs Namoy’s permission, I
took her there, where she played on the swings, careful not to soil
her pretty dress. Mrs Namoy whipped out her phone the second we
left.

When Agatha had her fill of the park, we
returned for a drink, taking our seats again. The remainder of the
day dragged out interminably, despite the frequent breaks.
Compelled to stay to find out the results, as you’d expect, many of
the children became restless and bored, a sharp contrast to the
children yet to play, who sat on the edge of their chairs in
nervous anticipation.

Of the remainder of the hundred, only a
handful stood out for the quality of their piano skills and
interpretation of music. I thought Agatha was a shoe-in to gain a
place. She didn’t seem particularly excited or dismayed by the
thought, but I’d cottoned on to the fact she’d become good at
hiding her feelings, a sad skill for an eleven-year-old.

Once all the children had performed, the
judges spent the next forty-five minutes in deep discussion,
occasionally appearing to listen to a recital again or watch the
recording of it.

The audience hummed with excitement, but not
everyone joined in. Some of the children were downcast, a few even
crying, comforted by their resigned parents and other family
members. They’d all practiced so hard for that one performance, and
for them to realise they hadn’t dazzled the judges before they were
even told that, must have been heart-breaking for them and their
families.

Towards the early evening, the judges finally
announced they were ready to name their five successful applicants,
with formal offers being couriered to the families in the next few
days. They patiently waited for the audience to resume their seats,
not showing any sign they’d noticed the thinned crowd.

In a toneless voice, the head judge revealed
the five children lucky enough to win a place at the academy. Mrs
Namoy couldn’t hold back an undignified squeal of delight when
Agatha was named as one of them, almost tripping over her own heels
following her daughter up on stage to receive the judges’ personal
congratulations. After a polite smatter of applause from the
audience, some of them dispersed, others approaching Agatha to
commend her and her mother in a show of admirable good
sportsmanship. And once again, I wondered at Mrs Namoy’s level of
paranoia about the competiveness of the families of other
auditionees. Perhaps she was projecting her own intense desire to
win at the cost of anything on others, or perhaps she merely wanted
a glorified babysitter for Agatha for a few days while she gadded
about. Whatever. As long as she paid Heller, it wasn’t up to me to
question the way she spent her money. I only wish she spent more of
it on entertaining her child.