‘Although, for the record,’ she says, stern now, the joke vanished, ‘you’re not pathetic. Why do you even think that? You’re actually funny and protective and kind. You could’ve let me limp home when I was an idiot and busted my foot. Did you? Nope. And even though Joey stands there swearing like a trooper, I’ve never heard you get riled up. Like I said, you’re a marshmallow with burnt skin, but I see you, Beck.’
She hooks her fingers through his, fast, like she thinks he’s going to make a break for it. His fingers close around hers – it’s not awkward, it never could be.
‘You’re not a puppy to be rescued,’ she says softly. ‘You’re a boy I frequently feel intensely about.’
‘Intensely?’
‘It’s very distracting,’ August adds. She lets out a small giggle.
‘What?’ Beck says.
‘I’m just thinking of your reaction.’
‘To what?’
She pushes herself up on her elbow. ‘To this.’ And she kisses him, very gently, very cautiously, on his broken lip.
The Maestro smells of hospital and cinnamon tea. She huddles in bed, her ancient laptop groaning as she emails music theory corrections to her students at the university. Beck has a spatula in his hand, still coated in batter from the pancakes he’s making Joey for dinner.
She called him and he came. He’s obedient like that.
It’s been three days since her outrage, since his beating, since August’s kiss. The Maestro hasn’t really left her bed and hasn’t spoken to him, no apology, of course, and no explanation for what happened at the hospital. Clearly they swallowed whatever lie she concocted. Beck’s decided not to care. He doesn’t care.
‘Shut the door,’ the Maestro says.
Beck looks at her heavily bandaged hands that struggle to keep a mug of tea upright.
‘I want it open.’ Beck leans against the doorframe and folds his arms, spatula in the crook of his elbow. ‘I have the pan on. For Joey’s dinner, considering you don’t cook for her.’
The Maestro’s lips thin. ‘Your attitude is unacceptable.’
Beck shrugs. Bruises still linger on his face. Her artwork.
‘But,’ the Maestro says, ‘you are under pressure, Junge. I see that.’
‘I don’t want to play for my uncle.’
The Maestro leans back in her pillows. ‘I did not ask if you wanted to. You will.’ Her tone goes crisp. ‘But it would be a miracle if your uncle saw potential in you, so do not fret over moving to Deutschland any time soon.’
Is it relief or a slap? Beck can’t even sort through the jumble of his pain to figure it out.
‘But you will still play,’ she says. ‘And as rude as you are, Sohn, I will reward you for a good performance.’
This is surprising. Although her idea of a ‘reward’ is probably more scales.
‘That girl,’ the Maestro begins, and Beck’s heart thuds. ‘That party. You may go.’
‘Really?’ It pops out, desperate and unbelieving, before Beck can be cautious.
‘Ja.’ The Maestro’s lips twist, sour at his excitement. ‘Mayhap this will encourage you to work harder before the concert. Hard work might even cover up your lack of talent.’
Beck has to keep the Maestro happy – or at least not bitterly disgusted with him – if he wants to be allowed the party privilege.
He glues himself to the piano, practising so long and hard he gets a headache from his own cacophony. The Maestro gradually resumes her motivational insults, but keeps her hands off. This could be because they’re still bandaged. Or she’s sorry she lost control so badly that night?
Who is Beck kidding? She could never be sorry.
And in between the Chopin, Beck composes for August.
It’s coming along nicely.
While Chopin is precise notes, fast and light and powerful, his song for August is the opposite. It’s slow and filled with pauses of regret and rushes of longing and the occasional dance. It tastes like thunderstorms when he dreams of it at night.
But he honestly does focus on the Chopin, because he wants it to be right. For his uncle, for the Maestro. For himself. He doesn’t want to be embarrassed. And a stupid, deluded part of his soul still claws with whispers of maybe she’ll approve of your playing, claim you as her talented son, and spontaneously combust into loving you.
Yeah, and maybe the world will end.
He doesn’t need the Maestro’s approval. What he needs is a way to give August her song for her birthday – which is the same day as his private lesson with Jan Keverich.
He’s so busy composing and practising and actively not thinking about August’s kiss that the day of his uncle’s recital creeps up and slaps him in the face.
They’re all going. The Maestro has her bandages off. Joey has a too-small pink dress, which, coupled with a bow in her wild hair, makes her look ridiculous.
She slinks into his room with her gumboots sticking out from the skirt and the bow already crumpled. She hasn’t quite regained her bounce since the Maestro struck her, a fact that gnaws at Beck.
‘Do I look like Beauty and the Best?’ Joey says.
‘Actually, it’s beast.’ Beck is mostly dressed, ignoring nervous pangs. Last time he readied for a concert it ended with getting beaten bloody near a bus stop.
Joey stares at the piano and then, cautiously, taps at a few keys. How can she even look at the piano now? Or does she not remember the Maestro’s threats for her to start? It hasn’t been mentioned since and her five-year-old brain probably has dismissed it. If only Beck had the same faith.
He buttons his shirt – and realises something’s wrong. The suit jacket strains a little over his chest, but it’s the sleeves. He checks his trousers. There’s a fair amount of ankle showing.
No, no, no.
He grew?
He can’t have grown that much.
No.
He can’t turn up at some concert for rich people, to impress his uncle, to prove his worth to the Maestro wearing this. And they are leaving in less than an hour. His hands tremble as he tugs at his trouser legs, imagining the Maestro’s oncoming rage. She can’t blame him for growing … OK, she probably will. Please, please, stretch. Does he have the worst luck in the universe?
Joey giggles. ‘Beck, you growed! Mama!’ she yells. ‘Beck doesn’t fit his clothes!’
The Maestro appears with her hair worryingly flat – how violently did she beat it into submission? – and wearing a gown from her glory days. She had everything custom made since she was once rich, famous and an unusual size. She looks fierce, proud, even beautiful, a pianist to be in awe of.
Beck looks like a nitwit.
Joey points, like the Maestro might not see the problem. ‘He’s gonna split his pants.’
Beck gives her a filthy glare, but truth is – he might.
‘This is my fault,’ the Maestro says.
Beck gapes. Isn’t it his fault for not asking permission to shoot up several centimetres?
‘I never thought of your suit,’ she says. ‘Verdammt.’
‘You’re a giraffe,’ Joey adds, helpfully.
‘I know.’ Beck grinds his teeth. Unless he wants to appear in one of the Maestro’s dresses, this is it. Hello circus act.
The Maestro is silent for a long time, long enough for Beck’s panic to flip up a notch. Then, her lips pursed, she says, ‘Put on tall black socks.’
Beck lunges for his wardrobe and digs out socks. He can’t wear his trousers low and still be able to tuck in his shirt, so the socks are the only solution. At least his suit jacket doesn’t let him down too badly, and if he doesn’t reach for anything he should be fine.
‘You’ll do,’ the Maestro says. ‘And beeile dich! Being late is unacceptable.’
They take the bus, dressed in their finery, and ignore the stares.
Beck doesn’t bring sheet music.
The last stretch of the journey must be taken in a taxi, where the Maestro grinds her teeth and Beck winces at the exorbitant price. Apparently buses don’t go into the rich part of the city. Here, you should have a car. And probably a maid and a gardener and a cook. Meine Güte, the houses are huge! Beck plasters his face against the window as the taxi purrs past manicured lawns and circular driveways, fountains and huge gates with wrought iron symbols.
It’s like a picture book where the princess is going to a ball.