Except Beck is no princess, rather a giraffe waltzing towards certain doom. Yes, he has exactly zero confidence in himself by this point. He just hopes the Maestro leaves him alive afterwards.
The taxi deposits them at the end of the white stone driveway, and they walk up in awe. There are cars everywhere, expensive cars, and their polished sides reflect Beck’s face as he passes. The lawn is a sea of green and there are actually butlers at the door. They welcome, direct, nod politely. The Maestro holds tight to Joey in case she makes a break for it to paddle in the goldfish pond by the front door.
One of the attendants takes their names and, on hearing the name Keverich, leads them in himself. Beck thinks he sees a raised eyebrow, but can he blame the guy? Joey is still wearing gumboots. Beck’s suit doesn’t fit. The Maestro is too tall, too broad, to be an average mortal. They are ridiculous.
‘The recital will be in the ballroom,’ the attendant says.
The ballroom. Of course. Is the food being served on golden plates, too?
They pass white-carpeted staircases and gold-trimmed rugs, and then enter the ballroom. There must be a hundred people in here, dressed for an opera, their conversation a level murmur. Floor-length windows open on to a deck and Beck can smell food. Oh, food. Then he looks for the piano.
It sits at the far end of the room, surrounded by white cushioned chairs, and polished to a blinding sheen. Is he terrified to play it? Or longing?
The room, the house, the air, all stink of money.
Joey spies the food laid out on the verandah – cocktail meats, chocolates and miniature cucumber sandwiches.
‘I’m starved,’ Joey declares.
‘So am I,’ he whispers. ‘But you have to be quiet about this.’
‘So I gotta quietly eat everything?’
‘Um. Try to avoid stuffing your face at least?’
Joey wiggles her hand out of the Maestro’s – which is surprisingly easy since the Maestro has been enveloped by a swarm of socialites. It’s like a curtain falls off her face and the Maestro is gone, replaced with someone whose body language is soft and welcoming, whose lips twist into the right words and let out the correct volume of laughter.
She fits here. This is where she came from.
It makes Beck wonder how much money she used to have back in Germany – and if she misses it.
He’s left to trail after Joey.
It’s not time to freak out yet anyway, is it? For all he knows Jan Keverich is watching him – but he’s never met his uncle, never seen a photo. And making sure his sister doesn’t impale herself on a toothpick is more important. Nervous breakdowns can come later.
The air is cooler outside and it smells of citrus oil and eucalyptus leaves. There are significantly fewer people out here – weird, because this is where the food is. A few waiters carry silver trays of crackers with salmon paté, slivers of cheesecake and asparagus wrapped in silverside.
Joey prowls along the length of the table, her nose wrinkled. She finds a plate with toothpicks of cocktail sausages, sharp cheese and pickled onions and takes two.
‘What are the white balls?’
‘Pickled onions,’ Beck says. ‘You’ll love them.’
Joey sucks the onion off the end. Her lips pucker. Then her eyes bulge as the acidic juice attacks her throat and Beck nearly dies holding in his laughter. He’s so mean. But he couldn’t resist. He turns away, faking a sneeze, as a waiter appears with a tray of fudge brownies in meticulous triangles.
The waiter presents the tray. ‘Guten Tag,’ he says. ‘Good afternoon.’ His German accent is perfect.
Beck smiles politely. Joey chokes.
The waiter looks mildly concerned. ‘Is she quite all right? Some water, maybe?’
‘She’s experiencing a pickled onion for the first time.’ Beck eyes the brownies with their dollar-sized squirt of cream on top.
Joey gives a hacking cough and then swipes a brownie off the tray. Overcome with onion, she still can’t speak, but Beck guesses she’ll live if she’s planning for the future with brownies.
The waiter laughs.
‘She really likes chocolate,’ Beck explains. She never gets it at home.
‘Chocolate is a substance worth existing for,’ says the waiter.
Joey, finally getting her breath back, turns around and kicks Beck in the shins.
He yelps. ‘Joey,’ he hisses. ‘Not here.’ He glances, embarrassed, at the waiter as if to say little kids, what can you do? But the waiter laughs far too hard.
‘You could’ve told me it was spicy!’ Joey shouts.
Heads turn.
Beck deserves it, but it’s still embarrassing. ‘Sorry? It’s not actually spice—’
‘I could’ve died.’ Joey takes a vicious bite of the brownie. ‘And then I wouldn’t get to hear Uncle Jan play the piano so much better than you.’
The waiter slides his tray of brownies back on the table. ‘How do you know your brother is not better than your uncle?’
Joey has a smudge of cream on her nose. ‘Because Mama says Beck is bad.’
Beck stops regretting the onion surprise. His collar feels too tight, and he reminds himself Joey’s only parroting and doesn’t really understand. Except … what if the Maestro isn’t hiding her true feelings to other people either? What if he sits down to play and they all laugh?
The waiter has to wipe his eyes from laughing so hard. ‘Why didn’t Ida tell me how priceless you two are?’
Oh.
No?
‘Um, Uncle … Jan?’ Beck says like the complete idiot he is.
‘Ja,’ his uncle says. ‘I meant to introduce myself whilst offering you food, because I hear that is how one wins favour with small children, but it escaped me as I watched Johanna encounter pickled onions.’
Joey puts a hand – unfortunately tainted with chocolate and cream – on her hip. ‘Are you tricking us?’
‘Joey,’ Beck hisses.
Jan shakes his head, sorrowful. ‘I did trick you, little Johanna. Allow me to make it up to you with a small gift of chocolate.’ He pulls three small chocolate bars, wrapped in gold foil, from his pocket.
Her eyes narrowed, she takes one. Then she takes a second. ‘This is for Mama,’ she says, and Beck knows there’s exactly no possibility the Maestro will receive one of those chocolates.
‘You are so sweet,’ says Jan, smiling.
Joey swipes the third and runs off.
Jan straightens, still chuckling softly. ‘Ah, children. They are so delightful.’
They are when you give them chocolate.
‘You two make me regret marrying my music and never having children,’ Jan says.
Beck says nothing. He’s not sure what to do now. This is Jan Keverich, the famed pianist, the estranged and childless uncle, the rich possible benefactor. Everything the Maestro said made Beck think Jan would be as terrifying as her. He’s built the same – tall, broad, with long slim fingers and the trademark Keverich pepper curls. But he’s butter in Joey’s paws.
How is he brother to the Maestro?
Jan smooths his jacket and does up a single button. His suit fits like he was born for it, and staring at it just makes Beck tug harder at his sleeves.
‘I have wanted to meet you for years, Beethoven.’
‘I go by Beck,’ he says. ‘If that’s OK.’
Jan smiles. ‘I don’t blame you. Musician names are the Keverich curse. Still –’ his long fingers knit together ‘– great names beget wunderbare pianists.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Beck says.
‘I do not believe your sister,’ Jan says with a wink. ‘I have utmost faith in your playing, Beck. I also look forward to our private time tomorrow to discuss music without audience. Music is more relaxing without expectations.’ He indicates the ballroom with a polite sweep of the hand. ‘Shall we return?’
Time to begin the torture? But Beck is strangely heartened that Jan prefers to play alone too.
‘You feel – um, judged – when you play?’ Beck follows him between rows of paintings.
‘Absolutely,’ Jan says. ‘I often lose myself in a piece, but other times? Keine Beziehung.’ No connection. His tone is factual. ‘Often an inexperienced audience cannot tell. Let us hope, though, that you and I both feel the music this evening. Passion is more important than perfection.’