Then Jan rescues him, taking over conversations while spouting ridiculous sentences in German of how talented is my nephew! and unbelievable genius while Beck exits.
But wrong note
wrong note
wrong note.
‘You look pale. Let me get you some water,’ Jan says and disappears.
Beck wishes he could melt into the wall. But the Maestro? Who knows where she’s gone? Should he find her, or run away, or explain to Jan or— August is in front of him.
She looks amazing and sophisticated but still carefree and slightly impish. Up close he can see the bodice of her gown is a beaded gecko. She has a fishnet cardigan on because, as always, she rejects the notion that it’s autumn. And shoes? He’s barely seen her in runners let alone heels.
‘You liar.’ She gives his shoulder a gentle shove. ‘You said you weren’t “that good”.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Ugh, Beck.’ She groans and tips back her head, as if imploring the universe to give her strength to put up with this idiot. ‘You are a freaking piano wizard. I’ve never seen anyone play that – that fast, and good, and amazing. How many times am I allowed to say amazing? Because you are amazing.’
‘You’ve definitely reached your limit.’
‘You were inside the piano.’ August’s breath catches. ‘I’ve never seen anyone so into music like that. It was –’ she leans forward and whispers ‘– amazing.’
This is everything he’s ever wanted to hear. So why does he want to cry?
He blinks furiously and stares past her, focusing on anything, everything, but August. ‘Why are you here?’
August waves behind her. ‘My parents. Mum is nuts about classical music, but she’s been mispronouncing your last name all week and I had no idea.’ She leans close, her eyes widening. ‘And your uncle is incredible. I mean, you’re good and definitely much cuter, but his fingers were doing all these crazy—’ She breaks off with a laugh. ‘Well, duh. You know. You’re basically a piano yourself.’
She shouldn’t be here.
It wouldn’t be as bad if she wasn’t here.
‘Beck?’ August touches his arm so very lightly. ‘What’s wrong? Hey, hey – it’s OK.’
Great. So now he looks like he’s going to cry? Of all the unfairness.
‘Did something happen?’ August’s voice lowers. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No.’ It’s a staccato sob.
Pull yourself together, you Schwachkopf.
‘You need some air.’
She kidnaps him from the ballroom, from the piano, from the chatter and chaos. The air on the verandah is cool and tinged with dusk. Joey is, predictably, prowling the table again, this time munching spring rolls and mint wafers and avoiding pickled onions.
He leans against the balcony, staring into a backyard of perfect grass, crystal-clear swimming pool and rows of box-shaped hedges. August hangs next to him, shivering slightly in the evening coolness. The cool air is good. He’s calmer. He’s not going to cry.
‘How do you not see how good you are?’ August says.
He doesn’t answer.
August shifts closer so their shoulders touch. ‘You’re pretty wickedly talented, Keverich. I’ll even risk saying I like your music better than Twice Burgundy and you know how much I’m sacrificing to say that. I’ll have to cancel my wedding to both of them—’
He grabs her arm, turns her to face him – too rough, too fast, but he seems to have lost all fine motor control. She tilts her head, surprised.
‘August,’ he says. ‘I-I-I hate it. I hate music. I don’t want to do this.’
Her lips part, but she can’t form the question.
He lets go of her and steps back. How dare he be rough. ‘I’m sorry. I’m – I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ she says, but he’s not sure it reaches her eyes.
There’s a clatter behind them and they both jump. Joey has dragged a chair over to the table so she can sit properly and devour the cheese platter.
Beck focuses on the balcony rail. ‘I’m coming to your party tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ she says. ‘That’s awesome, that’s – unexpected, actually.’
He starts to say, ‘If I’m still invited …’
But she groans. ‘Yes, you are, you dork. You’re the moodiest person I know, of course, and totally boring, but I think I’ll find it in my heart to be excited for a freaking piano genius at my party. But you have to bring a present.’ She pauses, considering. ‘An enormous one. It’s the entry fee.’
If he wrote out her song, would it be enough?
‘Is that enormous as in weight or height?’
‘Height.’ She stands on tiptoes and kisses his cheek. ‘Stop growing. We used to be compatible and now I have to wear heels. You could probably get some new trousers though.’
‘How bad is it? Honestly?’
‘Borderline hilarious, but we won’t dare laugh because somehow you make it cute.’
‘Lucky me.’
August’s smile is sad. ‘Lucky you.’
The Keverichs are the last to leave.
Joey’s collapsed in a food coma on the floor and Beck isn’t sure whether he’s starving or wants to puke. It’s near midnight and he doesn’t want to be alone with the Maestro.
Jan offers to carry Joey out to the waiting taxi. She has chocolate-smudged cheeks and greasy handprints over her dress and she fits in Jan’s arms perfectly.
The walk to the car is quiet. The Maestro seems to have nothing to say to her estranged brother and Beck is just enjoying his last minutes in safety. When Jan leaves …
Stop it. Don’t think like that. The Maestro’s not going to— ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Beck,’ Jan says. ‘Bright and early, ja?’
‘Ja,’ Beck says, on automatic.
‘I am not in the country long,’ Jan says. ‘Mayhap I could take you and the children out, Ida? Dinner?’
The Maestro doesn’t slow. ‘I am sure you have much more important things to do.’
This confuses Beck. Sure, the Maestro is furious, but at Beck, not Jan. Doesn’t she want to butter him up so he’ll take Beck to Germany?
Apparently Jan is immune to her coldness. ‘Nothing more important than the family I have neglected to connect with for over a decade.’
They reach the taxi and the Maestro and Jan exchange a polite kiss-on-the-cheek farewell and then she takes Joey and settles her in the back seat. Beck is about to climb in after them, when Jan rests a hand on his shoulder.
‘You are a brilliant pianist,’ he says. ‘Nerves can be controlled.’
If only it was just nerves.
‘You do the Keverich name proud.’
Maybe it’s dark, maybe Beck’s deluded, but Jan’s smile looks real.
Beck swallows. He can’t ignore the poison, even if everyone else can. ‘The ending. I completely screwed it.’
Jan shrugs. ‘Mistakes do not cancel the worth of a performance. They encourage us to work harder, aim higher. Your mother and I had our fair share of catastrophes when we began performing, especially those particular études. Ask her someday.’
Um, no thanks.
Beck gets into the taxi and Jan grabs the door to close it. ‘Good night. I look forward to tomorrow, Beck.’ He shuts the taxi door.
And Beck is left waiting for his tragedy to begin.
Beck’s life is on pause, a broken string in the middle of a ferocious piece. She cannot touch him before he sees his uncle again, so the Maestro is wordless, motionless, like she’s been carved from ivory and stone. She sees him into a taxi. Her tightly curled fists whisper promises of later later later.
Technically, Beck could tell the taxi to take him anywhere.
He doesn’t.
He is too spineless. Or he wants to see Jan again?
Or maybe he’s still perched on that wrong note, clutching it desperately, because when the chord fades, the Maestro will strike. Her silence won’t last.
He walks the long driveway alone, feeling the restrictions of his new snug jeans. His backpack, stuffed with music and one of Joey’s awful sandwiches, is slung over his shoulder. If his hair wasn’t so crazy, if he didn’t have the scuffed backpack, if he knew how to smile – maybe he’d look like he belonged here?