‘When do you play?’
Beck focuses on his interrogator. He probably should’ve stood up, shaken hands or – or basically done anything but sit like a surprised cod. She’s nine, or ten, with hair like polished obsidian. She’s the age where people still say ‘Aw! Cute!’ and then marvel at her ferocious playing. Beck lost the cute factor years ago. There’s prize money and scholarships to be had today, and some little upstart like this will get them. There are ten contestants. They’ve been through scores of eliminations. They are the best ten the state has to offer.
‘I’m last,’ Beck says. The worst possible place. He’ll lose all his nerve by then.
The kid’s dress looks like a red cupcake iced with sprinkles. She folds her arms. ‘How old are you?’
And he thought Joey had no manners. ‘How old are you?’ he shoots back, in control now.
‘Ten. Erin Yukimura.’
‘Fifteen,’ Beck says. ‘Kever—’
‘I know who you are. Everyone knows the Keverichs.’
Beck stands and smooths his sweaty palms on his suit trousers. The suit is a little small, particularly around the wrists. He tugs the sleeves. How is he supposed to answer this kid?
How is he supposed to stand when the Maestro’s piano has cast a shadow that stretches over half the universe?
Beck is saved by a boy in a shirt the colour of a blueberry. His smile is as wide as a watermelon slice and only adds to the fruity aura.
‘I’m Schneider,’ he says. ‘I see you met the rabid Erin. Did she bite you?’
‘Keverich,’ Beck says and shakes hands with the blueberry.
‘I know.’
It’s unnerving. Beck would like to rip his last name into a hundred pieces and throw them into oblivion.
‘Is she here?’ the blueberry says. ‘Your mother, I mean – Ida Magdalena Keverich.’
You don’t address a famous retired pianist by half her name, of course.
‘Is it true she only speaks German?’ the rabid Erin says.
‘She only swears in German.’ Beck rocks on his heels. ‘Actually, she only swears. What’s the point of the rest of the language?’
‘Does she still play?’ The blueberry’s eyes are so bright with longing that Beck looks away, disgusted.
‘No,’ he says.
Please, someone, drop the grand piano on Beck’s head. It’d be a gift.
‘If you played like her,’ Erin says, ‘I’d be terrified. But I’ve heard about you. And you’re … not that good.’ Her smile is a razor. ‘I’ll try to think of you when I win, but I probably will forget.’ She smirks and skips off to her parents.
‘There are some people,’ the blueberry says, ‘that you hope will slip off the stage and break both legs.’
‘I feel you on a spiritual level,’ Beck says.
The whispers of ‘ten more minutes’ tangle around the room and pianists start flexing fingers and taking a last sip of water. The co-ordinator checks in with everyone, makes sure they know when they’ll be onstage for a seamless transition. By the time she gets to Beck, the blueberry farewells him with a handshake.
The Maestro sweeps back into the room. It’s her size, Beck tells himself, that commands attention. But her legacy as the most acclaimed pianist in Europe and sister to Germany’s finest composer probably also has something to do with it. Also her hair. There’s no way to tame the Keverich curls, and the Maestro looks like she’s strolled through an electric field. Joey – in a puffy yellow dress and butterfly clips – has the same crisis going. And Beck? Even an entire tin of unfortunately expensive gel only gives the vague impression that his hair is slicked.
‘Bist du bereit?’ the Maestro says. Are you ready?
She’s immune to the stares of the other parents and their tiny prodigies. This is the moment Beck should be proud his mother is famous. Instead he wants to climb on top of the piano and shout, ‘IF ONLY YOU KNEW THE TRUTH.’ She’s a monster. Maybe once she was a dream of glory and excellence, but taking her talent took everything good.
Beck wipes his hands on his trousers again. ‘Ja.’
No
no
no.
Focus, Beck. Snap out of this. The music in his head crinkles and stops.
‘You understand the importance of this contest, mein Sohn?’ The Maestro grips his elbow and pulls him to a quiet corner of the room. Her accent is thick. She’s stressed. ‘You will not let me down.’
‘I won’t,’ Beck mutters. He feels smothered by stuffy backstage air, the deluge of hairspray to keep the Keverich curls controlled, the yards of material in the Maestro’s gown from her glory days.
‘Your time to prove yourself has ended,’ the Maestro hisses. ‘When you step on that stage, you represent me. I played these pieces when I was your age. Your uncle and I –’ she makes a small noise of disgust, since she usually avoids talking about her brother, who is still famous and accomplished back in Europe and therefore annoying ‘– played these pieces until they became legacy. If your schreckliches Spielen disgraces me, I will not stand for it.’ Her voice lowers, a deep growl. ‘And there will be consequences. Do you understand me?’
Couldn’t she say ‘good luck, and remember to have fun!’ and then promise ice cream no matter what?
Instead Beck imagines the slaps – or worse, something happening to Joey.
Why does she have to demand that he become her?
‘Ja,’ Beck says. Thanks for the pep talk.
The first pianist is shown on to the stage in a wave of thundering applause. Then music – perfect music. Flawless with feeling and grace and the intricate detail of a lifetime of practice. Beck stands with the Maestro and the fidgeting Joey and tries to find his music again. His safe place.
The Maestro’s fingers dig into his shoulder, her voice a knife in his ribs. ‘Prove to me you are worth something.’
An ‘or else’ dances across Beck’s vision. He flinches and says nothing, because nothing will convince her or please her or save him.
But the notes inside him roil and break and press so hard against his skin they’ll rip the seams and he’ll burst and – maybe they’ll call him empty after all. Maybe no one can see his music, his own music, but him.
‘I miss these days,’ the Maestro says. ‘I owned the stage and the music was mine. But look at me now.’ Her shaking hands clench. ‘You are a poor Keverich replacement.’
Beck shuts his eyes and waits until it’s his turn to be executed.
Last? Why did they make Beck go last?
Listening to the other pianists is excruciating. The blueberry plays unbelievably lightly, each note a clear ring of Mozart. There’s no hesitation, no stumble. When the last notes have faded from the hall, the blueberry stands and bows and the applause is thunderous.
What if Beck fumbles the études, the Maestro’s precious études? A cold shock of dread numbs his spine.
Every player, every piece, makes Beck feel like he’s moving blindfolded towards a cliff. One slip and he’s over.
The pieces are all under ten minutes, although one girl pushes to the very last second with her Rachmaninoff concerto. Beck’s playing two Chopin études, back to back, numbers eleven and twelve, and it should take him six and a half minutes.
Unless he passes out in the middle which, let’s face it, is highly probable.
The rabid little Erin is directly before Beck – which is terror because she’s wickedly good and melts the audience’s hearts with her petite features and winning smile. Her hands dance an impossibly fast Liszt piece in B flat with a flawless finish. The audience are on their feet with applause.
When Erin struts off the stage like a sparkling cupcake of doom, she smirks in Beck’s direction. ‘Say bye-bye to the trophy, Keverich.’
Keverich.
It’s the heaviest name in the world.
Every single thought flees Beck’s head.
Everything is
fragments.
No, no, he can’t be like this—
Pull yourself together, Schwachkopf.
They’re ready for him to go on. The Maestro’s fingers wrap around his arm, the only pressure keeping him from floating away. The world is a broken mirror, each shard reflecting his terrified face.