A Certain Music (4 page)

The child danced on. Watched a winter sun slip behind
the factory wall, saw the workers in twos and threes and
in small groups cross the windswept yard to the main gate. In her heart the dancing paled as she observed how they
gestured to each other and kept their voices down.

'Frau Schultz has died,' whispered her mother, 'and they feel anxious.'

In silence they walked in the direction of the square. From time to time the woman stopped, leaned against a fence and spat onto cobblestone. Then, 'She will be buried tomorrow,' she said.

'You don't have to go ... '

'Everyone will. Tomorrow we close early.'

'It's too far.'

'I'll go slowly.'

The child stamped on dead leaves, crunched them underfoot. 'I'll come too,' she said.

'It's not a place for children.'

'I'll wait outside.'

They walked on, huddled together like seabirds against the wind.

'Papa tells me he has sent you a story about a squirrel,' the woman remarked.

'There's a letter?'

'Yes.'

'Is he happy?'

There was a pause.

'What?'

'He has a rash.'

'Where?'

'It's worse on his legs ... It could be the dyes in his uniform ... '

'The lime –?'

'No, not lime.'

'Has he told?' asks the child.

'That may not be a good idea,' her mother replies. 'In any case it's getting better.'

They continued on through the square, then turned into the street by the granary.

The woman said, 'And what did your music man play for you today?'

'His "Ode to Joy".'

'Goodness.'

They reached the small paling fence that enclosed the giant conifer.

'This is the very first time there'll be singing with – with ... ' The child stopped.

'With joy?'

'With the music.'

The woman smiled. 'There's always been singing with piano, with violin.'

'It's different.'

'How?'

'I don't know.'

'Is he happy being different?' enquired the woman as she clicked open the gate.

'He's frightened,' replied the child. And walked in.

The following morning was thick with cloud. By late
afternoon rain was sweeping in over the hills on the
outskirts of the town.

The workers gathered in the square, the women in black with thick shawls and hoods. They stood in silence and tight together; watched rain pitter-patter on the hearse with its wooden box. Black plumes rose and dipped as horses tossed their heads this way and that.

The child took her mother's hand as the carriage moved off. The mourners followed. Along the path and up the hill to the churchyard they toiled.

From time to time the woman would stop and lean on the child until her breath became easier.

By the time they reached the churchyard the squalls had been blown far from the hills and a sallow sun was edging its rays through cloud.

The child watched the women shake their skirts, remove their hoods and follow the box, balanced on the shoulders of four men in mourning dress, into the church.

'I'll wait here,' the child whispered. And added, 'It's all right.'

At the door two women were beckoning. She watched her mother join them, and go in.

She looked around. What she saw reminded her of a painting she'd seen on the wall of a schoolroom, or perhaps imagined that she had. She put her hands to her face, made a hollow square, peered through the frame, saw a church with a bell tower, crosses and angels growing from tangles of grass, trees that spread their branches over dead people in marble.

She moved the frame to the left, watched two birds flit from branch to branch of a spreading oak.

This, thought the child, was what the man meant when he wrote his
'
Ode to Joy'. This is what he must have seen and felt.

It was that beautiful.

She began to move, to lift her head, to spread her arms, to rise up ...

On the gravestones she danced, and as she turned and swirled she sang the song of joy the man had sung in the house along the Reinerstrasse
.
She had recalled every note without trying or intending to.

Suddenly she stopped. Someone had entered the space.

The child slipped behind a tree and peered out. A woman was standing by a mound of earth. She stood still. There was no sound, no movement, but for a cheeky bird that was hopping backwards and forwards on the chipped wing of an angel.

The child studied the woman. She had seen her before. But where? And then she remembered the scream. And a leg lying under the wheel of a coach.

To the left and to the right, blooms of every colour and shape drooped from marble urns, though in one the flowers were fresh.

Quietly the child dropped to her knees, drew buds of blue and pink, of purple and gold from the urn. Untied a ribbon that held one of her braids and wound it around the stems.

Just as quietly she approached the grassy mound at which the woman was standing and held out the posy. Eyes stared at the flowers, at the child. A hand reached out. '
Danke
,' a voice murmured.

Now came movement. People were spilling out of the church and a bell had begun to toll.

The woman at the mound glanced up, around and began to hurry back along the path.

Dusk was falling as the group from the factory debated whether to stay for the burial or leave. They moved away.

'Are you all right?' The child took her mother's hand, stared into a face the colour of unbaked bread, felt her hand being squeezed.

'Why are some of the graves not covered in stone?' she asked.

'They're probably new and it's still being cut,' replied a woman called Lotti.

'Or the family can't afford it,' chimed in another.

'Look,' cried a third. 'Someone's left a bunch of flowers on that one.'

In the failing light they moved towards the path.

'It's better going downhill,' whispered the child.

'You've lost a ribbon,' her mother replied.

She had gone back to school. The child had promised to, and had crossed her heart.

But now it was different. She had a secret. Something that kept her warm and secure, that wrapped her tight in a turtle shell ... Of course the whispering, the taunting, the small cruelties went on, but not to the same degree. They were losing interest, the panic they read in her eyes when she got it wrong, when she misinterpreted the signals, simply wasn't as it once was. And where is the fun in ridiculing someone because they can't play by the rules, if they don't want to join in anyway?

Added to that the child had a skill for which she was noticed. It was her memory. She could add and subtract faster than anyone. As with her letters, she didn't know how she got there, or what everything meant, she just could do it.

And those who mocked studied her for a response and found, in her eyes, something they couldn't read.

Neither did she spend the time she once did listening to the sounds that whispered in the fountain and in the needles of the conifer. Of these she was aware, and would always be, but of a far greater importance now was the man at the house in the Reinerstrasse and the sounds he made.

At the end of lessons there would be time to hear some, maybe even the 'Ode to Joy', and if she ran she'd still be able to walk her mother home ...

As for the man himself, she had learnt whether or not it was wise to remain out of sight, at the door, slip away. Or stay to dance.

The music would tell her ...

It was Sunday. Sunlight seeped across the floor, painting clothes and shoes and skins of fruit the colour of buttermilk. The child would see to the mess. She had been doing so for some time though the man said nothing. He didn't seem to notice that the chamber pot had been emptied, the bed made and the dishes washed. Though once, as she was packing up, he remarked, 'Most lasted no more than a week.'

Who were 'most'? And why did they not last? The child considered this. She thought of the women at the factory who feared the lime (remember Frau Schultz?); yet they stayed. That sickness came from dirt and things that smelled bad, she knew. That wasn't it. It was his difference that most feared ...

The man was still flapping his arms and crowing. 'Forty-six strings will raise the roof beams!' He split into a laugh. 'They think I'm mad. There was a tugging of beards and a great grumbling, but they can laugh all they like, there can be no compromise. The music will not allow it. It's like this –' Papers fluttered to the floor as he began to sketch.

'See, the violins are here and here, the cellos and violas there; behind them are the flutes, the oboes, the clarinets and bassoons – over here are the trumpets and the horns, at the side are the double basses and at the back the kettle drums and all the other wonderful things that crash and bang and whoop ... ' A stab at the paper. 'At the front, on the podium with his baton in his hand is the conductor, Kapellmeister Umlauf. Kapellmeister Umlauf knows music –' A stab at his chest, ' – in here. And –' more sketching, 'I am on the stage also. Observe the trousers. They are black, my shoes also. The lace at my neck and at my wrists is the colour of coffee. Am I not splendid?'

The child nodded.

'From here the sound will rise to –'

'The roof beams –'

'Exactly.'

'And to the left and to the right and behind also, are
the singers. And the audience? They are here in row after
row; also in boxes and in galleries that rise up and up and
up. You will note that there is not one empty seat ... But
wait! Who is this that sits one two three four rows back
from the stage. Can you guess?'

The child shook her head.

'Someone small whose flaxen braids are falling free. She is wearing blue. Why blue? ... Because her eyes are blue ... Who can she be?' Still musing, the man moved to the sideboard, took something from a drawer and in the child's hand he placed two tickets. And though the markings on each were a mystery to her, the child knew their meaning.

In the square the town hall clock tolled the hour. In the street a dog began to bark. But the child heard only the beat of her heart.

The man had plucked his coat from the floor and was putting it on. 'You obviously don't want to hear my forty-six strings – observe my splendid trousers ... ' He stood before her. 'Nobody saw it, not Kapellmeister Umlauf, not even the great Haydn. Only you saw the moonlight. Only you ... ' Eyes locked into eyes. There were no words.

Faster than the wind the child ran, her hands spread wide like a ship in full sail. Into the square, through the marketplace, dodging in and out of stalls, between carriages and carts, around hawkers selling fruit, up the street by the granary, faster and faster ... She flung open the door.

'Look,' she gasped. 'For us!'

Her mother sat at the kitchen table, a jug of something in her hands. A trickle of blood on her bodice writhed like a serpent when she moved. In her lap lay a rag.

'There's forty-six strings and his trousers are black and it'll rise right to the roof beams – not then, at the end – and the colour is blue.'

'Of what?'

'The dress.' The child stopped. 'There's blood –'

'Coughing, that's all ... '

'In two weeks, in fourteen days, in 168 waking up hours ... '

The woman studied the gold cards and set them down. '
Liebling,
we can't –'

'Can't what?'

'It's impossible.'

'It's a present, like at Christmas. Only better.'

'It's not that –'The woman started to cough again. She propped her head on an arm. There was sweat on her skin. 'We have no clothes, no shoes ... '

'Your best dress!'

'At the Karntnerthor Theatre ladies wear silks and ribbons; their cloaks are of the finest cloth, they have shoes just for the evening ... '

'That's not –'

'
Liebling,
it's in Vienna!'

'But –'

The woman pulled herself up.

'I will not be shamed –' She coughed, spat into the rag. 'I have lived with shame ... ' For all the coughing and the blood, the sentence will never be finished. Love protects. And love is here.

'There's money now –'

'We must be cautious.' The woman reached for her daughter, '
Liebling,
I'm sorry –'

'But I'll bring him luck. He said –'

A hand pushed the tickets forward. 'Take them back. Present my compliments to your music man, thank him for his kindness, and say that, unfortunately, on that evening we have a prior engagement.'

'
Mutti,
please –'

'Do it now.'

• • •

Heavy-footed, the child moved along the streets, the tickets smouldering like live coals in her hand. Had she looked up she would have observed that here and there, things that grew in parks and in gardens were in bud.

It was spring.

She lurched on. She heard her name called, heard those seductive sounds she knew so well. She kept her head down and measured her way in cobblestones.

The man wasn't there. The door to the house in the Reinerstrasse was locked. She peered through the window – everything was as it had been ...

What to do?

The tickets would fit beneath the door but leaving them would be wrong. He would think, now not every seat will be filled. And his fear would grow ...

There was only one thing to do. Wait.

She sat on the step. She studied the cards in her hand, traced the shapes of words until they blurred and were lost to sight. With her knees clasped to her chest she rocked back and forth, and back and forth; and the rhythm was that of the song of joy ...

Long she remained until the rooftops and the chimneys had locked out the sun. Then she started for home.

In the house by the granary a light was glowing and as she opened the door she heard a voice. That of Frau Schwarz.

The child halted, considered the conifer, the berry bush, other places of concealment.

'Is that you,
Liebling
?'

'Yes,
Mutti
.'

Frau Schwarz was large and loud. She listened at keyholes. Frau Schwarz knew what was going on. She was also kind, and broth and meat stew and sometimes an orange cake would appear on a doorstep. 'Such a load of nonsense,' was a favourite of Frau Schwarz.

'
Guten Tag
Frau Schwarz.' The child turned to her mother. 'He wasn't there.'

'Who wasn't there?'

The woman was coughing again. 'No-one to speak of, Frau Schwarz.'

Eyes switched from mother to daughter, 'What's going on, Child? You look unhappy.'

'We were given tickets to a concert – show our guest,
Liebling
.'

The guest reached for her spectacles. She read, she looked up. 'These are for the Karntnerthor Theatre!'

'They were a gift.'

'From whom?'

'A friend. His new work is being performed.'

'I know nothing of music –' began Frau Schwarz.

'Nor I.'

'– But I know the value of these ... '

The woman stared down, squeezed tight the rag. 'We are not going,' she said.

'Why ever not?'

'We are otherwise engaged.' It was the child who spoke.

'Such a load of nonsense!'

'We could go,' her mother continued, 'but other things are more important.'

Frau Schwarz peered at the speaker. 'Such a load of nonsense, it's just what you need. Put colour in your cheeks. Take your mind off "other things".'

'We've given the tickets back and that's an end to it.'

'They're here, on the table.' The speaker fixed her eyes on the child. 'What's going on?'

The child dropped her head.

'You want to go, don't you? I can see that you do. Answer me, Child.' Frau Schwarz leaned close, held the pause, 'But you have a problem. You need a dress. A beautiful gown of pink ... '

'No, blue.'

Nobody spoke.

'At a certain factory there is a box,' Frau Schwarz began. 'In it are lengths of silk long enough for a dress – for two dresses ... '

'Frau Schwarz, please –'

'Herr Rohrmann, who dyes cloth, is a friend, Frau Praetz, the purveyor of ribbons, also, and were you aware that your neighbour has donated a bolt of her exquisite lace to the Guild – of which I am the president – for a "variety of purposes"?'

'Frau Schwarz –'

'–These are good people ... ' The voice dropped. 'Do it for the child –' The speaker eased back in her chair, she wiped her brow. 'Not going? Such a load of nonsense!'

'
Mutti
?'

The woman sat at the table and held her tears.

'Please ... '

A head nodded.

The child lunged, was lost in folds of flesh, '
Danke
, Frau Schwarz,
Danke, Danke, Danke ... '

'Goodness, Child –' Frau Schwarz blushed rose colour and fumbled for her spectacles ... 'Such a load of nonsense! ... Now listen to me carefully. On Monday I shall go to the factory and you will accompany me ... '

The women talked on ... To the child it was like the sounds the man made on the piano when one hand spoke to the other ...

'Two weeks is short.'

'We work at night.'

'And who are "we"?'

'Just you and me.'

'Our boots –?'

'Will be covered.'

'Our hair?'

'Will be curled.'

'If I cough.'

'There are lozenges.'

'And how do we get there?'

The rhythm changed. 'Child, run and fetch
Mutti
's sewing box.'

'Why are you doing this, Frau Schwarz?' the woman asked.

'I don't like things to beat me.'

'That's not all, is it?'

'No, that's not all ... ah, thank you, Child. Now to take measurements. Both of you – up!'