Dissonance (5 page)

Water dripped from the roof onto his hands and face.

I wish you were with us more offen but mum says its not possibul. She says your very very busy with work, and thats how bills get payed.

On and on, as he pulled his towelling jacket closed.

Your son for ever, Declan.

Chapter Three

The train pulled into Adelaide Station. Erwin waited until the carriage was almost empty and stood, straightening his tie and brushing lint from his corduroy jacket. He walked along the platform in the wake of an overweight porter. Then he stood in front of the cafeteria and listened to a pianist play broken chords under an Irving Berlin melody. In the predictable harmonic progressions he could hear Father O'Gorman, serving up music like bowls of sago pudding – hot, sweet and sloppy, drowned in ice cream and custard.

He climbed the ramp to North Terrace and the city opened up around him – sugar-cube blocks of sandstone and marble rising seven or eight storeys, roof-tops bleeding wood fires and steam from boilers into a coal-smoke sky, and plane trees stretching metacarpal branches between power lines. A copper on point on North Terrace stopped to argue with the driver of a cart full of beer kegs as Model-Ts and Vauxhalls improvised turns into King William Street. A newspaper boy worked the lanes of congested traffic and the Paradise tram rang its bell to avoid stopping for a farrier on a geriatric horse.

Erwin walked beside the wall that protected Government House from the city. He was remembering the girl in his geography class. She had a big mouth. She told him it was because she was from London, and everyone in London said exactly what they thought.

‘He's almost your twin,' she'd said. ‘Bigger than you, though. He can carry four crates of fruit at a time.'

‘How does he look like me?'

‘Your hair. Curly like yours. And your nose, the way it ends with a little knob … see.'

‘It's not a knob. What about his eyes?'

She stopped to think. ‘Blue. Sky-blue, like yours. Same forehead …'

Erwin was early for his lesson. He sat on a bench and read notices that someone had tried to scrape off the Governor's wall: a meeting of the Histrionic Society, an encore performance of
Ten Nights in a Bar Room
by the Women's Christian Temperance Union and ‘Rainford's Ghost Entertainment' in the South Parklands, Tuesday next, reasonable tariffs. He watched a gardener use his fingers to scrape leaves from the ground around yellowing hydrangeas, and then use a small rake to clear the soil. There was a cigarette stub, and he got that too. He worked slowly and carefully, as though he had as long as he liked to do as little as he wished. Erwin was intrigued. He watched him, and fell into a trance of scraping and birdsong, broken mufflers and scaffolders working on the Adelaide Club.

This is how you play piano, he thought. A leaf at a time. An E flat ringing, fading and dying in the morning air.

But that's not how it was. His mum was a loud, angry machine, full of petrol, rattling and blowing smoke. ‘And again, double tempo, C-sharp minor in thirds.'

He looked up at her and said, Shut up, and she stood with her hands on her hips. You never told me about Declan, he said, as he watched the gardener move onto the next few inches of soil. All these years, he continued, he could've been my friend, my brother.

But Madge was having none of it. Don't you think I know what's best for you?

No.

The gardener looked up at him. ‘It's murder on my back,' he said.

‘It's looking good,' Erwin replied.

Thinking, When you've finished, you can do our place – on your knees, one weed at a time, clearing the acres of ryegrass and wild turnips, undoing a paddock full of disasters at God's Hill Road. All because of Madge, approaching the shed, standing outside and calling, ‘When are you gonna start on those paddocks?'

‘When Hell freezes over.'

‘They're a danger. They're full of snakes and … God knows what.'

‘Leave me alone.'

‘If your son gets bitten – '

‘Go away.'

Mother was right. Mother was always right. So there she was, a few days later, standing at the edge of the worst of the paddocks with a huge, rusted scythe – swinging, her knees cracking and her dress blowing up in the breeze, attempting to clear the grass but giving up after a few minutes, throwing down the scythe and screaming at the top of her lungs, ‘Somebody has to try.'

And from the shed, ‘Get stuffed.'

Erwin stared down at the raked soil. We could've been brothers, he thought. And then things might have been different. He looked up into the cold, blue sky and whispered, ‘What harm would it do?'

The gardener was looking at him. ‘I got a boy your age,' he said.

‘Does he go to school?' Erwin asked.

‘No, he works for the Gas Board.'

Erwin patted the satchel on his lap. ‘I've got my piano lesson, at the Con.'

The gardener smiled. ‘You're good then?'

‘I'm meant to be … perhaps.'

The man with the hard brown hands and snow-white stubble got back to work and Erwin took out the music to Chopin's 17th Prelude. He spread it across the bench and started playing it with his cold, stiff fingers, trailing them in precise lines across his satchel.

‘Play a bit louder, I can't hear you,' the gardener said, and Erwin grinned. Then he looked at his watch. ‘What time do you have?' he asked.

‘Three-thirty.'

Erwin looked back at his watch. ‘It's stopped.' He folded his music and said, ‘Nice to meet you.' The gardener farewelled him with his rake.

As he jogged along North Terrace, Erwin tried to stuff the music into his satchel and it crumpled and ripped. He ran past the library and the art gallery, still hearing his mother in his ear.

You missed the whole lesson? What were you doing?

Watching a gardener.

Do you know what I pay for those lessons?

And then he could hear his dad.

Don't worry about her, Shot-a-tee, these things happen.

But Madge was louder. Do you mind? Who pays for these lessons?

Why does he need them?

That's you all over.

Erwin flew in the back entrance of the Con, descended a set of stairs and walked along the basement hallway. An oil heater vibrated noisily against a wall. Still, there was no heat, or light, just a small, yellow globe turning everything mustard. He stood outside an office and took a deep breath. He wiped dust from the variegated leaf of a rubber plant growing in soil that had shrunk away from the sides of the pot. It was fertilised with a layer of cigar stubs, half-sucked butter menthols and an old shoelace.

He knocked.

‘Come in, Erwin.'

Erwin opened the door and saw his teacher, Reg Carter, sitting behind a desk covered in scores. ‘I'm late,' he said. ‘It's my watch.'

‘Come on then,' Reg replied, standing up.

Erwin sat at the piano and opened his satchel. ‘My fingers are cold.'

‘Get used to it,' Reg mumbled, slipping on a pair of wire-framed glasses. ‘Not many concert halls are heated.'

‘What would I be doing in a concert hall?'

‘Someone's gotta sweep up.'

Erwin shook his head. ‘I brought the Chopin.'

‘Bugger the Chopin. Weren't we doing Grieg?'

‘You said I couldn't handle the stretches.'

‘Erwin!' Reg screamed, almost drowning out the cello next door. Then his face changed, and he fell silent and said, ‘Did I tell you I'm having my laundry retiled?'

‘No.'

‘Teal-blue. I'll bring a tile in to show you.'

‘
The Bridal Procession
?'

‘The Chopin, wasn't it? But first, A-flat major, four octaves, until I tell you to stop.'

Erwin started playing the scale and soon his fingers were warm. As he played Reg took out a receipt book and said, ‘Two pounds, eleven and six, for three months' lessons.'

Erwin stopped to explain.

‘I didn't say stop.'

He recommenced. ‘Mum asked me to ask you – '

‘That she needs some more time?'

‘Yes.'

‘No talking. Now, tell me this, Erwin, would you choose a teal-blue tile?'

‘Perhaps.'

Erwin was smiling. He dropped his head but managed to keep his arms straight.

‘Head up,' Reg urged. ‘You don't see Grainger doing that. So … how are things at home?'

‘Fine.'

‘Is your mum still driving that truck?'

‘Yes.'

‘And why are you wearing these pants? They're six sizes too big.'

‘They were Grandpa's.'

Reg took a pen and scribbled across the receipt: 2 Pounds, 11s, 6d. Then he took a five-pound note from his change pocket, folded it in with the receipt and slipped it into Erwin's top pocket.

‘She only wants a bit longer,' Erwin said.

‘It doesn't matter. You're looking at a man who can afford teal-blue tiles. You tell your mum that. And I'll bring one in. Would you like to see one?'

‘Yes.'

‘Ssh.'

And what he wanted to say, If you had to teach the little cunts I do. Suits and Italian leather shoes. Money coming out of their arse. And not a patch on you, Erwin, my boy.

‘Enough scales?' Erwin asked.

‘Of course. Now, let's look at the Grieg.'

‘You said Chopin.'

‘When did I say that?'

‘Before.'

‘I was worried the green walls would clash with the blue.'

‘A green laundry?'

‘A green laundry.'

Erwin's time with Reg had started one hot February day, at his audition – Erwin on stage at Elder Hall, Madge turning his pages, whispering, ‘Slower, slower.'

‘Mum.'

As Reg and the Head of Piano looked up from the second row.

When Erwin was finished, Madge stepped forward, standing like a budgie perched on the edge of the stage. ‘He also has a fugue,' she explained. ‘Bach. If you have a few more minutes.'

‘No, that's fine,' Reg replied.

‘My son has quite a range. He has a lyric piece. Grieg. It will only take – '

‘Thank you, Mrs Hergert.'

But she was already opening the music on the piano. ‘I must say, for a boy his age – '

‘Mum, we've gotta go.'

‘Ssh …'

‘Mrs Hergert,' Reg pleaded. ‘I'd be happy to take him on. For an eleven-year-old he's … extraordinary.'

Madge looked down at Reg and smiled. ‘You'll take him on?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, thank you. He's been playing since he was four.'

‘Excellent. We'll send out a letter. Now, we have a lot to get through, Mrs Hergert.'

It was cold and dark when Erwin emerged from the back door of the Con, four years later. He took a deep breath and smiled – excellent progress. He found a phone and called his mother and told her he'd played the Grieg without a pause, correction or lapse in tempo. He'd hit the keys hard in the
forte
and barely touched them in the
piano
. ‘And what's more,' he explained, ‘he gave me five pounds.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't know. Maybe he thinks I deserve it. And he wrote a receipt, without me paying.'

If she was there, Madge might've gone back into the Con and objected. She might've denounced charity and insisted on paying. But she wasn't there, and distance, she realised, gave her some perspective. Reg Carter was a man she could've married. He could see talent, and he encouraged it. Reg Carter was Provident. He would do what Jo had failed to do: make her son great.

Erwin headed up the hill towards North Terrace. He walked the length of Rundle and Hindley Streets and then checked into the Royal Admiral Hotel. As he did every Friday night, he ate a meal of fried hake and mashed potato in his room, took off his clothes and slept naked.

At six am the next morning he was woken by an alarm. He got dressed, returned his key and walked to the railway station. Then he bought a ticket and waited for the Nuriootpa train.

Saturday morning.

It took Zac six months to learn his first piece, and that was right hand only. During that time he didn't smile, grin, grimace, speak or even answer Madge's questions. He just sat there and looked at the notes and eventually (with Madge holding his small, bony hand) played a two-bar phrase with no connection, spirit or sense that it was even music.

‘Some take longer than others,' Madge explained to his mum. ‘But if he sticks at it, he'll get there.'

She chose not to mention how
her
son could play Mozart's
Turkish Rondo
with both hands after six months' lessons. How Zac might be better off waiting another twelve months or taking up an idiot-proof instrument like the trumpet. No, Zac's money was as good as anyone's – if Zac's mum wanted him to play the piano, then he would play the piano. Perhaps one day he'd make a good rehearsal pianist or lead sing-alongs at the Angaston Aged Care. Perhaps he'd accompany the liedertafel or teach other second-rate children to play second-rate piano.

She plucked out the melody to Foster's
Camptown Races
and then said, ‘See, it's the same bit, just repeated. Now, you try.' He almost made it to the doo-dah but then stopped and looked at her.

‘What is it?' she asked.

‘Is that fast enough?'

‘Don't worry about that. Just get the notes right. Come on, let's try again.'

As she listened she thanked God for her own son's talent. She could remember the first time she'd found him playing the melody to a nursery rhyme. He was two. She rushed up and hugged him and encouraged him to keep going. She sang him more songs and he played them all, even working out the accidentals and chords. Despite this she put off lessons until he was four. Father O'Gorman came to their house to hear him and insisted there was no point until the finger muscles were strong enough. ‘And anyway, a three-year-old can't make sense of all them dots.'

In the meantime, Erwin continued picking out tunes: radio jingles, pieces she played him, popular songs, anything. ‘It's an instinct,' Jo said, standing outside one day, ­listening through the window before she closed it. ‘Keep it up, Shot-a-tee,' he called, knocking on the glass.