Dissonance (8 page)

‘No,' he screamed.

She lifted the whip and laid it hard across his torso. The thong flicked back and whipped him across the face. He covered his eyes with his hands. He dropped to the ground and the piano stool tumbled across the rug. Then he pulled himself into an even smaller, tighter ball.

‘You're hiding things from me, Erwin,' she said, lifting the whip again. ‘We're a team, aren't we?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well?'

‘I was late.'

She struck him with the whip again.

‘Stop it.'

‘Don't you think I know?'

‘What?' he asked.

‘About Declan.' She raised the whip again.

‘Alright.'

Madge stood still, her legs apart, the whip dangling from her hand. She had no expression. She didn't smile, although she was happy, in a sense. Now the truth could come out, and the healing could begin.

Erwin sat up. He touched his forehead and there was blood on his finger. ‘It's not like you think,' he said.

‘Well?'

He stared down at the rug. ‘I went to his house. I was curious.' He looked up at her. ‘Can't you understand?'

She didn't reply.

‘He wasn't there,' he continued. ‘So I spoke to Shirley, and her husband.'

Madge took a deep breath. ‘Why? I asked one thing.'

‘I had to go back to school. When I was leaving I saw Declan at the front gate. He said he knew who I was. Then he asked me to come in … but all of a sudden I thought, No, this is wrong. These are nice people, but they stole my father.' He looked up at his mum. ‘They stole him from us.'

‘They most certainly did,' Madge said.

‘So I turned and ran, all the way back to school. And as I ran I thought, Please, God, let that be the end of it. If I promise to forget them, to stay away.'

Madge glared at him. ‘They wanted to take that shop from us. If I hadn't sold it when I did we would've been left with nothing.' She pointed a long, crooked finger at the piano. ‘None of this.'

‘I know, I know, Mum,' he said, begging forgiveness with his voice. ‘And then when I got back to school I got in trouble.'

Madge rolled the long tongue of the whip around her hand.

‘I knew, when I was standing at that gate,' he pleaded with his eyes. ‘All she went on about was how much he loved her … and Declan … how he worked in the shop with him and got him a job at the Co-op.'

Madge returned the whip to the hutch. She hobbled back to her son and sat beside him. He uncurled himself and lay across her lap like an overgrown baby. ‘I realised, Mum,' he explained, staring up into her eyes, as she started stroking his cheek.

‘Good,' she said. ‘The things I could tell you about those people. She, that Shirley woman, was always spreading rumours about me. People would come into the shop and tell me. Once, someone said, Congratulations, and I said, Pardon? and they said, When's it due? Apparently it was O'Loughlin's. You know, the butcher in Lyndoch. See, she comes over all friendly but the truth is quite different. That's why I told you to stay away. She'll poison your mind if you let her. She'll turn you against me. How would that be, Shot-a-tee?'

‘Not good.'

‘No.'

‘Promise me you'll stay away?'

‘I knew, when I was at the gate.'

‘You will be the world's greatest musician. But that woman, she couldn't stand that. She'd find a way to spoil it. See what you almost did?'

‘I know.'

‘So, who's your protector, Shot-a-tee?'

‘You are.'

‘And who are you?'

‘Grettir the Strong.'

‘And what can you do?'

‘Conquer.'

‘With whose love?'

‘Yours.'

Half an hour later Madge was back in the laundry running her iron along the creases in Erwin's school pants. School, too, had outlived its usefulness. Like Jo and Father O'Gorman and Reg and the boxes of clothes and trinkets in the shed; like Cub scouts (she only took him twice, before she lost interest) and soccer, the Barossa Valley, Adelaide, Australia.

She took the dress she'd worn to town that day. She draped it across the ironing table and set to it with a shot of steam. As she worked she sang the melody to the
Moonlight Sonata
. Better. Focus always helped. But that wasn't something that came naturally to most males.

She shifted her weight on her feet. It had been a hard couple of days. In and out of the city, up and down North Terrace, waiting, always waiting, until Reg appeared with the reference he'd promised.

Dear Professor Schaedel,

I am writing to you to recommend a student, my very best – Erwin Hergert. Erwin will be moving to Germany with his mother and is seeking a teacher.

And he continued: You may remember my brother, he always praised the piano program at Hamburg … Erwin is a fine boy, and hard-working … he has mastered the following pieces:
La Fileuse
, Scarlatti's
Pastorale
, and c., and played them at recitals at the Elder Conservatorium, to the astonishment of all the professors (considering his age) … I know this may be an unusual request, but short of auditioning down the phone …

So there was Madge, sitting in the Balfour's Café, writing a translation on another piece of paper. She put the original and the translation in with her letter and sealed the envelope. Then she walked to the GPO to post it (street boxes couldn't be trusted).

As Madge Hergert ironed her best dress she felt something in the pocket. She pulled out the slip of paper that Reg had written Schaedel's name on. She ironed it flat, and then smoothed it again with her fingers.

‘Come on, Shirley,' she whispered, thinking, See if you can do better than that …

Chapter Five

‘That's the problem,' Madge whispered, leaning across their table at the Zinfandel tearooms, pointing to a pair of hausfraus in big, bosomy dresses. ‘Pickles make them important. Not piano, no. Nothing that involves the brain. Just pickles.'

‘Who are they?' Erwin asked, leaning over the remains of an inch-thick waffle his mother had bought him.

‘Who cares,' she replied.

Madge was shouting her son lunch. ‘Anything you want,' she'd said, when he'd got up that morning.

‘Why?'

But she'd just smiled.

It was very unusual. Madge didn't believe in paying for something you could make or do yourself. Restaurants and tearooms were designed for the lazy and inept, for those who wanted to be seen, for people with more money than sense. She knew she couldn't afford the luxury – she was investing her money in other things.

The women in big dresses whispered between themselves and looked at Madge. She lifted her eyebrows and then lowered her head in mock politeness. Then one of the women, whose dress was pleated and full of air like a parachute, lifted her head, looked away and said (just loud enough to be heard), ‘Everybody knows.'

Both of the women looked at Madge and she said, ‘Congratulations.'

‘Mum,' Erwin said, pulling her sleeve.

‘For what?' one of the women asked.

‘I couldn't help but overhear your conversation,' Madge replied. ‘Dill pickles.'

The woman in the parachute dress looked at them strangely. ‘Thank you,' she said.

‘Didn't you win last year as well?'

‘Yes.'

Madge tilted her head and almost licked her lips. ‘The Tanunda Show, what an honour.'

The other woman had worked her out. ‘What about the Adelaide Show?' she asked.

‘No, I wouldn't think,' Madge replied. ‘All of those Methodist housewives with their dumplings and orange cakes … but pickles!'

‘Mrs Hergert, isn't it?'

‘Yes.'

‘Your husband had the grocery shop?'

And what she meant was, He didn't have land, did he? He didn't graze cattle or grow barley or make wine; he didn't smoke pigs or have any idea about egg noodles and pastry; he never grew pickles or preserved them. He just sold things, didn't he? Things in cans. Things from factories.

‘His father was on the council,' Madge added.

‘Of course,' the woman replied.

‘His great-grandfather arrived with Kavel.'

‘Really?'

Madge frowned. ‘Are they for sale?'

The woman squinted.

‘Your pickles?'

‘No,' she replied. ‘That's not why I do it.'

‘Why then?' Madge ventured.

She shrugged, smiling, but what she meant was, You'd never understand.

Madge turned back to Erwin. ‘That's what she'll have on her gravestone,' she said. ‘“Valley's Best Pickler”. Silly woman.'

The pickler looked back at her.

‘It's so nice you've got something,' Madge said.

The woman looked puzzled.

‘To fill your days,' she explained, picking up a cup between her thumb and index finger.

Erwin had switched off. He was looking through a window that had been frosted around the edges with lumpy white paint. Beyond this, apparently, were piles of snow on Mattner's Pontiac dealership, roaming choirs in snow boots and earmuffs, wild deer, spruce forests and hunting lodges.

Spring had come to Tanunda and Lyndoch, Nuriootpa and Angaston and a dozen other towns across the Valley. Flowers on giant agaves had started to droop and a carpet of wood sorrel had appeared almost overnight on the lower slopes of the Kaiserstuhl. White irises yellowed along roadsides scattered with blown tyres as scraps of old newspaper rotted down in beds of harlequin. Sitting in the tearooms, Erwin could see the sun reflecting off the leaves of an apricot tree planted too close to a woodshed. As a smoky breeze came in a window he turned over his last piece of soggy waffle and wondered.

Where would he be in another year? Would there be a friend, or companion – someone else besides mother? Would there be more to life than gigues and preludes or would the stale rhythms of the Valley persist? Would the world still be full of people at odds with each other? Or in love? Still lost, or growing contentedly in cramped spaces that were part nuisance, part protection?

Madge looked across at a meal that had barely been touched and said, ‘What a waste.'

Erwin was confused. ‘Why did you bring me here?' he asked.

She smiled. ‘This is a day you'll always remember. The day all the silliness stopped.' She looked at the pickle-queen. ‘This is the day you'll tell reporters about. You'll describe this place with its silly doilies and undercooked waffles and you'll tell them about these
people
 … and how you overcame them, with the help of your mother. You'll tell them how you were never appreciated. Unlike the fruit preservers.'

As Erwin thought, Will I tell them about the other things? About how I loved the sound of wind through a pepper tree, and the woody taste of maple syrup? Will I tell them how I felt happy exploring the collapsed stable and overgrown ­paddocks of God's Hill Road? Shall I describe the smell of must-flavoured air on my face as I flew down hills on my bike? And shall I mention all the times I was happy to bursting – all of the dark, guilty moments in my dad's shed and all of the lunchtimes spent watching the girl's athletics team practising on the school oval?

‘Memorable,' Madge said.

‘What?' Erwin asked.

‘You'll tell them how all the practise was worth it in the end. And then you'll say, My Mum took out this letter and handed it to me.'

‘What letter?' Erwin asked.

Madge opened her purse and produced an aerogram. She smiled and then handed it to him. He looked at the front – ‘M. Hergert, God's Hill Road, Barossa Valley, Australia' – and the stamp with a sepia likeness of Adolf Hitler and the words ‘Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer'. He looked at the Sülldorf postmark and read the address on the back, ‘Hamburger Konservatorium'. Then he looked at his mother.

‘Go on,' she said.

He took the aerogram that had already been torn open and started to read. He mumbled, skipping the occasional word he'd never come across, stopping and thinking and then looking up at her and starting again.

Dear Mrs Hergert,

Greetings! And also to Mr Carter, whom I've heard described at length.

Let me say this. If you're convinced enough of your son's talents to bring him here, then I'd be willing to take him on. We could see where he's at, and perhaps another teacher if he's less or more good, but as a rule generally always I will trust Mr Carter.

Believe me, you are a committed parent. Many of my students complain about late trains and the like, but you are another thing altogether.

Erwin looked at his mother. His mouth was wide open and he looked like he'd just seen the two pickle ladies take off their clothes and dance naked on their table. ‘When did you …?'

‘I wrote to him, six weeks ago.'

‘Who is he?'

‘He is very good. Mr Carter recommended him.'

‘When?'

‘What does it matter? Are you happy?'

Erwin took a deep breath. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘But … when are we going to Hamburg? For a holiday?'

‘Don't you see?' she replied. ‘We'll move there.'

‘To live?'

‘Yes.'

‘But we live here.'

‘So?'

There was silence for a few moments.

‘I thought you'd be happier,' Madge said.

‘I am … I just wasn't expecting this. You should've told me.'

His mother spoke loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. ‘We always knew, Erwin,' she said. ‘We couldn't stay in this place forever – not if you want to amount to something.' A few people, including the picklers, looked at her. She raised her head and her voice without smiling. ‘What are your options here? Nothing. It's a backwater.'

‘I suppose … it'll be wonderful,' Erwin said.

‘A few hours by train and we'll be in France, Prague.'

‘I could give concerts.'

‘Exactly. You'll be in with the best. And you'll know you're measuring up.'

‘Yes, I see,' he whispered, becoming convinced. ‘And imagine – Germany!'

‘One thing leads to another, Erwin.' She looked around. ‘We're victims of fate. Wrong time, wrong place. But we can fix that. See, this is why all that practise was so important. Sight unseen, Erwin. How's that?'

‘Because of Mr Carter?'

‘No, you.'

‘And you, Mum.'

‘No … you.'

The Konservatorium has a man who organises lodgings for people. I have enclosed his information in this letter for your contact. Please write again when you are coming. I will have to work out where to put Erwin in my time.

Erwin looked up. By now the letter was trembling in his hand. ‘What about money?' he asked.

‘I have a plan,' Madge replied. ‘Don't worry about money, it's a minor point.'

Minor, he wanted to ask. When everything we do is done to save a few pennies?

‘And what about school?'

‘Ha!' she replied, throwing her head back. ‘You've had enough of that. Captain Cook and the Eureka Stockade. Making pottery and barbecue forks. What you really needed to know I could've taught you in twelve months.'

Erwin didn't need much persuading. ‘Sigmund Romberg – '

‘And Pythagoras. Ha!'

‘And what about the house?'

‘Already taken care of. I spoke to Mr Glaetzer, and he's already found a tenant. Says they'd like to farm the place, if we agreed. See, rent, there's money already.'

‘But not enough.'

‘I have a plan, plans. All you have to do is work at being good … better. The rest will take care of itself.' She took his hand and squeezed it and laid it on the table. ‘Well,' she said. ‘Can you see it?'

‘I can.'

‘And do you love your mother?'

‘I do.' And then he stood, and came around to her, and kissed her on the lips. ‘You were a terror to do this without telling me,' he said.

‘I wanted to be sure,' she replied, as he sat down, as diners and staff looked at each other in amazement.

‘And what will you tell those reporters?' Madge asked her son.

‘I'll tell them about the Zinfandel,' he replied. ‘I'll tell them about my mother, and what she wore, and how she smelt and smiled.' He took her hand and leaned towards her. She responded and he kissed her again. ‘I'll tell them we're the best two ever.'

‘And what else?'

‘And this was the beginning of everything.'

The next day Madge drove out to her parents' property. Statenborough covered the hills, valleys and creek beds of the country between Williamstown and Mount Crawford Forest. It was green country all year round and could support almost anything. Samuel, her father, had experimented with dates and olives, goats and prickly pear, but had always returned to sheep and cattle. He'd cropped barley and wheat and even created a wood lot that he intended harvesting when he was seventy to pay for a trip to Europe.

Madge parked her truck on the gravel driveway, blocking any access to the house. Her mother, Grace, came out waving a tea towel and said, ‘Your father wants it parked out the back.'

‘Why?' Madge asked. ‘Are you expecting someone?'

‘No,' she replied. ‘He reckons it's an embarrassment.'

A few minutes later Madge was sitting in the living room with her parents. The house smelt of vanilla and Madge asked why. Grace sniffed the air a few times and said, ‘I can't smell anything.'

Then her father tried. ‘That's not vanilla, it's cinnamon.'

‘Dad, it's vanilla.'

‘How can it be vanilla?' Grace asked. ‘I haven't done any cooking for days.'

If Killalah was a slice of Empire, then Statenborough was the whole cake. And at the centre of this grand, six-bedroom home was the living room. Around the walls were a series of flat, glass-covered display cabinets that Sam had imported from France. In each of these was a collection on a theme – coins, pipes, war medals (other people's), stuffed birds, whistles, theatre programs, ivory moustache combs, anything. Every time Sam had a visitor he'd spend an hour explaining each piece. ‘This here is a nose-ring worn by a Hutu …' As Grace stood at the door with her arms crossed, saying, ‘Sam, they're not interested.'

‘Excuse me.' Turning to his visitor. ‘You are, eh?'

‘Of course.'

There were four seats – two upholstered with satin, one with cotton and the other with rattan. Each was covered with a crocheted rug and on Sam's chair, the biggest, there was a cushion woven with St George, a dragon, a coat-of-arms and a border of palm leaves. Above the chair was a print of Cruikshank's ‘Death of Little Nell' and beside it, on a smoking table, a candelabra that Grace polished every New Year's Day.

Madge poured herself a cup of tea and rested it in a saucer on her knee. ‘Well, the time's arrived,' she said, smiling, looking at the piano Grace had made her practise on for eleven long years.

‘For what?' Grace asked.

‘To move on,' Madge replied, savouring every fraction of every cinnamon-scented moment, listening to the grandfather clock that had been her metronome.

‘Where to?' Sam asked.

‘Hamburg,' Madge said, going on to explain her letter, the reply and Erwin's excitement; describing a mostly imagined Hamburg full of mad composers and artists and writers running down cobblestone streets.

‘It's decided?' Sam asked, when she'd finished.

‘Of course. What do you think?'

She looked at her mother. Are you proud of me, she wanted to ask. Isn't this what we always wanted? I was never going to be Ignaz Friedman, but what about Erwin?