Silver Wattle (4 page)

Aunt Josephine patted Mother’s hand sympathetically but her mouth twitched and she did not seem convinced by Mother’s explanation. I thought back to Milosh unashamedly flirting with paní Benova at paní Provazníkova’s party, and the mysterious conversation between Mother and paní Milotova earlier in the day. Could these be the true reasons for Mother’s reaction?

I was even more puzzled that night when I passed Mother’s room and heard her weeping. Not gentle tears of sentimentality but choking sobs of unbridled grief. I was tempted to knock on her door and try to comfort her, but something told me not to disturb her, to let her anguish run its course.

When I climbed into bed beside the already sleeping Klara, I found it difficult to drift into dreams. It seemed to me that Mother was grieving as bitterly over Uncle Ota’s marriage as she had over Father’s death.

M
other accepted the invitation to paní Koutska’s musical evening, and Klara and paní Milotova worked on some pieces by Mozart, Beethoven and Chopin. They chose six sonatas and preludes, so that Klara could adapt what to play based on the mood of the gathering.

When the evening came around, I was amazed at how at ease Klara was about the prospect of playing for her first audience. She hummed her repertoire while she went about bathing and dressing as if she did not have a care in the world. Paní Milotova had been right in describing Klara as a natural performer. Mother had bestowed upon Klara and me beautiful porcelain dolls when we were growing up, but our favourites were the ones we made ourselves by painting faces on wooden spoons. We gave our divas coiffures made from wool and costumed them in pieces of lace and tulle. We created mini puppet shows together to showcase the dolls—Klara composed the songs while I penned the dialogue and storyline. But when the time came to perform for Mother and her friends, my tongue always managed to lodge itself in my throat and Klara would be left to carry the extravaganza on her own. My only consolation was that afterwards Mother would praise the story. ‘You may not be a performer but you created some wonderful scenarios,’ she was always quick to comfort me.

The evening of the soiree, Milosh, who had been in Brno for business, arrived home just after seven. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, glaring at his watch and yelling at us to hurry. My heart sank. Milosh was always impatient with us, but that night was especially so. I hurried down the stairs, tripping on the rug in my haste to avoid his wrath. But Klara remained unruffled. She glided down the staircase with the grace of a princess.

‘You had better not act so proudly at the party, young lady,’ Milosh muttered, ‘or it will be your last.’

Mother emerged from the drawing room looking splendid in a lilac dress with silver beads over the bodice and hem. The scent of lily of the valley, her favourite perfume, wafted around her. She glanced at Milosh and I wondered if she had heard him, but she said nothing and turned to Klara and myself. Her face broke into a smile. ‘You will be the most beautiful girls in the room.’

Mother always lavished praise on us, but from the way Miloshs skulked to the car, I wondered if the comment had been made with a more pointed purpose on this occasion.

Paní Koutska’s apartment was everything a grandmother’s home should be, down to the Tiffany lamps, tulip-patterned wallpaper and upholstered chairs. The piano was in the drawing room, and when we arrived there were already guests drinking tea and eating honey cake. Paní Benova, in a claret gown with an overdress of iridescent sequins, was talking to a man with white hair and peaked eyebrows. I recognised him as Leosh Janachek, the composer of
Jenufa
. I had heard he was in Prague that month to attend a concert. Paní Koutska had barely a chance to greet us before paní Benova left the esteemed guest’s side and minced over to us.

‘I am charmed to meet you,’ she said to Mother. ‘Milosh did a wonderful job of my house and I have been dying to meet the woman who inspires him.’

Mother grimaced at the compliment. The young widow was even more striking up close, with fine skin and sapphire eyes. But there was something insincere about her, like people who say they like opera when they do not. And the way she had rushed in without waiting for an introduction was vulgar. I was surprised that Milosh welcomed her so warmly, being quick to correct ‘bad’ manners in myself and Klara, and was even more surprised when he kissed paní Benova on the hand.

Pan Doubek, who was sitting with his wife near the fireplace, called out to Milosh and engaged him in conversation about the design he wanted for a new hotel. While my stepfather’s attention was taken, paní Benova leaned towards Klara.

‘I cannot wait to hear you play,’ she said, placing her hand on Klara’s shoulder. ‘Would you like to be first or second?’

Klara lifted her chin. ‘I would like to play second, thank you.’

Paní Benova’s eyes narrowed. She glanced at me. Although the way she held her torso and head straight made her appear controlled, annoyance flashed in her eyes. It was rude of Klara to have taken the second place as that was usually reserved for the better pianist, which paní Benova assumed herself to be. I glanced at Mother but she simply pursed her lips and rubbed her bracelet. Normally she would have scolded Klara for impertinence, but it appeared she did not intend to say anything and I decided that I would not either. Paní Koutska’s only comment was that she was going to serve another round of tea.

Paní Benova glanced around for our stepfather. It would be out of place to make a scene so I guessed she intended to tell him discreetly to switch the order. But Milosh was involved in his conversation with pan Doubek. I could see that paní Benova was weighing up in her mind whether she should discuss the issue with paní Koutska, but before she could say anything the old lady began a long story about her love of music. ‘It all started for me when I was a girl and my family attended a performance of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. They were sublime, everything so beautifully balanced and in proportion. Every note so right…’

Well, if she wanted to play second, paní Benova should not have asked Klara what she wanted to do, I told myself. She should have left it to paní Koutska, who would have placed the most senior pianist last anyway.

Paní Koutska called for the gathering to take their places in the chairs around the piano. The black gloss of the instrument and the glow from the lamps gave paní Benova’s skin a luminescent sheen when she sat down at the keyboard. Paní Koutska announced that her lovely guest was going to play two pieces, starting with Beethoven’s
Appassionata
. The piece was well known as technically challenging and paní Benova wasted no time in manoeuvring from the quietly menacing opening into the tempestuous chordal passages. The sound was explosive in the small room and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Although the speed with which paní Benova approached the piece was questionable, she did not smear the arpeggios. There was no doubt that she was good.

Professor Janachek nodded to Milosh, whose face glowed with such pride one could easily have thought that paní Benova was his daughter, not Klara. Mother’s expression told a different story. She was on the verge of tears, having found the first moment when people were not looking at her to let her emotions show. I thought about paní Benova’s comment that she wanted to meet the woman who inspired Milosh. My stepfather would not have said that. He never bestowed praise on anyone else that he could accept for himself. The unsettling feelings about paní Benova I had first experienced at paní Provazníkova’s party returned to me. I squeezed Mother’s hand and stared at the set of Milosh’s shoulders and the way his lips were pursed in boyish pleasure. I was barely a woman and not well versed in the ways of the world, but I began to guess why Milosh had become colder towards Mother and even more impatient with us. But if paní Benova were seeking a better position, she would not find it with Milosh. He had no fortune of his own.

For her final selection, paní Benova played
Vallee d’Obermann
from Liszt’s
Years of Pilgrimage
. It was an emotionally charged piece with blazing block chords and double octaves that she played at impressive speed, although she sometimes blurred the drama of the piece. But no one could argue that she lacked technique or could not bring off sweeping gestures with ease. When paní Benova lifted her hands from keys, there was a hush, then applause, Milosh clapping loudest of all. I remembered his lectures on tempering your applause to the size of the room, and his hypocrisy made me despise him more. Paní Benova stood up, her chest heaving. I glanced at Klara, expecting her to be intimidated, but she wore the same calm expression that she had since the beginning of the evening.

After more cake and tea were served and everyone was seated again, paní Koutska introduced Klara and announced that she would play Mozart’s Fantasia in D minor, Chopin’s Prelude in D flat, and Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
. I heard Milosh and paní Benova snigger. Not only was Klara’s repertoire shorter, but compared to what paní Benova had attempted the pieces were standard fare.

Klara sat at the keyboard. The gathering giggled when she stood up again to readjust the stool so that her feet were comfortably on the floor. My face burned. It was bad enough that my mother was being humiliated but I could not stand people laughing at my sister. Unlike paní Benova, who had constantly smiled and tossed her head, Klara simply set her hands over the keys, paused, then began playing. The condescending smiles vanished and wonder came to the faces of the listeners. Klara’s fingers fluttered over the keys. Her nimble touch gave the introduction of the Fantasia a shimmering quality. The music was not complicated, but Klara played so elegantly and with such poetry that it was hard to believe we were listening to a young girl. The piece was carefully shaped and Klara’s handwork so neat it was mesmerising. She made every note count. Those qualities were the result of her dedicated practice, but the way she found something fresh in the passages was uniquely her own.

The audience did not murmur or fidget when she began Chopin’s Prelude in D flat. The piece was referred to as
The Raindrop
because of the repeated A flat or G sharp notes, and was thought to have been composed when Chopin, who was in Majorca for the good weather, was kept in his house for days because of rain. It was one of the first recital tunes children learned to play, and could be heard any time of the day flowing out the open windows of Mala Strana, but somehow Klara managed to breathe new life into it. She played the light and dark sections with such emotion it unsettled me. Paní Milotova said that the piano, more than any other instrument, gave away the personality of the player. I saw aspects to Klara I had never witnessed before. The girl at the keyboard was still frightened there might be monsters under her bed, but in music she was a force of nature, causing the audience to tremble with emotion.

It was the same with her
Moonlight Sonata
. The piece was lyrical, vivid, tragic and haunting all at the same time. I glanced at paní Benova. Her smug expression had faded. Klara was not using effect as an end but was making the music live. When she finished, the audience was unable to react until paní Koutska stood up and led the applause. She requested one more piece from Klara and I understood why. Klara had taken us to a place where it was too beautiful to stay. We could not exist there; she had to bring us back to the world with its brutality and trivialness. Did Klara understand this? I didn’t know, but she politely obliged with a lively mazurka.

The tension between Mother and Milosh escalated the moment Klara stepped away from the piano and Professor Janachek rushed towards us and not paní Benova.

‘What a magnificent child! What a talent! Surely you will send her to the Conservatorium!’ he exclaimed.

Mother’s face lit up. But her joy at the compliment was quickly quashed by Milosh. He puffed out his chest. ‘There is no future for a female pianist beyond the drawing room,’ he said.

Professor Janachek stepped back. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘There is always a future when the talent is so exceptional.’

Milosh glanced over to paní Benova, who, although talking to paní Doubkova in a gay manner, looked peeved. She had proved herself accomplished but Klara had outshone her. Milosh realised that and turned back to Professor Janachek. ‘Pianists propagate like rabbits, my honoured professor,’ he said. ‘Those who cannot make careers as soloists become teachers and so produce more pianists. The cycle begins again.’

Mother, who would never contradict a man or make a scene in public, held her tongue until we were in the car. There, she could not contain herself any longer.

‘Does paní Benova restrict her talents to the drawing room?’ she asked, rage constricting her vocal cords. It was painful to see her this way because she was not an angry person by nature.

‘Be quiet,’ Milosh said.

‘I am only saying what everyone else is thinking. Do you call yourself discreet? You’ll bring shame on all of us, fawning over a woman with a reputation.’

‘A reputation as what?’ asked Milosh.

Mother shook her head. ‘A marriage mercenary. Everyone can see it. No decent man will have her.’

Milosh did not respond. We drove home in silence. As soon as we were inside the front door he ordered Klara and me to bed. While Klara slept, exhausted from the excitement and attention as only a nine-year-old could be, I listened to the muffled voices of Mother and Milosh arguing in the parlour. When the clock by my bed struck two, I could bear it no longer. I crept down the stairs. When I approached the parlour doors the words became clearer.

‘Never forget that I made you what you are!’ Mother told Milosh. ‘And that this house and my fortune will go to Adela and Klara.’

Milosh’s answer was faint but I heard him leave the room by the other door. A few minutes later, a car started up in the street and sped away.

My mother had done nothing wrong. She had merely reminded Milosh that her daughters came first. But her words had been spoken in a rage, and if she’d had the chance to think things through, she may not have voiced those sentiments so definitely.