Читать книгу The Ann Ireland Library - Ann Ireland - Страница 24

So it’s over. No need to make a fuss. It’s a miracle she made it this far.

Lucy plants herself in the middle of the dorm room, open suitcase on the bed, train ticket in hand. She could make the 2:10 to Toronto and be back in time for dinner. Wadding up soiled underwear and socks, she stuffs them into a plastic bag, which she tucks into the bottom of the suitcase. Hope springs eternal, as her mother would say, but now she is merely tired and wants to be home. She’ll phone the empty house and leave a message, hint that Mark stick a roast in the oven. The boys could help — peel carrots and wash lettuce for salad and thaw the berries for dessert.

Here she goes, planning her own welcome-back meal.

“What are you doing at home?” she demands when, to her surprise, someone picks up the phone.

It’s Mike, mid-morning on a school day.

“Who’s this?” he asks groggily.

“Your mother.”

“Oh, right,” he says. “Hi, Mom.”

“Is this a PD day?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what it is.”

“Charlie’s home, too?”

“Charlie’s wherever Charlie is.”

“And where is your father?”

A long pause with the sound of feet padding to the window. “Car’s gone, so he must be at work.”

“Does he know you’re home?”

“I can’t be expected to intuit what Dad knows or doesn’t know.”

She recalls how the boys looked lying side by side in the dresser drawer when she first brought them back from the hospital before Mark assembled the crib. Charlie had cradle cap, scaly skin on his bald head, while Mike was pink and clear from the start.

“Did you win?” Mike remembers to ask.

“God, no.”

“Hey, that’s too bad.” Mike seems to come alive. “How come?”

“I’m not good enough.” This is a useful lesson for the boys, Lucy thinks. It’s not always enough to work hard and to want something badly. “I didn’t make the finals.”

“No way!” Mike is indignant. “Who do I have to come and kill?”

She laughs, feeling oddly pleased by his impassioned response. “I’m headed home now.”

“Don’t you have other stuff to do there?” he asks quickly.

He refers to the schedule of workshops, recitals, presentations.

“I guess I’ve lost heart.”

“Don’t utter such words,” Mike says. “Don’t be a quitter.”

He sounds so firm and mature.

“You really think so?” she asks, pretending to defer.

“You’ve been looking forward to this event for months. Live it out, Mum. We’re counting on you to set an example. Charlie and me, we could use some uplift.”

She slips the phone into its case, her eyes shamelessly red, and picks up the program. If she hustles, she can still make Manuel Juerta’s Baroque Ornamentation workshop.

As she splashes water on her face, other thoughts elbow in: why doesn’t Mike want her to come home? And what’s this hedging around Charlie’s whereabouts? PD day, my foot. Isn’t Mike supposed to be at band practice this morning, allegedly playing saxophone?

I am becoming mentally ill, Lucy thinks.

Uncle Philip, neatly pressed clothes soaked in sweat, pulls the two boys close to his body. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, as if he could draw them inside himself. They are lying on a bed in the room at the back of the hut, dirt floor and no glass on the window, just a sheet of newspaper taped up, and through it he can hear the sound of the street, the put-put of a motor scooter, mothers calling to children — though not these children.

He props himself on one elbow and gazes at the boys, whose eyes remain closed as they pretend to sleep. Their narrow chests rise and fall in perfect synch. He doesn’t hear the grinding of a car as it pulls up, nor the popping of doors as two men in uniform slide out and take their sweet time making their way to the entrance of the hut, hands grazing their holsters as they always do when they approach such a dwelling. They nod toward the stout woman who fries meat in the outdoor kitchen, and she nods back. The reward money will pay for a concrete floor, and later, maybe running water. Meanwhile a new flush toilet waits, as it has for five years, in its cardboard box in the corner.

The judges cluster at the foot of the stairs of the Fine Arts Building, weary from hours of heated arbitration. No sign of Lucy’s colleagues who must choose this morning between a demonstration on French polish technique in the atrium or Manuel’s ornamentation workshop upstairs.

Lucy holds back, pretending to adjust the strap of her guitar case, and waits for the judges to mount the stairs.

Disappointment ambushes her again. This crew eliminated her from the last round, which means there was discussion over the merits and demerits of her performance. Flaws in technique and interpretation were pointed out, mishaps of presentation, the whole bloody shooting match.

“Ms. Shaker?” It’s the judge from California, Portia Vanstone. “I was so impressed by your performance.” Her teeth are unnaturally white. “Especially the Mark Loesser piece, which you pulled off with great style and brio. Well done.” She lifts her hands to shoulder height and claps three times, a lonely sound in the nearly empty foyer.

“Thank you,” Lucy says and feels her heart ping-pong in her chest. She’s probably flushing, the hormonal goddess never quiet for long.

Portia and the other judges are climbing the stairs when Lucy hears herself say eagerly, “I do prefer the modern repertoire. Purely guitaristic, so much more interesting than arrangements of old work sucked from keyboard and violin.”

Did she really say that?

Jon Smyth, the tall young man with morning beard bristle, pauses on the steps to stare down at her, for he is a noted arranger from the romantic and classical keyboard repertoire.

Too late to grab her words back. “I heard Toby Hausner play when he was very young,” she says, watching as all five judges gaze down at her, waiting for more.

“He was brilliant even then.” Lucy hesitates, then charges on. “Perhaps something has been lost.”

“Lost?” Jon Smyth asks. “What might that be?”

She pretends to think. “Reckless confidence found only in the very young.”

Manuel begins the demonstration session by playing two variations on the opening movement of the Bach suite: first version unadorned, the second featuring full Baroque embellishments. His hands float through the elaborate trills, mordents, and turns. Lucy plucks her guitar out of its case and joins the other musicians in imitation of the master.

None of the competition finalists made it to the tutorial. They’re hunkered down in their rooms, practising while their glorious futures bob within reach.