‘Coffee?’ Harry offered, putting the kettle on.
Flynn nodded gratefully. There was an interminable silence as Harry waited for the water to boil, stretching further still as he proceeded to methodically fill the mugs. Flynn rubbed his face. His eyes throbbed with an aching pulse.
Harry handed Flynn his coffee and sat on a stool on the other side of the room. ‘You know, I’m beginning to worry about you.’ His voice was even.
Flynn couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. So he said nothing.
‘Hardly talking, sleeping all the time. It’s not healthy, you know!’ Harry gave a brief smile.
‘So?’
‘Jennah was wondering whether it was André’s concert that upset you.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘Well, I could see her point. Last month you went underground for about a week when someone mentioned his name at lunch.’
‘It had nothing to do with that.’
‘Well then, what is it?’ The intensity of his own voice seemed to surprise Harry a little, and he gave a quick, false laugh. ‘Why aren’t you speaking to anyone? Why are you getting drunk on your own?’ Another strained laugh.
‘Who cares?’ Flynn put his hands over his face, wishing he could yell at the top of his voice to drown out the sound of Harry’s infuriating voice. Why did that guy have to talk and talk?
‘Have you thought of going to see one of those counsellors at the university?’ Harry suddenly suggested.
‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘Shall I give Rami a call then?’
Flynn lowered his hands from his face and looked up in horror.
‘Well, I just thought—’ Harry began quickly, then stopped.
‘This has got nothing to do with my brother!’
‘OK, sure. I just thought . . . since he’s a doctor . . . he might have been able to . . .’ Harry tailed off awkwardly.
Flynn shook his head slowly in disbelief. Harry and Rami had sort of hit it off when Rami had been helping Flynn move in. But God forbid that Harry should actually call him. There was a long silence.
‘Well at least it’s the weekend tomorrow,’ Harry said with false cheer.
There was nothing to be said to that.
Flynn woke the next day at two in the afternoon. Harry was in orchestra rehearsals, thank goodness. He ate some dry cereal from the packet and drank Coke from the bottle and tried to go back to sleep. It didn’t happen. He tried to read. Tried to watch TV. Even tried to practise. No activity was tolerable for more than a couple of minutes. After going through each of them repeatedly in a sort of crazy triangle, he collapsed on his bed, exhausted and suddenly close to tears.
He tried to think back to the first part of that week. The part when he had been full of energy and was continuously looking for ways to burn it off, when no task had seemed too arduous and no mountain too hard to climb. It will come back, he kept telling himself. It will, it will. You’re just feeling shitty because, because . . . It was impossible to find a logical explanation. Because the world is crap, was all he wanted to say. But the world hadn’t been crap a few days ago. So what had changed? He thought of André, thought of Harry and Jennah’s playful flirting on the bridge and wanted to cry. So maybe Harry had been right. Maybe the concert had upset him after all. How pathetic.
‘Do you have to keep humming that godforsaken tune?’
Several days had passed and the greyness of the previous week was just a distant memory. Flynn’s eyes were on fast-forward, his body radiated energy and this morning even the college canteen seemed to glow.
Flynn gave the ketchup bottle a violent shake and raised his eyebrows at Harry. ‘The Rach Three? A godforsaken tune?’
‘It wasn’t meant to be hummed! And how can you eat a hot dog first thing in the morning?’ Harry was tired and essay-grumpy.
Jennah glanced up from under her curtain of hair and gave Flynn a sympathetic grin. The three of them were sitting at a table in the empty canteen, amidst piles of papers and books, finishing off some last-minute coursework.
Flynn returned to the ketchup bottle and started humming again. First movement of Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto. Such an innocuous start – a series of slow, simple notes. A deceptive, pragmatic beginning to a piece so fraught with madness that by the end it left pianist and listener alike in a state of drained mental exhaustion.
He had started running again. Rachmaninov playing on his iPod. The dew still fresh on the grass, the pink orb of the dawn sun just visible over the trees. At that deserted hour, the park had seemed to hold secrets and promises that made him fizz with excitement. At such a time, anything was possible.
Harry put down his pen and glared at Flynn. ‘Would you stop?’
Flynn ignored him and bit into his hot dog.
‘OK, I’m done,’ Jennah said. ‘If I have to read through this drivel one more time, I think I’m going to scream.’
‘Oh God,’ Harry moaned. ‘I haven’t nearly finished. I don’t even understand the last question. What the hell is ars antiqua, anyway?’
‘Who cares?’ Flynn replied.
‘I think it’s a type of thirteenth-century French music, but I’m not sure,’ Jennah said.
Harry reached for the heavy tome of Grove’s Dictionary of Music and began flicking crossly through the pages. ‘I bet it’s not even in here—’
‘Come on, come on, give it to me.’ Impatiently, Flynn grabbed the dictionary from Harry and ran his finger down the page. ‘Here we go – ars antiqua: when rehearsals go on for so long, your arse goes numb and feels like it has turned to stone.’
Jennah snorted and, when Harry scowled, quickly covered her mouth with her hand.
‘Very funny,’ Harry snapped, holding out his hand for the dictionary. ‘Give it back.’
Flynn leaped out of the way. ‘Hold on, hold on, what else have we got in A? Accidentals: when a music student is so drunk he can no longer control his bodily functions. Or how about arco: a musical term employed when one uses the bow in a sweeping motion to knock off the head of the person in front? Or what about attacca?’ Flynn went on. ‘When a cellist decides he can take no more and gores the conductor with his spike!’
Jennah made a choking noise and brought her other hand to her mouth.
‘Oh, for God’s sake don’t encourage him!’ Harry turned on her.
‘Sorry, Harry, sorry,’ Jennah said, bursting into laughter. ‘We will help you, we will. Where are you up to?’
‘Next word!’ Flynn announced. ‘D.C. What does D.C. stand for, Harry? And no, it’s not the capital of America.’
‘Do I look like I want to play this stupid game?’
‘Bzz. I’m afraid that answer is incorrect, Mr Jenkins. Miss Dawson, question to you. What is the definition of the musical term D.C.?’
‘Um . . .’ Jennah glanced nervously at Harry, her shoulders still shaking with suppressed laughter. ‘D.C. stands for da capo, which means “return to the beginning”.’
‘Yes – point to Miss Dawson. Da capo is when all the musicians – usually cellists – have lost their place in the music so they have to start from the beginning again.’
Jennah was biting her thumb, laughing soundlessly.
‘Are you going to give me that dictionary or not?’ Harry demanded, his face reddening.
‘Discord,’ Flynn went on, ignoring him.
‘An unpleasant clashing combination of sounds?’ Jennah suggested, wiping the tears from her eyes.
‘Correct! Harry Jenkins holding the world record, playing a hundred and seventy-nine discords when not meant to in one rehearsal.’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ Harry said.
‘Castanets,’ Flynn continued. ‘A percussion instrument generally used for pinching each other in the groin area during rests.’
‘You’re both nuts,’ Harry said.
‘Impromptu,’ Flynn said. ‘When, in the middle of a concert, the musician gets so bored he feels it is necessary t
o lighten the mood by improvising without telling the other musicians and the piece takes a turn for the worse.’
‘You two are driving me mad!’ Harry dropped his head to the table with a clunk.
‘Sorry, Harry!’ Jennah said, still laughing. ‘We will help you, we will! I think Flynn should write a revised musical dictionary and present it as his final-year dissertation to Myers. Can you imagine the look on his face?’
‘Hey, excellent idea!’ Flynn suddenly exclaimed. ‘I’ll write a dictionary. The Flynn Laukonen Revised Dictionary of Music! Jennah, you’re a genius!’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry said.
The piece was made up of drops of icy water melting from an overhanging tree. Each simple note caused a stab of bittersweet pain as it fell against his skin like a pebble into still water, sending shivers down his spine. Flynn felt as if he could taste each note, feel it inside him, and as the late-afternoon sunlight slanted over Professor Kaiser’s dusty study, it was almost too much to bear. He came to the end of the piece and immediately wanted to play it again, to experience again the intense sensations created by nothing more than a simple arrangement of notes, longing for the piece once more like fresh juice on a hot summer’s day. Each note was more poignant than the last, more exquisite, until you didn’t feel as if another could surpass it and then one did and it was utterly overwhelming, so much so that your chest ached and your eyes stung and your whole body felt as if it would burst.
The door crashed open. ‘Blimey, Flynn, the canteen will be closing soon. Isn’t Kaiser letting you have lunch any more?’ Harry stood in the doorway, impatient and uncomprehending, rubbing his nose.
Flynn stopped, breathing hard, wiping sweaty palms against his thighs. For a moment he wanted to hit Harry for coming in like that, for breaking the spell, for cutting the piece at its most poignant, for bringing him back to reality. Then his anger turned to excitement.
‘This has nothing to do with Kaiser. I’ve found this fantastic piece – it’s so simple but incredibly beautiful, by some obscure Russian. We could adapt it for the cello – it’s practically all melody.’ He jumped up and a pile of books toppled to the floor as he tried to gather the loose sheets of music from the top of the piano. ‘I think it could work as a duet with a little variation. It’s like two melodies, actually, not one, running together, entwining and then separating—’
‘Flynn, not now! I’m sure it’s great and wonderful but can we please go and get some lunch? We’ve got Musicianship in less than twenty minutes and I haven’t had a break all morning.’ Harry’s voice sounded heavy and fed up. He didn’t understand.
Flynn tossed a couple of books to the floor. ‘Forget Musicianship! This is much better! Professor Kaiser’s out all afternoon – if I could just find the last page . . . Go and get your cello, Harry!’
‘You’re not listening to me. I need to have lunch! Unlike you I need food in order to survive. I’ve been playing all morning, my fingers are sore. I am not going to play through my lunch break as well, however amazing your Russian piece is . . .’
Harry’s voice tailed off as Flynn felt sparks of uncontainable laughter igniting within him. ‘Go and get your cello now!’
‘Stop laughing – it’s not funny. I’m not going to do this!’
‘Where has the last page gone? Go and get your cello, will you? D’you understand the importance of this piece?’
‘I understand that you’re trying to give me a nervous breakdown. I understand that you’re trying to starve me into submission.’
Flynn tipped a pile of books onto the floor. ‘This is a million times better than food! It’s a million times better than sex!’
Harry shot him a meaningful look. ‘Oh, and you would know!’
‘It’s a million times better than anything you’ve ever heard in your life! God, where is that bloody page?’ He upended another pile of manuscript paper.
‘Doesn’t Kaiser say anything when you trash his room like this?’
Flynn tore a sheet of manuscript paper from his pad. ‘I’ve lost the last page. Never mind, I’ll write it out again. Go and get your cello. Bet you I’ll be done by the time you get back!’ Kneeling on the floor, the paper on the piano stool, he began scribbling away.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Harry said drily. ‘Take your time because I’m going to go and eat.’
He would come back. Flynn knew he would. Harry might be a bit sluggish and droll at times but even he had to be intrigued by this. Chewing his lower lip hard, Flynn wrote down the music as fast as his hand would allow, excitement brewing up inside him. He could write out whole sonatas from memory in minutes. Harry would be astounded. He couldn’t get the notes down fast enough – only the limitations of his hand slowed him. His brain was on fire.
After a while, Harry returned, cello in one hand, sandwich in the other. Flynn brandished the sheet of manuscript, panting a little.
‘Aha!’
Harry snatched it from him. ‘What’s this?’
‘The last page. I wrote it out.’
‘Very funny. You found it.’
‘No! Look, it’s in pencil. Written out by my own fair hand, for you, my best friend!’
Harry gave him a quizzical look. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘No, I’m high on Liadov! Come on, let’s get started. We haven’t got much time. Get your cello out. Come on!’ Flynn got up and went over to grab Harry’s cello, knocking it over and rescuing it by its neck in the nick of time. He started unzipping its case.
But Harry hadn’t moved from the piano stool, frowning over the music.
‘I told you,’ Flynn said. ‘It’s so simple, it’s incredible! You have to hear it first so tune up and move.’
But Harry was still frowning. ‘You actually wrote all this out? Just now?’
‘Yes. It’s all there. Come on!’
Shaking his head, Harry slowly put the music down and reluctantly accepted his cello. Flynn impatiently thumped on an A. Harry began tuning up, painfully slowly.
Flynn thumped the A and D-minor chords a couple more times for good measure. ‘OK, got it? Good, let’s start.’
‘Oh my God,’ Harry said flatly to no one in particular. ‘He won’t even let me tune up properly.’
‘Stop moaning. Are you ready?’
Harry gave him a look. ‘Can I just ask you something?’
‘What?’
‘If we’re skipping Musicianship and Kaiser is out all afternoon, then what exactly is the rush?’
‘We’ve got to adapt it for the cello. We’ve got to compose some variations. There’s not much time!’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ Harry moaned.
‘Hi. I brought some beers to get us in the mood!’ That evening, Jennah stood on the doorstep brandishing a four-pack, hair whipping over her face in the chill evening wind.
Flynn was in a T-shirt and jeans, towel round his neck, midway through drying his hair.
‘So whose idea was it to resurrect our trio?’ Jennah asked, stepping into the living room and taking off her jacket. She was wearing a wine-coloured shirt and faded jeans and smelled of soap.
‘Mine, I suppose.’ Flynn looked at her uncertainly. Perhaps she thought it ridiculous. Free of coursework for one evening, he had managed to persuade Harry to call Jennah and arrange a rare rehearsal.
Jennah smiled disarmingly. ‘Good thinking. Are we going to go busking again soon? Maybe if we’re good enough I could give up my job at the music shop!’ The silver hoops in her ears caught the light as she laughed.
Harry came in from the kitchen. ‘Hi, Jen! Hey, beer, just what I need.’ He leaned forwards to kiss her cheek with his usual unaffected ease, grabbed a can and sat down. ‘Here’s to our trio!’
Jennah laughed.
Flynn took another deep swig and crammed a couple of Pringles into his mouth. ‘Shall we get started?’
Harry and Jennah exchanged glances.
‘No rest for the wicked,’ Harry said.
‘By the way, why weren’t either of you in Musicianship this afternoon?’ Jennah asked as she began assembling her flute.
Harry rolled his eyes. ‘Ask Flynn.’
Flynn, pretending he hadn’t heard, sat down at the piano and played an A.
‘Flynn?’
He half turned on the piano stool. ‘We were busy,’ he replied, suddenly shy.
‘Busy doing what?’
‘Having a ball,’ Harry said sarcastically. ‘Flynn made me skip Musicianship just so that we could do ten times more work on some bloody piano sonata by some bloody unknown Russian and insisted that we not only transpose it but also write in a cello part and compose a bloody variation!’
Jennah looked across at Flynn, trying not to laugh. ‘Seriously?’
‘Mm.’
The laughter escaped her. ‘Oh, dear God, why?’
‘That’s what I said!’ Harry exclaimed.
Flynn shrugged, embarrassed.
Jennah stopped laughing. ‘Must have been quite something,’ she said. ‘Can I hear it?’
‘God, no, I never want to hear that piece again!’
But she was looking at Flynn. ‘Please?’
He made a casual gesture with his hand and shoulder as if to say ‘Why not? and looked over at Harry.
‘Fine!’ Harry exclaimed, pretending to be more irritated than he actually was.
Flynn went to dig out the music from his bag for Harry, who was still tuning. When he returned to the piano stool his palms were suddenly damp. He wiped them on his jeans and glanced at Harry.
Harry nodded, raised his bow and then stopped. ‘Are you playing without music?’ he asked in surprise.
Flynn shrugged and turned back to the piano. A sharply inhaled upbeat and they were away.
The first few bars were tentative, fearful almost. Harry’s notes blended in with Flynn’s, then pulled away. They kept it slow, teasing the melody out gently, the notes climbing then receding again. Harry only faltered once, twice, briefly losing tempo but quickly recovering. The piece soared to its delicate crescendo before ebbing away, and Flynn lost himself in the last few bars, the poignancy of the piece threatening to overwhelm him yet again. He opened his eyes reluctantly to Jennah’s clapping and turned round with a half-smile.
A Note of Madness Page 3
