Moonlight Sonata

by Eileen Merriman

  ‘And now?’

  His uncle sighs. ‘It’s still the best thing that ever happened to me.’ Then he turns the radio back up again, and Noah knows their conversation is over.

  He thinks he’s more confused than ever.

  That evening, Uncle Sully cooks prawns on the barbecue, and they eat them with French bread and salad. Charcoal clouds hover around the hills. The air is thick and still.

  Noah still hasn’t called Aimee. He sent her a text earlier, though: Sorry reception bad here. Thinking of you. See you soon. N.

  He feels like such a shit.

  After he has helped Dad and Uncle Ants with the dishes, he wanders into the downstairs flat. It’s cooler down there, and there’s no one else hanging around — just what he needs.

  Sitting on a piano stool, he thumbs through the music book his grandmother was playing from earlier, a collection of Beethoven’s most famous pieces. He hasn’t played for a while, months even, but he manages most of the ‘Moonlight Sonata’ before moving onto ‘Für Elise’. As he plays, the racing thoughts in his head begin to settle, like autumn leaves on the forest floor.

  Noah is onto the last page, his mind and body in perfect synchrony, when he hears Lola say, ‘Oh. I didn’t know you were down here.’

  He turns, almost reluctant to abandon the trance-like state that has come over him. ‘I was just mucking around.’

  ‘Do you play much?’ Lola draws closer and sits beside him.

  ‘Off and on. I stopped the lessons when I was thirteen. Sometimes I play with Mum, though. She does the left, I do the right.’ He slips an arm around her waist and lifts her hand onto the keyboard. She smells good, like vanilla and sunshine. ‘“Für Elise”, do you know it?’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Lola turns to the sheet of music in front of them. Noah starts playing from the beginning of the piece, and when he reaches the third bar, Lola comes in on the A. Noah doesn’t think Lola’s used to playing with someone else, and they’re often a split second out at the beginning of the bar, but it doesn’t sound too bad. Not until they get to the second page, and Lola stumbles over the semiquavers.

  She halts. After playing a few more bars, Noah bends to kiss the tip of her nose.

  ‘Don’t stop. You’re doing OK.’

  Lola shakes her head. ‘I’m not really. Not like you.’

  ‘Practice makes perfect.’ Turning to face her, he runs his fingers over her forehead, her cheek, her lips. She smells so good, and when he kisses her, she tastes of freedom, and danger, and everything that is right, and everything that is wrong.

  Drawing her tongue into his mouth, he slides his hand up her thigh and inside her shorts. It feels like when they jumped out of the kayak — a dangerous delight, uncharted waters, with currents that could kill them. Him. Her.

  Us.

  Lola is touching his stomach, his lower back, the top of his buttocks. Desire rippling through his belly, he sneaks the tip of his finger inside her underwear, hears her take a quick breath in.

  Lola pulls away, turns her head. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘What?’ Noah holds his breath, but he can’t hold the fortissimo beat of his heart. Out of control, his body is out of control.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lola says, peering out into fading evening light. ‘Maybe I was imagining it.’ She looks back at him. ‘What do you think would happen if—’

  He shakes his head at her. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  She bites her lip. ‘I came down here to take my insulin,’ she says. ‘I forgot to take it before.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, feeling guilty for distracting her. ‘You’d better not forget that. What happens if you forget your insulin?’

  ‘Well,’ she says, her eyes ocean-deep, ‘I’d die.’

  He swallows. ‘Don’t forget your insulin.’

  ‘I won’t.’ She walks into the bedroom. He doesn’t follow her.

  Chapter 14:

  MOLLY 1992

  Molly leaned into the wind, blinking against the rain-hail. The hood of her jacket was gathered around her face, the front of her jeans nearly soaked through. Her feet, however, were warm and dry. The boots were an extravagance she could ill afford, but as soon as she’d seen the cherry-red leather Doc Martens in the Lambton Quay shoe shop, she’d had to have them.

  Those are so fucking cool, her flatmate, Megan, had said. Who cares if you can’t eat lunch for three months?

  Glancing up, Molly saw that the steamed-up windows of her favourite café were now only a few feet away. Another extra vagance, her weekly indulgence before classes on a Friday morning. She’d never tasted a cappuccino before she’d come to uni, hadn’t even known what one looked like. Now she was hooked.

  After stepping inside, Molly shed her dripping jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. The café was packed with early-morning commuters in their black and grey business clothes. Molly loved the buzz of inner-city Wellington, loved the narrow streets and weatherboard houses jostling for space on their clifftop positions. As she joined the queue for the counter, she heard snatches of conversation from the tables around her.

  Interest rates … completely self-centred … can’t make Wednesday, but could do Thursday … update on new cancer treatments …

  ‘Just the usual?’ The girl behind the till asked.

  Molly looked up. ‘Oh. Yes, please.’ She deposited her coins on the counter, her eyes tracking the guy who’d been making her coffee every Friday morning for the past month. And as he’d done every Friday morning for the past four weeks, the guy caught her watching and gave her a smile.

  ‘Pretty wild out there,’ he said.

  ‘Abysmal.’ Molly pushed a wet strand of hair off her brow. She didn’t know his name and was too shy to ask. He seemed a few years older than her, but Molly knew he was still a student, because she’d heard one of the staff talking to him about university fees a couple of weeks ago.

  ‘Here.’ The girl passed her a number on a stick. Molly took a seat in the corner and gazed through the rain-blurry window. It couldn’t have been more than eight degrees outside. The air inside the café was warm, though, almost stuffy. Molly didn’t mind — it was a pleasant change from her damp, drafty flat.

  When she took her biochemistry folder out of her backpack, a card slipped out and onto the floor. Bending to pick it up, Molly saw it was the last postcard she’d received from Joe. The photo on the front showed a large limestone wall. In the background was a cluster of ancient brick buildings, and among them a large yellow dome. Molly turned the card over and read the message on the back, for what had to be the twentieth time.

  20 July 1992

  Have reached the ancient city of David. The oldest part of the Wailing Wall was built in 19BC, does that blow your mind or what? I’ve left my note in the wall — like a coin in a wishing well. At the end of the year it’ll be collected with a million others and buried. Hope you’re thinking about my offer. The world’s bigger than I ever imagined, and it’d be cool if you explored it with me after your degree (only 4 months to go, Lolly, can you believe it?). Save enough for your airfare, you can pick up work once you get here. Promise.

  Fact of the week: The Dead Sea is the lowest place on Earth.

  Missing you, J.

  Closing her eyes, Molly imagined the burning sun on her bare skin, the yellow flare of a Middle Eastern sun behind her eyelids. The offer to travel was tempting, a year off before she launched into a Master’s or PhD.

  ‘Coffee up.’

  When Molly opened her eyes, she was surprised to see it was the coffee guy placing her drink in front of her rather than the waitress.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling, and he smiled back.

  ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘Biochemistry,’ she said and was surprised when his expression lit up rather than glazed over with boredom.

  ‘What year?’

  ‘Third.’ Molly straightened her damp cardigan. ‘And final.’

  He leaned again
st the wall. ‘I’m doing a PhD in Biochemistry.’

  ‘Really?’ Interest kindled in her belly. ‘Don’t suppose it’s got anything to do with coffee?’

  ‘Not at all — it’s on cancer genetics, actually.’

  ‘Wow, that sounds really interesting,’ she said, feeling a slow blush coming on. God, she sounded like a teenager.

  ‘Will you be here long?’

  ‘I’ve got,’ Molly began, but swallowed back, a lecture in twenty minutes, ‘lots of time,’ she amended. ‘Thought I’d do some study in here, make the most of the warmth.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘perhaps I’ll join you for a coffee in half an hour or so, once the morning rush abates, and I can tell you more about my PhD. If you’re interested, that is.’

  ‘I am,’ Molly said, the flare in her belly spreading into her chest. ‘I’m Molly, by the way.’

  He held out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Molly. I’m Richard.’

  They met in a different café a fortnight later, one with dark corners and battered couches. They weren’t alone. Richard’s friends, also in their mid-twenties, were academics. Sylvia, a lawyer with political aspirations, was there with her girlfriend Philippa, a junior doctor. Jeff, a fellow PhD student in Richard’s faculty, was applying for a post-doc position at the Mayo Clinic in the US.

  Molly could have felt small, insignificant. Instead she felt energised, her brain sparking off the others. Richard was sitting next to her, his arm across the back of the couch, his thigh resting against hers. It was the first time he’d touched her; the first time she’d dared to think they might be more than just friends.

  ‘The human genome project is going to revolutionise the treatment of all sorts of diseases,’ Jeff was saying.

  ‘Hmm,’ Sylvia said. ‘You know, I worry it’s going to lead to discrimination. What if I get my genome sequenced and find out I’m going to get diabetes and heart disease by the age of sixty? There go my insurance premiums.’

  Richard leaned forward. ‘But what if we then target therapies at those nasty genes of yours and add fifteen years to your lifespan?’

  Philippa linked arms with her girlfriend. ‘Who needs insurance when you’ve got your own personal doctor anyway?’

  ‘Aw, that’s sweet,’ Jeff said, tilting his head as the music changed from jazz to classical. ‘Beethoven’s Third Symphony, always liked this one.’

  ‘Actually, it’s Symphony Number Two,’ Molly said, and four pairs of eyes settled on her. She tugged on the sleeves of her cardigan. ‘I used to play the piano, a bit.’

  ‘A bit?’ Richard asked, as the others continued their discussion on genetics.

  Molly hesitated. ‘Actually, I’m a BMus drop-out.’

  ‘A Bachelor of Music?’ Richard’s body was angled towards her. ‘You just said that so casually.’

  ‘It’s not that big a deal,’ Molly lied, but she liked the way he was looking at her, as if she were a person of fascination.

  ‘We need to talk some more,’ he murmured, his fingers brushing against her cheek.

  ‘Alone,’ she murmured back, and he smiled.

  ‘But seriously,’ Philippa said, ‘the Ashkenazi Jews have genetic diseases that are hardly ever found in other populations.’

  ‘Consanguinity,’ Jeff said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘A fancy word for inbreeding,’ Richard said. ‘If the population is diverse enough, it’s rare to get double doses of many genes, but if everyone’s too closely related, then certain diseases be come common.’

  ‘Like in Ashkenazi Jews,’ Philippa said, pulling her glasses off and wiping them with the bottom of her sweatshirt.

  Sylvia scratched her head. ‘I don’t know any.’

  ‘Diseases or Jews?’ Molly asked, and everyone laughed. The music changed again, seguing into REM’s ‘Losing My Religion’. Molly felt as if she were gaining a religion, a way of life — as if she were teetering on the edge of a cliff, looking down into a Holy Land.

  ‘Cystic fibrosis,’ Richard said. ‘Gaucher’s disease.’

  Philippa chimed in. ‘Don’t forget Factor XI deficiency.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Molly asked.

  Philippa said, ‘It’s a bleeding disorder, a bit like haemophilia. Did you know that fewer than half of children born from incestuous unions are completely healthy?’

  ‘Ah, stop,’ Sylvia groaned. ‘Can we talk about something else? Such as whether anyone wants to share one of those monster pieces of cheesecake with me?’

  Molly and Richard drove to Richard’s flat in his yellow Toyota Corolla, dropping into second gear as they wound up the hill. The rain had stopped, but the southerly wind had chilled her to the bone and she couldn’t stop shivering.

  ‘Here,’ Richard said, turning the heater up as high as it would go. ‘This’ll warm you up.’

  Molly held her hands in front of the fan. ‘You’d think I’d have acclimatised to the winters by now.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve acclimatised, and I’ve lived in Wellington all my life.’ Richard turned into a steep driveway and yanked the brake on. ‘Welcome to my hovel.’

  ‘Looks better than mine.’

  Molly got out of the car, pulling her coat around her. Richard strode up to the front door and turned the handle, tutting when the door swung open.

  ‘Unlocked again. Will’s so hopeless.’ He stepped aside to let her into the tiny bungalow.

  ‘Is Will your flatmate?’ The hallway was dark and smelt like mildew and baked beans.

  ‘Yes. And this fella.’ Richard bent over and scooped up a yowling cat. Smiling, Molly scratched the purring tortoiseshell behind the ears.

  ‘You mean fell-ess, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, Will called him Wayne before realising he was a she,’ Richard said, setting the cat back down.

  ‘Not a scientist, then,’ Molly said. Tortoiseshell cats were almost always female, the genes for their multi-coloured coats carried on each of their two X chromosomes.

  ‘Not at all.’ He reached inside a doorway and switched on a light. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘No, I’m good.’ Molly walked into the lounge and sat on the couch, taking in the small TV, the overflowing bookshelf, the generic prints on the walls — a South Island waterfall, along with a copy of Munch’s Scream painting, which always gave her the creeps.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, plucking a book off the floor, ‘this is my brother’s favourite book.’ It was The Stand, by Stephen King. Joe had read it at least three times, Molly once.

  ‘It’s Will’s,’ Richard said, sitting beside her. ‘What’s your favourite book?’

  ‘It’s hard to pick a favourite,’ she said, ‘but I really liked The Selfish Gene. Have you read it?’

  ‘Twice,’ he said. ‘What did you think?’

  Molly pressed her thigh into his. ‘I liked it very much.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said and kissed her. It wasn’t the best kiss she’d ever had, but it wasn’t the worst either. At least he tasted of mint, rather than beer and cigarettes.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, when they came up for air, ‘does your twin look like you?’

  ‘Yes, apart from the five o’clock shadow.’

  ‘You can’t tell in this light,’ he said, stroking her chin, and she laughed.

  ‘So, where does he live?’ Richard asked. ‘Let me guess, Auckland?’

  Molly shook her head. ‘Last I heard, he was in Israel. He did a degree in English Lit at Victoria, finished last year. Now he’s travelling the world.’

  ‘Well,’ Richard said, kissing her again, ‘I hope he’s not too protective of his sister.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, a little shudder running through her, ‘not at all.’

  Richard tilted his head. ‘Are you still cold?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, sliding her hand beneath his jersey and shirt until she found a patch of bare skin, ‘but I know of a good cure for hypothermia.’

  Richard pushed her jacket over her s
houlders.

  ‘Let’s give it a go, shall we?’

  December 24th, 1992

  Dear Lolly

  Well, here I am in Berlin, watching the lights sparkle across the snow. Christmas is magical here, just like in the movies: Glühwein and sauerkraut; people ice skating in Alexanderplatz; Christmas carols. Meanwhile, you’ll be soaking up the sun in the bay, catching some waves … or did you stay in Wellington with this new man?

  Great news about the PhD acceptance. You can still defer for a year and come travelling. If your man is serious, he’ll wait, right? I’ve heard about these amazing carved salt mines in Poland, including a chapel, and a replica of the Last Supper painting. I know you’d love that. Think about it.

  Still missing you like crazy,

  J.

  Chapter 15:

  LOLA

  That evening the black clouds drift away, and the almost-full moon rises large and egg-yolk golden. They play cricket on the street, trying to pick out the path of the ball in the fading light.

  ‘Your sister needs a handicap,’ Uncle Joe calls out to Tom.

  Tom taps his bat against the bitumen. ‘She looks handicapped enough to me.’ He crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Up yours.’ Lola winds up and lets the ball fly with as much force as she can muster.

  ‘And you are … out!’ Beckett crows as the ball thuds into the rubbish bin behind Tom.

  Uncle Joe takes the bat off Tom. ‘Maybe don’t pick on someone whose hands are registered as lethal weapons.’

  ‘Not just her hands,’ Lola hears Noah mutter, but when she turns, he’s not looking at her.

  ‘Perhaps we should play touch tomorrow instead,’ Sully says, slipping a cigarette out from behind his ear.

  ‘Touch sounds great,’ Noah says, a smile playing around the edges of his lips. Lola swears to herself that she’ll get him back tonight, once they’re alone.

  Alone. There’s never enough time alone.