Gifts of the Peramangk

by Dean Mayes

  “I reckon we should approach them,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “At least give them an opportunity to speak.”

  Dimity shook her head hesitantly.

  “Russ told me the old man has kept her out of the spotlight—doesn’t want anyone to know that she’s even here. I don’t think even the school knows she’s here.”

  “Yeah, but can we run with this story without even giving her the chance to speak to the camera? She might even go for it.”

  Dimity sat back, considering his suggestion.

  “I dunno…it’s risky.”

  Blake nudged her arm with his elbow. “Well, you haven’t let that stop you before.”

  Dimity considered Blake for a moment, then a thin smile parted her lips.

  Suddenly, she was on her feet and stepping down the aisle toward the stage.

  Ruby was in full concentration, her eyes closed as she negotiated the complex piece of music, therefore she didn’t notice the woman approaching the stage. Neither did Khalili as he, too was watching Ruby’s finger technique. Thus, the young woman was almost on top of them before either of them registered that she was there.

  “Excuse me?”

  Khalili and Ruby jumped at the same time and their eyes shot in the direction of the voice that had interrupted them.

  “Hi,” the woman greeted softly. “Um, sorry to bother you but I was hoping I might have a word. I was just sitting up in the middle rows watching. I must say, you are an amazing young musician.”

  Ruby smiled bashfully at the woman and looked to Khalili who, by contrast, studied the woman suspiciously.

  “Can I help you?” he asked curtly. “We are in the middle of a lesson.”

  The woman extended her hand toward Khalili who took it hesitantly.

  “I’m sorry. My name is Dimity Barrett. I’m a reporter from Network 10. I was hoping that you might agree to…”

  “No!” Khalili was on his feet instantly and moved to stand in front of Ruby. “How did you get in here? How did you find out?”

  Despite being startled by Khalili’s sudden action, Dimity remained composed and gently held her hands up.

  “Look. There’s been talk. This young girl has been attracting some attention…”

  Dimity carefully gestured to the auditorium behind her and the modest audience that were gathered there.

  “I’d just like an opportunity to talk to her, if I can. Her story would make a great good-news item for our bulletin.”

  Khalili shook his head forcefully.

  “I won’t allow it,” he snapped. “My student is not an exhibit for public consumption. She is here to learn. That is all.”

  Khalili suddenly felt a tug at the back of his pants and he turned to find Ruby peering around him at the reporter.

  “I can be on TV?” she ventured hopefully with wide eyed wonder.

  “No you can’t,” Khalili chided out of the corner of his mouth. “You are not here to perform for a camera.”

  Turning back to the reporter, Khalili found Dimity tapping a note into her cell phone and he gasped.

  “Miss, I would ask that you kindly leave right now. This is not appropriate at all!”

  Dimity ignored the professor and instead knelt slightly toward Ruby.

  “So your name is Ruby, yes?”

  Ruby nodded eagerly.

  “Ruby Delfey,” she said proudly, to the exasperation of Khalili beside her. “And I’ve been playing the violin since I was four years old. I’m eight now.”

  Khalili huffed indignantly as Ruby spilled forth a flurry of information to the reporter before he had a chance to interrupt them.

  “Ruby! Enough of this!” he snapped angrily. “This is not at all appropriate!”

  “But, sir—this could be a good thing,” she retorted softly as the reporter. “I always wanted to be on TV.”

  Khalili shook his head and stepped in between the reporter and Ruby once more.

  “That is it!” he growled, knocking over the music stand as he waved his arm angrily. “Miss, I must ask that you leave at once!”

  As he put his hands up to shepherd the reporter away from Ruby, Khalili looked up to see a cameraman filming their entire exchange.

  “Jesus Christ!” he thundered. “No, no, no!”

  Those in the audience, who were muttering amongst themselves, suddenly went silent as Khalili’s voice carried across the auditorium. At that moment, Russ appeared from the top of the stairs at the back of the auditorium and jogged down them, two by two, toward the stage.

  “Thank goodness,” Khalili said breathlessly. “Russ, will you please get these two out of here immediately?”

  Dimity stood up and raised her hands again in an effort to defuse the professor.

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “We’re going, we’re leaving.”

  Leaning toward Ruby once more, Dimity winked at her.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” she mouthed, then she backed away and turned toward Blake who had shut off the camera and stuffed it back into his shoulder bag.

  Russ gripped her elbow as she stepped down from the stage and met her eyes with his own. He grinned clandestinely at her, out of view of the professor.

  “Good one, Russ,” Dimity cracked caustically out of the corner of her mouth before glancing at Blake.

  “Did you get it?”

  Blake smiled triumphantly as they left the hall and went out into the gardens.

  “All of it,” he nodded.

  Ruby watched the reporter and her companion until they disappeared from view then sat down on her chair, smiling to herself as the thought of being on the TV caused her a buzz of excitement.

  She didn’t immediately notice Khalili but, as she looked up she found him looking at her disapprovingly, his hands on his hips. He began pacing back and forth. Ruby knew he wasn’t happy.

  “What on earth was going through your head just now?” he snapped angrily at her. “Do you know how irresponsible that was?”

  Ruby shrugged her shoulders and fiddled with her violin.

  “What did I do wrong?” she asked.

  Her question caught Khalili off guard then and he paused, realising that Ruby hadn’t actually done anything wrong. But he maintained his posture for the moment as he stepped to his chair and slid it toward Ruby.

  “Look,” he said, sitting down and collecting his thoughts. “I don’t want people to know what we are doing here just yet. Ruby, I don’t want to see people taking advantage of your gift or of you. You will get to show your talent to people in time, but you need to be patient.”

  Ruby frowned at the professor, grinding her teeth.

  “Patient for what?” she probed with frustration. “I mean…what am I doing here? What am I working toward? Am I just gonna keep playing for you like we are now?”

  Again Khalili blinked and couldn’t respond right away, having been caught by another prescient question.

  “Look…” he began, thinking on the spot. “Th-there will be something—an opportunity—but for now, we need to focus on your technique,” he paused, leaning in close to Ruby. “If this school knew what I was doing with you, they might take a very dim view of it. I do not wish to jeopardise our future together.”

  Ruby’s eyes widened at the mention of ‘an opportunity’ but, at that moment, she understood the gravity of the professor’s concern. Her expression coalesced into worry then embarrassment and then shame. She looked down at her violin, unsure of what to say next.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Khalili placed a gentle hand on her shoulder then and when she looked up, his warmth and impish smile had returned.

  “I’m sorry too. It’ll be alright, Ruby,” he reassured her. “We’ll deal with whatever comes of this together. But for now, let us just continue playing music. Okay?”

  Ruby nodded slowly and managed a wan smile as Khalili stood and went over to the overturned music stand, the sheet music that was strewn across the stage. Rolling his shirt sleeves up he lifte
d the stand and returned the sheet music to it. He collected his leather bag and picked it up.

  As he turned back to Ruby, he noticed that her eyes were focused on him, but not on his face.

  They were focused instead, on his right arm.

  Ruby had noticed a strange set of markings on the inside of the professor’s right forearm.

  “What’s that?” she asked quizzically, pointing to the tattoo.

  Following her gaze down, he turned his forearm over. Khalili glanced down and smiled wistfully at the numbers there. Returning to his chair, he sat down and extended his arm forward so that Ruby could get a closer look.

  Placing her violin in her lap, Ruby leaned forward and brushed her fingers across a series of numbers that had been inked into his skin.

  Though they were faded, she could clearly make them out.

  B26354.

  She glanced up into the professor’s eyes, her curious expression having erased all of the awkwardness from before.

  “An old marking, child…to remind me of whom I once was,” Khalili explained cryptically.

  Ruby frowned and tilted her head so she could see the numbers more closely.

  “Well…who were you?” she questioned.

  Khalili sighed and considered the tattoo thoughtfully.

  “I was but one of a proud group of people who believed in their identity even when others didn’t. We fought for that identity…and some of us died for it.”

  Ruby gazed at the professor’s arm.

  “Oh…” she said wistfully, sensing a sadness in the professor’s voice.

  A bolt of realisation hit Ruby then and she remembered the first piece of music she played for Khalili here in the hall and how he reacted to it. Ruby looked at the professor quizzically and tilted her head.

  “That piece you wrote, was that about you?”

  Khalili smiled softly and nodded.

  “Sort of,” he said. “Though I wasn’t as young as he was. I wrote the piece…based upon what it felt like to be in that place.”

  Khalili’s mind drifted, as memories flashed across his mind.

  “So long ago…” he mused. “I was certainly a different person back then.”

  “Are you not the same now?” Ruby asked quizzically.

  “Are any of us, child?

  “I don’t really know,” Ruby shrugged. “Nana says that we change many times during our lifetime but we all have something within us that remains the same—that never changes,” Ruby paused, trying to understand that oft-told piece of wisdom.

  “Your grandmother sounds like a very wise woman.”

  Chapter 18

  The man with the suit jacket stepped quietly toward the open door of the office ahead of him.

  The office was cluttered but not untidy. It had a distinct order about its chaos. It was quite unlike the usual office environment one would expect of a teacher. Indeed, stepping into Professor Khalili’s office was like entering into another realm, far removed from the bland, modern day office accoutrements that one would expect. It was a gloriously rich and cultured space.

  A pair of wall units that stood under the window behind an antique mahogany desk carried ephemera from Khalili’s many years of travel. There were small statues which had a definite Middle Eastern flavour. There were samples of stringed instruments of an indeterminate design but which had a distinctively tribal origin. There was a small bust of Beethoven in one corner and a bust of Mozart in another. The desk itself was yet another example of Khalili’s eccentricity. It was cluttered with tools, more suited to an office of yesteryear. A small antique desk clock tick-tocked away, an ornate brass Rolodex stood open, a black Bakelite telephone with a rotary dial kept a silent watch, an ancient looking leather diary lay open with random scribblings in lead pencil all over the pages. The only modern convenience in evidence on the desk was a slim MacBook computer that stood open and was powered on.

  Along one wall hung several violins which looked very old and had a design which suggested rarity. Their horse hair bows hung beside them. One looked as though it needed particular attention as its strands were unravelling from their previously taut position. Centred in between them was a much larger cello which was the worse for wear.

  And on the wall opposite, closest the entrance, stood a book case. One could be at once fascinated by the ordered collection of books occupying the towering piece of furniture, while being completely flummoxed at how on Earth Khalili was able to get such a large item of furniture through the comparatively tiny doorway.

  The man stood in the doorway to the office and marvelled at the scene before him. Though he had seen Khalili’s office before—many times in fact—he never ceased to be struck by the sumptuous collection the old man had accumulated over the years. It was as though Khalili’s entire life was laid out here in this office and one could not help but be impressed by it all.

  Khalili was absent from the office, so the man indulged himself by stepping inside and inspecting the contents of his bookshelf. Along with hardcover musical textbooks, there was a plethora of biographies—not only of musicians and composers but of historical figures, political figures and literary figures. The man could not help but smile at the presence of a biography of the late singer Freddie Mercury and he thumbed its spine momentarily, taking a peek at the cover. Shaking his head, he pushed it back and moved on. There were a few works of fiction, too, and the man took a moment to extract a tattered paperback copy of Graham Greene’s The Quiet American and flip through its pages.

  “Charlie,” a voice from behind sounded, causing him to jump reflexively and drop the book he was holding.

  “Jesus,” he hissed, before scrambling for the fallen book. He turned around as he stood up to find Khalili standing in the doorway and his expression immediately morphed into one of apology.

  “I’m sorry, prof,” Charlie Lynch offered, handling the book in his hand as if it were a hot potato.

  Khalili dismissed him with a wave of his hand and chuckled as he stepped in, setting a freshly made cup of coffee down on his desk.

  “You like Graham Greene?”

  Lynch shrugged and nodded.

  “I’m not sure; I saw the movie a while ago. I thought Michael Caine was brilliant. I’ve never read the book though.”

  “Take it,” Khalili offered smiling. “It’s a wonderfully paranoid piece of fiction and rather prescient of things geopolitically—both in the 1950s and now.”

  Khalili moved around his desk and sat down. He took his glasses from his shirt pocket and placed them on before casting a cursory glance at his computer screen.

  “Thanks, prof,” Lynch said gingerly.

  Khalili gestured with an outstretched hand, offering Lynch the empty chair on the other side of the desk.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “If you have a moment,” Lynch ventured, sitting himself down and placing the book on the edge of the desk in front of him, beside a rather garish looking carved wooden mask that stared back at him from its vantage point.

  “I noticed you in the hall the other day—and last week—and the week before that,” Khalili said with a matter of fact but still mischievous tone. “Watching my lessons with the child. You’re curious, yes?”

  Lynch felt a twinge of embarrassment and offered an ironic half smile.

  “Well—I am, actually—so are a few of the others in the faculty. We’re just a little…curious…as to what you’re hoping to achieve with this kid.”

  Khalili nodded slowly and leaned back in his chair, resting his hands in his lap.

  “I’m just teaching her, Charlie. I’m offering her some tuition to hone her technique.”

  “Are you sure that’s all you’re doing?” Charlie ventured cautiously, creasing one of his eye brows down in a probing manner.

  Khalili chuckled softly, sensing the other’s desire for more information.

  “There’s been talk, Khalili,” Charlie continued. “Word is that you want to get her onto the she
et for the Malley-Joyce recital.”

  “And what if I do?” Khalili challenged.

  “Well—that’s certainly your choice. We’ve fielded our required candidates for nomination in the final field but I know there is room for a couple of extra performers,” Charlie paused, rubbing his chin with his thumb, considering his next question. “The faculty is concerned that there might be a conflict of interest. They just….”

  Charlie paused, considering his words carefully.

  “…Why her?”

  Khalili smiled knowingly and took a sip from his coffee cup.

  “Why not her?” he challenged gently. “You’ve seen her perform. You’ve seen how gifted she is. You tell me that she would not be a perfect candidate for the concert line up.”

  “She is talented, I’ll grant you that,” Charlie admitted. “But what’s in it for you, Khalili, what do you get out of this?”

  For the first time since Lynch had entered the office, Khalili’s congenial demeanour faded and was replaced by an uncomfortable suspicion.

  “I am not looking for anything, Charlie,” he answered evenly. “What are you getting at?”

  “Well,” Charlie began, pausing to glance at the miniature mask on the desk once more. “We both know what she is, Khalili – a black kid from the ghetto. And you’re the aged professor approaching retirement. Makes for a good story doesn’t it? If you can get her up on the stage in front of a big audience—could be your one last chance for a little bit of glory.”

  Khalili’s expression flickered between disbelief and anger but he held himself in check.

  “Are you actually serious, Charlie?” he questioned shakily. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing from you – you, of all people. Who put you up to this? Cargram? Anderson?”

  Lynch shifted in his chair then and he looked away from Khalili’s withering glower.

  “You know how naturally gifted that child is. This has nothing – NOTHING – to do with whether she is black or white.”

  Without realising it, Khalili slammed his fist down on the desk before him with such force that he upended the coffee cup, spilling hot liquid across the surface of the desk. His action caused Lynch to jump in his seat.