скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Björn?’
‘Fuck it, this is hopeless,’ he says, with a sob in his voice.
‘Björn,’ Erik says slowly. ‘Margot is here to find out more about what happened. That’s her job. My job is to help you. I’m here for your sake … I’m used to seeing people who are having trouble, people who have suffered a terrible loss, who’ve experienced terrible things … things no one should have to go through, but which unfortunately are part of life for some of us.’
The man doesn’t respond. He just sobs quietly. His eyes are dark, bloodshot and glassy.
‘Do you want to stand over there?’ Erik asks gently. ‘You wouldn’t rather sit in the armchair?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Nor do I …’
‘Good,’ Björn whispers, turning towards him.
‘I’ve already mentioned it, and I know what you said, but it’s my job to offer you all the help that’s available … I can give you a sedative. It won’t get rid of the terrible thing that’s happened, but it will help to calm the panic you’re feeling inside.’
‘Can you help me?’ the man whispers after a pause.
‘I can help you take the first steps towards … towards getting through the worst of it,’ Erik explains quietly.
‘I start to shake when I think about the front door at home … because I must have gone through a different door, the wrong door.’
‘I can understand why you’d feel that.’
Björn moves his lips cautiously, as though they were hurting him.
‘Do you want me to sit down?’ he asks, glancing cautiously at Erik.
‘If it would make you feel more comfortable,’ Erik replies.
Björn sits down for the first time, and Erik notices Margot looking at him, but doesn’t return the look.
‘What happens when you walk through the wrong door?’
‘I don’t want to think about it,’ he replies.
‘But you do remember?’
‘Can you … can you get rid of the panic?’ the man whispers to Erik.
‘That’s your decision,’ Erik says. ‘But I’m happy to sit here and talk to you with Margot … or you and I could talk on our own … and we could also try hypnosis – that might help you through the worst of it.’
‘Hypnosis?’
‘Some people find it works well,’ Erik replies simply.
‘No.’ Björn smiles.
‘Hypnosis is just a combination of relaxation and concentration.’
Björn laughs silently with his hand over his mouth, then stands up and walks along the wall again until he reaches the corner and turns to look at Erik.
‘I think maybe the drugs you mentioned might be a good idea …’
‘OK.’ Erik nods. ‘I can give you Stesolid – have you heard of that before? It will make you feel warm and tired, but also a lot calmer.’
‘OK, good.’
Björn slaps the wall several times with one palm, then walks over to the water dispenser.
‘I’ll ask a nurse to bring you the pill,’ Erik says.
He leaves the room, confident that Björn Kern will request hypnosis fairly soon.
9 (#ulink_d7e70284-fcaa-5b97-8dfc-dc6f531d1a70)
The building at 4 Lill-Jans plan differs from those around it, with its dark façade and Gothic design, ornamental brickwork, oriels, pilasters and arches.
The curtains on the ground floor are closed, otherwise it would be possible to see in through the windows.
Erik looks at the address on the piece of paper, hesitates for a moment, then goes in through the large doorway. He hasn’t told anyone about this.
His stomach flutters as he approaches the door. He can hear gentle piano music in the stairwell. He looks at the time, sees that he’s slightly early, and returns to the front door to wait.
Back in the spring he found a flyer advertising piano lessons in his letterbox, and rather rashly booked an intensive course for his son Benjamin, who would be turning eighteen at the start of the summer.
It’s never too late to learn to play an instrument, he thought. He himself had always dreamed of playing the piano, sitting down alone to play a melancholic nocturne by Chopin.
But the day before Benjamin’s birthday Nelly pointed out that you didn’t have to be a psychologist to see that he was projecting his own dream on to his son.
Erik quickly booked a series of driving lessons instead. Benjamin was happy, and Simone thought it a very generous gift.
He was sure he had cancelled the piano lessons. But that morning he had received an email reminding him not to miss the first lesson.
Erik feels ridiculously embarrassed, nevertheless he’s decided to attend the first lesson himself, to give it a chance.
The idea of walking off and sending a text to say that he had already cancelled the lessons is whirling round his head as he returns to the door, raises his finger and rings the bell.
The piano music doesn’t stop, but he hears someone run lightly across the floor.
A small child opens the door, a girl of about seven, with big, pale eyes and tousled hair. She’s wearing a polka-dot dress and is holding a toy hedgehog in her hand.
‘Mummy’s got a pupil,’ she says in a low voice.
The beautiful music streams through the flat.
‘I’ve got an appointment at seven o’clock … I’m here for a piano lesson,’ he explains.
‘Mummy says you have to start when you’re little,’ the girl says.
‘If you want to get good, but I’m not going to do that,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll be happy if the piano doesn’t block its ears or throw up.’
The girl can’t help smiling.
‘Can I take your coat?’ she remembers to ask.
‘Can you manage to carry it?’
He puts his heavy coat in her thin arms and watches her disappear towards the tall cupboards further inside the hall.
A woman in her mid-thirties comes towards him along the corridor. She seems deep in thought, but perhaps she’s just listening to the music.
Her hair is black, and cut in a short, boyish style, and her eyes are hidden behind small round sunglasses. Her lips are pale pink, and her face appears to be completely free of make-up, yet she still looks like a French film star.
He realises that she must be Jackie Federer, the piano teacher.
She’s wearing a black, loose-knit sweater and a suede skirt, and has flat ballet-pumps on her feet.
‘Benjamin?’ she asks.
‘My name is Erik Maria Bark, I booked the lessons for my son, Benjamin … they were a birthday present, but I never told him about the gift … I’ve come instead, because I’m actually the one who wants to learn how to play.’
‘You want to learn to play the piano?’
‘Unless I’m too old,’ he hurries to say.
‘Come in, I’m just at the end of a lesson,’ the woman says.
He follows her back through the corridor, and sees her trace the fingers of one hand along the wall as she walks.
‘I got Benjamin another present, obviously,’ Erik explains to her back.
She opens a door and the music gets louder.
‘Have a seat,’ the woman says, and sits down on the edge of the sofa.
Light is streaming into the room from high windows looking out on to a leafy inner courtyard.
A sixteen-year-old girl is sitting with her back straight at a black piano. She is playing an advanced piece, her body rocking gently. She turns a page of the score, then her fingers run across the keys and her feet press deftly at the pedals.
‘Stay in time,’ Jackie says, her chin jutting.
The girl blushes but goes on playing. It sounds wonderful, but Erik can see that Jackie isn’t happy.
He wonders if she used to be a star, a famous concert pianist whose name he ought to know; Jackie Federer, a diva who wears dark glasses indoors.
The piece comes to an end, its notes lingering in the air until they ebb away. They’ve almost vanished when the girl takes her foot off the right pedal and the damper muffles the strings.
‘Good, that sounded much better today,’ Jackie says.
‘Thank you,’ the girl says, picking up her score and hurrying out.
Silence descends on the room. The large tree in the courtyard is casting swaying green shadows across the pale wooden floor.
‘So you want to learn to play the piano,’ Jackie says, getting up from the sofa.
‘I’ve always dreamed of learning, but I’ve never got round to it … Naturally, I’ve got absolutely no talent at all,’ Erik explains quickly. ‘I’m completely unmusical.’
‘That’s a shame,’ she says in a quiet voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we might as well have a go,’ she says, and puts her hand out to the wall.
‘Mummy, I’ve mixed some juice,’ the little girl says, and comes into the room with a tray containing glasses of juice.
‘Ask our guest if he’s thirsty.’
‘Are you thirsty?’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you,’ Erik says, and takes a sip. ‘Do you play the piano as well?’
‘I’m better than Mummy was at my age,’ the girl replies, as if that’s a phrase she’s heard many times.
Jackie smiles and strokes her daughter’s hair and neck rather clumsily, before turning back towards him.
‘You’ve paid for twenty lessons,’ she says.
‘I have a tendency to go over the top,’ Erik admits.
‘So what do you want to get out of the course?’
‘If I’m honest, I fantasise about being able to play a sonata … one of Chopin’s nocturnes,’ Erik says, and feels himself blush. ‘But I’m aware I’m going to have to start with “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep”.’
‘We can work with Chopin, but perhaps an étude instead.’
‘If there’s a short one.’
‘Madeleine, can you get me Chopin … opus 25, the first étude.’
The girl searches the shelf next to Jackie, pulls out a folder and removes the score. Only when she puts it in her mother’s hand does Erik realise that the teacher is blind.
10 (#ulink_43e0920b-ea11-57e5-935e-838b09c27d43)
Erik can’t help smiling to himself as he sits in front of the highly polished black piano with the name C. Bechstein, Berlin picked out in small gold lettering.
‘He needs to lower the stool,’ the girl says.
