I thought you were practicing, Alice said as she looked around the room.
Greta needed to go home and eat.
You could still use this time for work.
Im waiting for her to get back.
You know that the final is tomorrow, Alice said as she sat down on the floor next to her son. I devote myself to practice eight hours a day and sometimes ten.
Im not even awake ten hours a day, Axel joked.
Axel, you have the gift.
Yes, Mamma.
You say yes. But you dont understand. The gift is not enough. Its not enough for anyone.
Mamma, I practice like crazy, he lied.
Play for me, she requested.
No, he said.
I know you dont want your mother as a teacher, but let me help you just a little bit now when it really counts, Alice continued patiently. The last time I heard you was two years ago at the Christmas concert. No one understood what youd played.
It was Bowies Cracked Actor.
A childish selection but still a very impressive performance for a fifteen-year-old. She reached out to touch him. But, see, tomorrow-
Axel pulled away from his mothers hand.
Stop nagging me.
Can you at least tell me which piece youve chosen?
Its classical.
Thank the Lord for that at least.
Axel shrugged and avoided his mothers gaze. When the doorbell rang, he raced down the stairs.
Twilight was starting to fall, but the snow reflected indirect light so that darkness could not engulf the house. Greta was at the bottom step, holding her violin case and duffel bag. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, her striped scarf was wound close around her neck against it. Her hair was spread over her shoulders and sparkled from the snowflakes. She set her case on the dresser to hang up her coat and scarf. Then she took off her black boots and pulled out indoor shoes from her duffel bag.
Alice Riessen came down to the bottom of the stairs and held out her hands to her. Alice was exhilarated and her cheeks glowed with happiness.
Its good that the two of you are helping each other practice, she said. You have to be tough on Axel. Otherwise, hell just be lazy, she scolded gently.
Ive noticed that. Greta laughed.
Greta Stiernlood was the daughter of an industrial giant who had great holdings in Saab-Scania and Enskilda Banken. Shed been raised by her father-her parents had divorced when she was a baby, and her father had erected a barrier against her mother ever since. Very early in her life-perhaps even before she was born-her father had decided she would be a violinist.
After the two of them climbed the stairs to Axels music room, Greta went to the grand piano. Her shining hair curled to her shoulders. She was casually dressed in a Scottish plaid kilt, white blouse, dark blue cardigan, and striped socks.
She unpacked her violin, fastened the chin rest, wiped the rosin from the strings with a cotton cloth, tightened the bow, applied new rosin to it, set her music on the stand, and carefully tuned the instrument after its journey through the cold night.
Then she started to play. She played as she always did, with her eyes half shut as if concentrating on something inside herself. Her long eyelashes cast shadows over her serious face. Axel knew the piece well: the first movement of Beethovens Violin Concerto in D Major-a serious, searching theme.
He smiled as he listened. He respected Gretas wonderful sense of music and the honesty in her interpretation.
Nice, he said as she finished.
Greta changed the music and stretched her fingers.
But I still cant decide You know, Pappa wants me to play the Tartini Violin Sonata in G Minor. But Im not so sure
She was silent, looking at the music, reading it, counting, and going over her memorization of the complicated legato.
Can I hear it? Axel asked.
It sounds terrible, she said, blushing a little.
She played the last movement. Her face was tense, beautiful, and sad, but at the end, she lost the tempo just as the violins highest notes were supposed to rise like a catching fire.
Damn, she whispered, resting the violin under her arm. I slowed down. Ive been working like a beast but I have to give more to the sixteenths and the triplets, which-
Though I liked the swing, as if you were bending a large mirror toward-
I didnt play it correctly, she said, and blushed even deeper. Im sorry. I know youre trying to be nice, but it wont work. I have to play properly. Its crazy that on the night before the performance Im still not able to make up my mind. Should I take the easy way out or put all my effort into the difficult piece?
You know both of them well, so-
No, I dont. It would be a big risk, she said. Perhaps, though Id need a few hours, maybe three hours, and then I might risk the Tartini tomorrow.
You shouldnt do it just because your father thinks-
But hes right.
No, hes not, Axel said. He began to roll a joint.
I know the easy piece well, she said. But it might not be on a high enough level. It all depends on what you and Shiro Sasaki pick.
You shouldnt think like that.
How am I supposed to think? Youve never let me see you practice even once. What are you planning to play-have you even picked out a piece?