Andrew Crumey - The Secret Knowledge

She doesn’t play the Klauer, she wants to save it for when Morrow arrives. Instead she does random exercises, telling herself all will be fine. Yet the time drags, she expected to wait only a short while, ten minutes go by and she resorts to Schubert as a way of calming herself. She can’t think about the notes, only the door with its round porthole to the corridor and world beyond where everyone appears to have forgotten her. Impossible to enjoy the music this way, it feels more like punishment.

She’s well through the Moments Musicaux when the circle of light fills with a face and she stops. Verrine pushes open the door, Paul Morrow follows him inside, wearing jeans and tee-shirt, not as rugged looking as the PR shot on his website that Paige has visited many times, and he’s had a haircut too, but it’s the same broad smile she recognises, and she rises from the keyboard to accept his handshake.

“Hey, good to meet you,” he says. She feels both star-struck and suddenly at ease.

“Paul, this is Paige. Paige, Paul Morrow.” Verrine has done the introductions, he excuses himself and departs.

Paul sits down and when he crosses his legs Paige sees he’s wearing no socks, his light brown shoes look expensively casual. She returns to the piano stool.

“You’re a pianist, then?” he says. “How long have you known Julian?”

“Not long. And you?”

“We met last year at Wimbledon.”

“Oh.” She wants to ask more, imagining some sort of champagne reception for celebrities.

Instead Paul says, “You’re going to play something?”

She nods.

“Go right ahead.”

Here it is, then, her big moment, but it’s too sudden, doesn’t feel right. There should have been a build-up, a stage for her to walk on, not this cramped room where Paul slouches nonchalantly like a holidaymaker waiting to be brought a cocktail from the bar. This is not how she wanted it.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“Sure.”

“What’s Julian told you about me?”

His brow creases with puzzlement. “You mean…?”

“My playing.”

“Right. Your playing.” He weighs it up as if it were a difficult question. “Well. Nothing.”

Like a bird hitting a window, she’s stunned. “Nothing?”

“Should he have?”

“But the meeting. While I’ve been waiting. What were you both talking about for all that time?”

“I never knew we were holding you up, Paige, I’m so sorry. All I knew was that Julian wanted to talk about a possible sponsorship deal, maybe we chatted a little too long.”

The truth of it: this is how Verrine managed to get her a hearing, smuggling her in on the back of more important business.

“Hey, what’s up?” Paul can see her dejection, reaches towards her in a spontaneous gesture of friendship. Being nice to people comes naturally to him, she can tell. “Has there been a misunderstanding? I don’t want to rock any boats.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’d like to hear you play.”

She turns to the keys and readies herself, a little girl on a high board above a dark pool, frightened to jump. Her one real chance and it’s all gone wrong before she even begins. How can she possibly impress him now? Her joints are frozen, the silence is awkward. Paige puts a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“It’s all right,” he says gently, out of sight. “Pretend I’m not here.”

He means well, but pretence is all she can think about, the falseness of the situation. Verrine lied to her, she lied to Conroy, everything’s a lie. Her head sinks. “I can’t do it.”

“We all get nervous.” He thinks she’s a beginner, a frightened kid at a grade exam who’ll be fine if only someone can give her a nudge like a wind-up toy that won’t work. “Nerves are good, they make us want to do our best.”

This well-meant pep talk isn’t helping. “Julian wanted me to play a piece by Pierre Klauer.”

“Not a name I know.”

“He thought it would impress you…” She buries her face in her hands, finds herself sobbing. A comforting hand touches her.

“Don’t stress yourself, I hate to see this sort of thing. Look at me, Paige. Why do you play piano, what’s it for? Winning prizes? Beating some sort of world record? No, you do it because you love it, that’s why we all do it, anything else is bullshit.”

“It’s no good, Paul, I should never have agreed.”

“So, you and Julian. You’re like…? What’s with all this?”

He still doesn’t understand. Paige explains.

“I’m meant to say if you’re any good?” He laughs. “Who gives a fuck what I think?”

“Everybody does,” she says, wiping her eyes.

“Verrine’s a businessman, Paige, leave business to people like him. Are you feeling calmer now? I want to hear this piece you mentioned. Never mind about impressing me, I’ll say anything Julian wants me to, he’ll sign a cheque from his company and that’s fine. But we’re not commodities, Paige, we’re artists. Let’s forget this mark-out-of-ten crap, it’s not a contest. Play it for me.”

He’s no longer the celebrity on her computer screen, now he feels like a genuine friend, actually the only true friend she can think of, waiting patiently to hear her performance. She’s ready to play, her fingers touch the keys and the air is moved by Pierre Klauer’s strange chords.

The door is suddenly pushed open, Paul is first to see. “What the…?”

Paige sees too. “Oh no.”

It’s Conroy. He looks haggard and dishevelled, in need of a wash and shave, could even have been sleeping rough. He enters, surveying the room and its occupants with a reptilian gaze as the heavy door swings closed behind him.

Paul is bemused. “Looking for someone, bro?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Mr Conroy…”

“I knew you’d do this to me, Paige.”

Morrow registers the tension. “Mate, we’re in the middle of something and you ought to leave.”

“I’m not your mate. You don’t even recognise me, do you?”

“He was my teacher,” Paige tells Paul, her voice trembling.

“I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing, crashing in like this…”

“Paige, give me the score.”

Straight away she reaches for her bag on the floor, brings out the photocopy and tosses it across the room to him. “How did you know I’d be here? Have you been following me?”

“She gave you what you want, bro. Leave before this gets unpleasant.”

A sudden movement makes it all very unpleasant. From his pocket Conroy brings a black pistol and Paige feels the air rush out of her lungs.

“Shit, man, let’s not do anything stupid.”

The dark barrel points at Paul Morrow, then towards her, it waves easily, intimidating different parts of the room in turn. It occurs to Paige that it can’t possibly be real, there’s no way he’d be able to get hold of such a thing, it looks like an old-fashioned revolver, a toy. But she can’t be sure.

“What do you want?” she says, realising as the words struggle out of her that she’s shaking with fear.

Conroy keeps his eye and aim on Paul Morrow as he stoops to lift the pages of music from the floor where they landed, but he speaks to her. “I want to fix everything, Paige.”

“Please, Mr Conroy, just take it and go.”

With his back against the door he keeps both of them in view. “Who put you up to this?”

“Julian Verrine,” Paige says at once.

“I’m guessing he’s with the Rosier Corporation, isn’t he?” He looks at Morrow. “What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing,” Paul says weakly. “Sponsorship idea. Webcast concert.”

“Anything particular on the programme?” Conroy looks at Paige. “Surely you can work it out. This guy Verrine doesn’t care about either of you, the music is all that matters, it has to be in the broadcast so he needs a pianist, doesn’t matter who, as long as it’s someone who can play the notes right.”