Stronger Than Lions - 20. Drammàtico

School returned with a steady torrent of work. The mid-year exams crept closer and closer. Swimming would be soon culminating in the junior provincial gala. Rugby season was in full swing. The accident had set me back with my piano practice as well; I had a Scriabin prelude to master quickly, to say nothing of the Ravel pavane I'd not even opened.

Our second official date was a bright cool Saturday afternoon. We drove down the peninsula, had burgers at a craft brewery and went for a walk on the long white runway that is Noordhoek Beach. A blanket of fog rolled in from the Atlantic and obscured the setting sun so that the sky lit up in an eerie phosphorescent glow. We held hands in the half-light. People passed us, walking dogs, talking on their phones, scolding children.

‘Nobody’s noticing,’ I said, half-thrilled, half-disappointed.

‘It’s a big city. We are at like hippie ground zero aren’t we?’

‘Maybe.’ I squeezed his hand a little tighter. ‘This is nice, though.’

He looked down at our interlaced hands. ‘It feels so… normal. Almost, like, boring. I fuckin’ love it.’

We sat down on the fine white sand, not caring that it was damp and cold, and stared at the tumbling surf.

He rolled up his sleeves and scratched at a large graze on his right forearm.

‘That from this morning’s practice?’

‘This is nothing, you should see my knees.’

I frowned. ’They’re pushing you guys hard.’

‘I might be pushed even harder, bru. The first team coach spoke to me. They need someone to replace Mike, since he’s gonna be out for the rest of the season.’

‘That’s… that’s awesome!’ I squeezed his shoulder. ‘I mean, shit for Mike, but awesome for you. I was wondering, since you both play the same position.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I wanted to know if you’d be okay with it.’

‘You’re sweet,’ I said and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘It does mean that I’m playing with Frank. He’s captain now.’

‘Oh.’

‘And I’ll be spending a lot of time with the team. We even have to go away on some bonding camp next weekend.’

I paused. ‘You’re great on the field and you deserve the opportunity. As long as you don’t run off with one of your teammates.’

‘You’re hilarious. And nuts.’

‘I love you too, blondie. Anyway. I have a little something for you.’

‘Yeah?’ His eyes brightened. I handed him the little parcel I’d been secreting inside my jacket pocket. He tore it open and beamed.

‘Jeez, Cal.’

It was a framed photograph of him and me. Sarah had taken it during a recent visit. We were standing in my kitchen, I was holding Einstein, and Chris stood behind me, his arms hugging my chest. Dave wasn’t there that evening. I hadn’t seen him since my accident.

‘I was scared you might think it’s cheesy. It was Sarah’s idea.’

‘I love it. Your sister’s so awesome.’

‘Yeah. She’s always looked out for her little brother.’

‘I’m gonna say it bru. I think she could do better than Dave.’

‘Finally,’ I said, exhaling. ‘That guy is a tool.’

‘Fuckin’ tool, bru. Always talking about himself. I dunno how she puts up with it. I’m a lucky man.’ He turned his head and stared out at the ocean again.

‘What’s it?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, drawing his knees to his chest, ‘this has been an awesome date. I’m not used to people spoiling me.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said, raising an eyebrow.

‘I mean, you organising the date. Paying for lunch. Showing me this beautiful place.’

‘So? You drove and petrol’s expensive.’

‘I’m used to…’

‘Being the guy?’ I said, with a little smile. ‘Did you forget what you said to me in Newlands Forest? Both of us is “the guy” now. Why are you looking so bleak?’

‘I’m not bleak, bru. Far from it. Can I like, confess something?’

‘I’m Catholic. My DNA probably has “Bless Me Father For I Have Sinned” written on all my chromosomes in a tiny little font.’

He snorted.

‘Fess up, then.’

He was tugging at a lock of his hair again. ‘I like the way you take care of me, like, uh, in bed,' he said. 'Before I always assumed I had to do the work. No-one’s ever, like, held me the way you did.’ He was blushing.

‘I give as good as I get.’

‘You have no idea what that means to me.’

I changed tack, suddenly shy myself. ‘So how are you feeling about seeing your dad next week?’

He shrugged. ‘Mixed bag. Nothing’s changed—still confused, angry, but missing him.’

‘Are you meeting on neutral territory at least?’

‘Well, he’s picking me up from my house and we’re going for lunch.’

‘Maybe just don't overthink it. Maybe it's just lunch. Although you must have a million things you want to say to him.’

Chris stared up at the sky and then down at the sand.

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Just one. Why? What did we do? Why did he have to leave us?’

I had just one thing to say to God, come to think of it. Just one. Why? What did I do? Why did he take Mom?

* * *

‘No, no, no, you’re losing control.’

Mrs Georgadis tapped my shoulder with the metre-long dowel she had clearly stolen from the woodwork class. The Scriabin prelude disintegrated and my hands came to rest like limp spiders on the keyboard.

‘It looked so easy,’ I said with a grumble. ‘I know I shouldn’t underestimate it just because it’s in C major.’

‘It’s not that,’ she said, still sitting back in her chair. ‘I know you’ve learned the notes. But it’s as if you’re afraid of leaning into the emotion. I can see you freeze a little every time you see these five-note groups cross over bars.’

‘But Ma’am. I thought you said one shouldn’t get carried away with drama in Romantic music.’

‘There’s a difference between being carried away by a current and letting it guide you, my dear. Don’t fight Alexander Scriabin, he’s all about freedom of movement.’

‘I know ma’am, but it sorta freaks me out a bit. It’s all quiet in bits and then suddenly these waves come and I brace for, like, impact. It’s… dramatic.’

‘Dramatic?’ She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. ‘He literally uses that instruction in one of his works. Hang on.’

She got up and walked to her bookshelf and ran her fingers across a set of dusty manuscripts. She took one out and paged through it and folded it out in front of me.

She pointed below where it was written Sonata No. 3 (1898).

‘What’s the performance instruction there, Caleb?’

‘Drammàtico,' I read out in my best Italian.

‘Good. Now read the notes scribbled in the margin.’

I squinted and turned the manuscript ninety degrees and recognised the squiggly letters.

‘Is this your handwriting, ma'am?’

‘Yes, dear, from 1975, when I was learning this for my final examinations in London. Read on.’

‘The soul is thrown free and wild into a whirlpool of suffering and strife. Wow, that’s… bleak.’

‘The composer’s own explanation. It doesn’t sound bleak though, trust me. Move over.’

She scooted up onto the stool. Startled, I stood up. Her tiny frame assumed command of the piano as if she were Captain Janeway instructing the crew of Voyager to go to warp.

She launched into the sonata with a flourish—a stately flourish, not an affected one. My jaw might have dropped a little. I had never seen her perform before, never mind seen a seventy-something lavender-haired lady look so terrifying and in control.

Two and a half minutes passed until she stopped at an aching, dying cadence.

She looked at me sideways, her expression Sphinx-like.

‘Ma’am,’ was all I could offer, stunned.

‘Was that drammàtico, Caleb?’

I nodded. ‘But a good drammàtico.’

‘And did you feel the whirlpool of suffering and strife?’

‘Yes. I got goosebumps.’

‘But tell me, Caleb, was I suffering?’

I met her gaze. Her face was both ancient crone and young muse.

‘No ma’am. You looked… free.’

‘Voilà. If this old bat can tackle one of crazy Alexander’s sonatas, you can do so with the C major prelude. You’re eighteen and you’ve loved and lost more than many people do in a lifetime. You don’t have to be afraid of five-note waves, no matter how big they seem.’

I know you can swim them, my mother had written.

* * *

That evening it dawned on me that university applications had to be in soon. Since my mother died, I’d given almost no thought to what I was going to study. My parents had guided me to arm myself with a wide range of senior subjects—so that as long as I worked hard I could gain entry into most undergraduate programmes.

But which one? I was torn between outer and inner space. Part of me wanted to do astrophysics and spend my life helping to conquer the universe, but lately, I’d acknowledged my life-long love affair with atoms and molecules. I’d first noticed it when I’d started tutoring Chris in chemistry, revisiting the cosmic dance between electrons and protons that permits both cars and cats to exist. I had uncovered a wonder in him about the way things worked at this tiny, tiny level.

But he was also holding a mirror up to me.

In trying to explain life we have reduced it to a series of chemical reactions, whether it be the burning of glucose in mitochondria to create energy, or the folding of proteins to make bile, or pollen, or blood. Zoom out to where we perceive things, the titanic mathematics of it all is silent. We have twisted our thoughts and feelings into all sorts of psychological origami about whether these things are a result of evolution, intelligent design, or creation ex nihilo, and for all we know, our little planet is the only place that holds all of this wonder in a void that is too staggeringly huge to conceive.

I made a list. Astronomy. Quantum physics, just for the hell of it. Chemistry, biochemistry, molecular biology, even engineering, though I wasn’t interested in building any bridges other than the type called “Einstein-Rosen”, which is just a fancy name for a hole in space-time.

I continued scribbling. Chemical engineering? Biomedical engineering? Molecules were made in factories that could wipe out entire species if they got into the ground water or prevent your omelette from sticking to the frying pan.

And then there were the molecules that altered your body.

The molecules that had altered my mother’s body.

What if I could help make them safer? More effective? Less likely to make your hair fall out or puke up blood while you hoped to all hell the tumour was going to retreat?

Before I knew it, I had downloaded application forms for six different universities.

I had no idea where exactly an undergraduate medical programme was going to be the right fit, but I did know that if I was going to end up as a pharmacologist or oncologist, I needed to learn a lot about suffering and strife.

I wondered what waves and whirlpools loomed. I walked towards my piano as the inkjet screeched out the downloads, happy to lose myself in five-note swells of Scriabin.