Silver Wattle Read Online Free PDF Page B

stepfather. It would be out of place to make a scene so I guessed she intended to tell him discreetly to switch the order. But Milosh was involved in his conversation with pan Doubek. I could see that paní Benova was weighing up in her mind whether she should discuss the issue with paní Koutska, but before she could say anything the old lady began a long story about her love of music. ‘It all started for me when I was a girl and my family attended a performance of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. They were sublime, everything so beautifully balanced and in proportion. Every note so right…’
    Well, if she wanted to play second, paní Benova should not have asked Klara what she wanted to do, I told myself. She should have left it to paní Koutska, who would have placed the most senior pianist last anyway.
    Paní Koutska called for the gathering to take their places in the chairs around the piano. The black gloss of the instrument and the glow from the lamps gave paní Benova’s skin a luminescent sheen when she sat down at the keyboard. Paní Koutska announced that her lovely guest was going to play two pieces, starting with Beethoven’s Appassionata . The piece was well known as technically challenging and paní Benova wasted no time in manoeuvring from the quietly menacing opening into the tempestuous chordal passages. The sound was explosive in the small room and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Although the speed with which paní Benova approached the piece was questionable, she did not smear the arpeggios. There was no doubt that she was good.
    Professor Janachek nodded to Milosh, whose face glowed with such pride one could easily have thought that paní Benova was his daughter, not Klara. Mother’s expression told a different story. She was on the verge of tears, having found the first moment when people were not looking at her to let her emotions show. I thought about paní Benova’s comment that she wanted to meet the woman who inspired Milosh. My stepfather would not have said that. He never bestowed praise on anyone else that he could accept for himself. The unsettling feelings about paní Benova I had first experienced at paní Provazníkova’s party returned to me. I squeezed Mother’s hand and stared at the set of Milosh’s shoulders and the way his lips were pursed in boyish pleasure. I was barely a woman and not well versed in the ways of the world, but I began to guess why Milosh had become colder towards Mother and even more impatient with us. But if paní Benova were seeking a better position, she would not find it with Milosh. He had no fortune of his own.
    For her final selection, paní Benova played Vallee d’Obermann from Liszt’s Years of Pilgrimage . It was an emotionally charged piece with blazing block chords and double octaves that she played at impressive speed, although she sometimes blurred the drama of the piece. But no one could argue that she lacked technique or could not bring off sweeping gestures with ease. When paní Benova lifted her hands from keys, there was a hush, then applause, Milosh clapping loudest of all. I remembered his lectures on tempering your applause to the size of the room, and his hypocrisy made me despise him more. Paní Benova stood up, her chest heaving. I glanced at Klara, expecting her to be intimidated, but she wore the same calm expression that she had since the beginning of the evening.
    After more cake and tea were served and everyone was seated again, paní Koutska introduced Klara and announced that she would play Mozart’s Fantasia in D minor, Chopin’s Prelude in D flat, and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata . I heard Milosh and paní Benova snigger. Not only was Klara’s repertoire shorter, but compared to what paní Benova had attempted the pieces were standard fare.
    Klara sat at the keyboard. The gathering giggled when she stood up again to readjust the stool so that her feet were comfortably on the floor. My face burned.