Stalker. Ларс КеплерЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
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.
Erik stands up and lowers the seat by spinning it a few times.
‘We’ll start with your right hand, but we’ll pick out some notes with your left.’
He looks at her fair face, with its straight nose and half-open mouth.
‘Don’t look at me, look at the notes and the keyboard,’ she says, reaching over his shoulder and putting her little finger gently on one of the black keys. A high note echoes inside the piano.
‘This is E flat … We’ll start with the first formation, which consists of six notes, six sixteenths,’ she says, and plays the notes.
‘OK,’ Erik mutters.
‘Where did I start?’
He presses the key, producing a hard note.
‘Use your little finger.’
‘How did you know …’
‘Because it’s natural – now, play,’ she says.
He struggles through the lesson, concentrating on her instructions, stressing the first note of the six, but loses his way when he has to add a few notes with his left hand. A couple of times she touches his hand again and tells him to relax his fingers.
‘OK, you’re tired, let’s stop there,’ Jackie says in a neutral voice. ‘You’ve done some good work.’
She gives him notes for the next lesson, then asks the girl to show him to the door. They pass a closed door with ‘No entry!’ scrawled in childish writing on a large sign.
‘Is that your room?’