Water Music (6 page)

Theres Mandla Njobe, said Clare.

OK, ask him. Hell do it. Cweles cut all overtime for the 28s and he wants to authorise each and every expenditure we make, said
Ina. He told me this just before I came here.

Can he do that? asked Clare.

Hes found some clause that authorises him, said Ina. Ive got our lawyers looking at it. You carry on in the meantime. Ill cover for you. Just get the fuck out of here before he arrives.

Clare looked at the trees jostling in the wind. Shes out there. Somewhere. Well find her.

Clare nosed her car into the afternoon traffic. She imagined the CapeTalk anchor, snug in his heated studio as he rattled off plummeting solstice temperatures. There was snow on the mountain ranges that hemmed in Cape Town. The power lines were going down and the passes were being closed, one after another. The station cut back to the weekends main news story.

Another of Dr Clare Harts little
girls was found early this morning. She had been abandoned on a Hout Bay bridle path, the reporter was saying. Major Ina Britz of Section 28, established to replace the Child Protection Unit, has appealed to anyone who has information to come forward or to phone the Section 28 hotline 0800 KIDZLIVE. At an explosive press conference this morning it was revealed that the 28s themselves are under
threat because of new government policies regarding service delivery riots and the newly established Economic Stability Unit. We have in our studio Jakes Cwele, the man behind this new policy drive. Good afternoon, sir.

Good afternoon to you and your listeners. Cweles unguent tones were not good for the debilitating nausea that Clare had briefly managed to get under control.

Clare shut him up
by switching stations to Fine Music Radio. Bach. The music swelled, its slow beauty bringing into focus the irredeemable ugliness of the day. E minor, the cello rich and full, the plangent music calling to her. Almost missing the sign for the Cape College of Classical Music, she had to brake sharply before turning into the oak-lined driveway.

There was a faded grandeur to the front entrance;
the heavy door was surrounded by mullioned windows.
Cape Towns Juilliard,
said the banner that hung above the stairs. The schools claim to the famous New York School of Music was not that far off the mark. Only the most talented survived the school. They thrived winged to fame by their voices, or their ability with an instrument. Hard to know what happened to those who fell through the cracks.

At the entrance, a poster: musicians surrounding a lovely blonde with kohled eyes.
Soprano: Lily Lovich
. She already had the look of a diva, thought Clare. At the edge of the group, Rosa in a red sleeveless dress, a tumble of black hair down her back. She had her cello clasped as if to keep herself upright. A list of the other performers,
Rosa Wagner: cellist
struck through with a heavy black
line. Todays date, the performance later that evening. Clare pushed the double doors open.

She walked over to the receptionist, a fat woman with crisp grey curls.

Hello, said Clare. Im looking for Rosa Wagner and Im hoping that youll be able to help.

Rosalind, she said, pausing her fingers over her keyboard. She hasnt been here since Easter.

Im trying to trace her, said Clare. Her grandfather
is very concerned.

The receptionist went at her keyboard again.

I explained to him that Rosalind is an adult, she said, without looking up at Clare. She wrote to us saying she was withdrawing. A waste, I told the director. I knew it, these country girls with nothing but raw talent never last in Cape Town. Out of their depth. Trouble follows them.

Clare took a breath, made herself be polite.

I would like to see your director, said Clare.

Director Petrova is very busy.

So am I. Clare handed the woman her Section 28 identity card. Phone her. Please. Say I am on my way up.

Clares card looked too official to ignore. The receptionist hedged her bets and dialled.

Director? A Dr Hart is here. From Section 28. Shes insisting on seeing you, she said. The receptionist listened to the voice
at the other end of the line; the momentary silence was filled with the warm swell of a cello, the sound drifting through the cold air.

You can go up, said the receptionist.

Thank you, said Clare. It will save us all time if you could find Rosa Wagners file, make me a copy and kindly bring that upstairs.

The womans mouth turned down with disapproval, but she got up and went to poke at the filing
cabinet as Clare took the stairs. A door opened, emptying a classroom. Students flowed down the stairs a river of chatter and plans and talk about coffee and drinks and who has a light? And an image flashed unbidden before Clares minds eye. Her own arrival in Cape Town at fourteen, a scholarship girl from a farm in Namaqualand. Then she had felt like a fish finally slipping into her element
the anonymity of a city where she could make herself up, far from the eyes of those who knew her. She pushed the disruptive genie of memory back into the bottle of the past.

A door on the second floor opened; an angular woman in an austere suit was silhouetted against the light. On the wall next to her door, a sign in elaborate copperplate:
Irina Petrova. Director
.

Dr Hart. Her Russian accent
was unchanged by the decade she had spent in Cape Town. Please. You come in.

She held the door open for Clare. Chanel No. 5. A heavy perfume, for a woman who meant business even when she took her pleasure. The directors office was grand. A Persian rug, two leather sofas, velvet curtains, a fire flickering in the grate.

You sit, please. How may I be of assistance?

Im looking for Rosa Wagner,
said Clare. Can you tell me where she is?

I wish I knew, she said. I cannot tell you how much I wish it. As I explained to her grandfather this morning, Rosa Wagner left the college.

A pair of students hurried past, curious eyes on Clare.

I suggest we discuss this privately, Irina Petrova continued, closing the door.

Rosa Wagner withdrew, you say, said Clare. And you werent concerned at this?

Yes, I am now that you are here, said Petrova. This morning Mr Wagner said the girl disappeared, but he also said that this morning Rosa phoned him. I took this to mean that all was well. This is not so?

Director, I am afraid for Rosa.

Then I must help you, said Petrova. Ask me what you need to know.

Why did Rosa leave? said Clare. Did she give any reasons?

What little there is, it is in
the file. She picked up the phone, summoning her secretary.

A knock at the door. Handing a slim folder to the director, the secretary said, Rosa Wagners records.

Thank you, said Petrova.

She handed Clare a letter. It was handwritten, in a generously curved script.

Handel House

24th May 2012

Dear Director Petrova,

This is the hardest letter for me to write. I am sorry. But I have to tell
you this. Im not brave enough to tell you in person. Im withdrawing from the College. I will play the exam piece so I wont let anyone down (except you.) Please believe me, that I am sorry. And believe me when I say how grateful I am that you gave me this chance. Its my fault that I cant live up to things.

You gave me so much. But right now I need to do other things. One day, if you forgive me,
I can maybe explain. Thanks for the chances you gave me. Im so sorry (again!) that I let you down. All my stuff is out my locker and I took my things from Handel House so there wont be trouble there. I didnt have time to clean my room, so please say sorry to Agnes for any trouble.

Yours sincerely,

Rosalind Wagner (Rosa)

Clare looked up to find Petrova watching her.

I dont understand. Whats
going on here? said Clare.

I called the girl in, said Petrova. But I was very angry, I found it hard to hear what she was saying.

And what was she saying?

Nothing more than what she writes there, said Petrova. That she was sorry, but she couldnt carry on. I know you think I sound hard, but it is hard for me to find money for European music when there are children up the road with no food. I
have been fortunate. We do have one or two generous patrons, but for me if a student drops out, I have failed. I have wasted their money. I suppose I was afraid there would be talk.

Clare flicked through Rosa Wagners file. She scanned the application forms, audition dates, concerts, credits, cello and composition information. A list of contact numbers that recorded only two numbers: her grandfather
and the college doctor, Melissa Patrick. Two doctors bills both of them paid by the college.

Do you have any idea why she saw the doctor, Director?

Flu, a cold? The Cape winter. It makes everyone suffer.

Shed been depressed?

Not that I know, said Petrova, folding her hands in her lap.

Anxiety, maybe, said Clare. She went to the doctor the morning of her last performance. The same day she
wrote this letter.

I was her teacher, not her mother, so I have no idea, said Petrova. For that you must see if Dr Patrick will breach patient confidentiality.

Tell me about the concerts, Director, said Clare.

Theres nothing much to tell, said Irina Petrova. This is a professional music school. The students get the chance to perform at all sorts of events.

And theyre paid?

A small amount,
said Petrova, but they have to play. They need the experience. They need to be seen in public. It is the way to other things, better things.

Better-paid things? said Clare.

Even artists must eat.

Did Rosa play often?

All our best students do, said the Director. She is beautiful, she plays well, the cello its the closest approximation to the human voice, so an easy way to hear unfamiliar music.
She was often invited to play. The list is in the file. It is all our usual benefactors and friends. They give a great deal, this is what we can give in return.

So, she wouldve played at the Winter Gala?

Petrova looked disconcerted.

I saw the poster outside, the picture of the beautiful girl.

Lily, of course. Our Prima Donna, said Petrova. Shes quite a favourite, so shell sing. I must assure
you, Rosas troubles have nothing to do with the school. There was no reason for me to suspect anything other than what she wrote in that letter. I am so sorry now, of course, but what would you have done in my place?

How did she come to be here? asked Clare.

I heard her play at a wedding in Churchhaven, said Petrova. The cello. She plays like an angel. I had to have her; I could not leave her
to languish in the middle of nowhere and her grandfather encouraged her to come.

A log rolled forward in the grate, showering sparks.

Who were her friends, Director?

Petrovas brow furrowed as she hesitated.

You mentioned Lily, Clare prodded. Shes singing tomorrow, and Rosa would have been in the orchestra. They must know each other.

I never saw them together, Petrova stood up. But you can
ask Lily if you like.

A disharmony of sound floated down the stairwell as the director led Clare to the first floor. Cellos and a violin, flutes and clarinets, pianos, and a soprano practising her scales.

Petrova was about to knock on a door marked
Rehearsals
, when it opened. A group of students surged out, a blonde at their centre the striking girl in the poster. The other students were swept
along in her wake, calling Lily, Lily, and then Evening, Director.

Clare stood in their path as they dammed up behind Lily. Rosa Wagner. Anyone know where she is, who shes with?

I havent seen her, oh for ages, no. Lily turned to her entourage, her voice lilting, smoky. You seen Rosa, anyone? Jonny, you seen her?

No, man, she keeps to herself, said the boy in a raffish suit. Dreadlocks, Bob
Marley handsome. You wouldnt know if she was here or not.

She hasnt been around for a while, said a girl with a sleek black bob. All she ever did was walk on the mountain by herself, and practice.

She probably had her first kiss, said Jonny with a smirk.

You tried and failed, Mr Diamond? Director Petrovas tone froze the chatter.

Why you ask? Lilys green eyes on Clare.

Shes in trouble.

Im
so sorry, said Lily, holding Clares gaze for a moment. Of course we call you if we see Rosa, yes Jonny?

Of course we do, darling, said Jonny Diamond, hooking his arm around Lilys waist.

Speak to Katarina, said the girl with the bob. They shared a practice room. She might know something.

Come, Lily, well be late.

Clare watched as they flowed down the stairs, heard the clang of lockers being
opened and shut. The chatter flowed again, plans and talk about a club and getting a taxi. Doors opening, closing. The silence left in their wake was broken only by a dove trapped at the window of the clerestory above, thudding against the glass.

Thats your star? asked Clare.

Lily is, yes, said Petrova, she mesmerises on the stage.

And her friend Jonny?

An effective musician, said Petrova,
But cold, I think. He will never be great. Now for Miss Kraft, who will never be more than adequate either, said Petrova. Shes here, in the last room.

Without knocking, the director opened the door. Concert posters on the wall, a girl seated on a stool. She looked up at them, her bow suspended above the cello. Titian hair, creamy skin, a crop of spots around her small mouth, green dress too tight
on her plump body.

Katarina, this is Dr Hart. Shes looking for Rosa Wagner.

Shes gone, said Katarina, her eyes wide. The Director, she said, glancing at Petrova, she told us that Rosa had withdrawn, forfeited her scholarship.

I thought you might know why, said Clare. And where she may have gone.

Katarina shook her head, dropped it to her chin.