Free The Slow Natives by Thea Astley

tank sheltered the frogs or the unseen sound glanced at over the shoulder, the padding nothing that one must beware of.
    He wrote fifteen out of thirty-five on the mark form.
    â€œAll right,” he said when she had reached the end of the Köhler study. “That’s all. It’s all over.”
    Her mouth felt for and caught a smile. He patted her bony shoulder.
    â€œOff you go. And ask the next one to come.”
    He ticked the name off on his list and shuffled his papers around. This was a diploma candidate, the first of the morning. His back to the door, he sensed something unusual when this opened—a difference in quality of sound, of footstep which made him turn quickly.
    Sister Matthew, poised as a hawk, hovered in the doorway.
    â€œIs something wrong?” he asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere is the next candidate, Sister? I’m afraid I’m running a little late.”
    â€œI am she.” A smile began on the clever mouth, then gained control.
    â€œOh. Oh, I see. Yes, of course,”
    â€œIt’s not merely the indulgence of a hobby, Mr Leverson. I’m taking over some of the preparatory pupils for Sister Beatrice. Actually I’ve been teaching most of my life here—but without qualifications.”
    â€œThey soothe parents, I believe.”
    She smiled—but a long way off. And her confidence seemed to crack a little then, for she shook her head briefly.
    â€œAll right, Elizabeth,” he would have been saying comfily to the child he had expected. “Let’s start with the scales, shallwe?” And there would have been none of this hesitancy that plucked the poise from him like feathers, leaving him awkwardly squawking.
    But she was now sitting at the piano, awaiting his directions. They went through the usual preliminaries. Something had put her out of gear, he was aware, but she answered well enough, and then he said, “The Bach, then”, glancing at his lists.
    Pianistically she was entirely equipped to investigate the Bach manner, but without the joyousness full interpretation demanded. Leaning back, Bernard admired her facility, the ginger-haired, light-boned fingers that moved transparently across the keyboard. She knew she was good. She tossed the fugue off as if she were only at practice and her indifference merely added to the technical accuracy of her playing. At the end her smile was all awry and he had to compliment her, though she did not look up.
    â€œWhat about List C?”
    â€œBartok.”
    It would be, he thought. She thrust her crucifix like a dagger into a newer and more comfortable position in her girdle and the rosary beads smacked out a decade of amens on the piano stool.
    It was, Bernard reflected, hardly worth going through the rest of her work, and only convention made him do so, for she was so sufficient he knew it would be unnecessary to penalize her seriously on any points.
    â€œVery satisfying,” he said. “Would you be hurt if I made a small suggestion?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œWell, then, on the question of emotion.”
    â€œEmotion?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou mean my playing lacks it?”
    â€œNot altogether.”
    She looked amused.
    â€œNuns are not given to grand passion.”
    â€œI suppose not.” Her frankness startled him. “But in musicalinterpretation surely even the celibate is allowed a little latitude.”
    â€œIt has never been declared heresy that I know. But I can only play what the music causes me to feel, Mr Leverson. Once . . . well, never mind. The Bach is like an algebraic problem. Eventually
a
must equal
b
and there is the immense satisfaction of the logic of it.”
    â€œThere’s joy in that. Somehow I didn’t feel you discovered it.”
    â€œI have probably forgotten how.” But if she were not uncomfortable—and he had no means of ascertaining, for she concealed her face behind the curve of her