The Fifth Beethoven

Overture

The news vendor thumped the morning papers down in front of his kiosk. He glanced at the headline: Random purse, wallet thefts on the rise, police warn.

The vendor sighed. Another day, another depressing story. Which he wouldn’t read. The vendor didn’t want depressing. What he wanted was his morning coffee. He had it ready in his hand, double cream, double sugar.

A shadow fell on the newspapers. First customer.

Or maybe not. This was a read-and-run type, the vendor decided. So many people were like that. Too cheap to buy.

The vendor’s dream was to sell flowers. Tulips were his favourite. Tulips of all kinds and colours. Striped tulips. Big tulips. Tiny tulips. He grew tulips at home, on his south-facing balcony. One day he’d save enough to open—oh, not a shop. In Vancouver the rent would be way too high. He’d still be a sidewalk vendor, only with flowers.

Peeling the lid off his coffee, the vendor pictured a kiosk overflowing with blossoms, a splash of brilliance and fragrance amid the soaring steel towers of downtown. He’d have discerning customers as opposed to the ill-mannered ones he too often served now. The read-and-runs. With a flower

kiosk the vendor would be free of them.

He sipped his double-double coffee and

dreamed on.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Startled, the vendor spilled coffee down the Vancouver Sun T-shirt the newspaper paid him to wear. (Every little bit helped.) Gross. Read-And-Run was cracking all ten knuckles.

Maybe you could do that somewhere else, the vendor snapped.

Read-And-Run shoved a five-dollar bill into his hand, grabbed a newspaper and marched off.

Hey! Don’t you want your change?

Read-And-Run just kept going.

The vendor shook his head. Some people. Maybe he’d head back to the coffee place and ask for a third cream and sugar.

One thing he definitely knew: he was keeping Read-And-Run’s change.

After all, every little bit helped.

Chapter One

It was a longer note than any I’d ever played.

I stood, head tipped back, gawking up at it. If you were like me and into music, the sight of Vancouver’s newest luxury building, the Keynote, was an instant—well, high. The Keynote stretched 600 feet up in a design that was pure melody. Pure quarter note, to be exact. At its base, forming the notehead, the Keynote had a black oval-shaped lobby. The tall black-glass tower was the stem. From the top, glittery silver in the shape of a quarter-note flag stretched down several stories.

The tower’s black glass reflected sun, clouds and other towers in Coal Harbour, a posh section of downtown. People used to notice the bright, tilting Trump Tower down the block. Not anymore. Now the Keynote was the architectural melody they lingered on.

In TV commercials, Keynote builder Mike Dante explained his choice of design: Life should be music! I liked that. I liked also that he’d used an award-winning, international architect with a musical name: Renzo—wait for it—Piccolo.

Sure, I knew the life/music line was a sales pitch. Mike Dante wanted people to buy office and condo space in the Keynote. And they did. The place sold out. With his twinkling eyes and big smile, Mike Dante was an expert salesperson. You couldn’t blow a gum bubble in Vancouver without it sticking to a Dante development.

Sales pitch or not, the Keynote was cool. Just looking at it made my fingers itch for piano keys. Not that this was unusual. Gazing up at the Keynote now, I started snapping my fingers.

"Planning to scale the Keynote?" The voice belonged to a guy dressed up like Ludwig van Beethoven: frilly shirt, black pants, messy black wig, mask with jutting cheekbones and thick, scowling eyebrows.

He offered me a brochure. The Keynote restaurant, Andante, opens soon! Book it for your wedding, your family reunion, your birthday party.

The Andante. I liked the wordplay on the owner’s name. Plus, in music andante meant easygoing, no fuss, no stress. A cool name for a resto. But me, a fifteen-year-old Charlie’s Chicken dishwasher, book at the Andante? I laughed. Not on my salary.

Always think on a positive note! he said as he moved on.

The real Beethoven—the German-born Beethoven (1770–1827)—was my personal inspiration. When Mom started teaching me piano, I found it tough. It was a lot to remember all at once and a lot to practise. I got impatient. Which was my common reaction to life. I mean, impatience is so instantly satisfying.

One day after I complained, Mom said, Think this is hard? For much of his life Beethoven was deaf! I never forgot that. If Beethoven could compose without hearing, I guessed I could handle sharps, flats and scales.

Mom told me something else about Beethoven. Like me, he’d been impatient. He dedicated his Third Symphony to the French general Napoleon Bonaparte. But then the general got power-hungry and made himself emperor. Furious and disillusioned, Beethoven ripped up the dedication page. An impulsive type of guy. I could identify with that.

Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony thrummed into my head now. I had the short, easy-sheet-music version down solid. I’d been thinking I should try the real version.

"Bah-bah-bah-boom...bah-bah-bahboom," I sang softly. Nothing rocked like the first four notes of the Fifth.

Someone crashed into my right shoulder. I staggered sideways, almost fell. Straightened up with fists ready. Whoever had tackled me, I was ready to return the favour.

The sun was at his back. I could hardly see him. But his unruly-wigged head gave him away. The guy in the Beethoven outfit. He ducked like he knew I might try to punch him. Lifting his right hand from a pocket he wiped away a pretend tear.

I guessed this was Fake Beethoven for I’m sorry. I pushed my hair back off my forehead, a habit I have when exasperated. I get exasperated easily, so my hair has a wild, uncombed look. Unruly hair. Something else I have in common with the late Ludwig.

You should be more careful, I told Fake Beethoven. I was tempted to help myself to a fistful of mask.

He placed his right hand over his left and squeezed. Pop, pop, pop! Then, left hand over right, he blasted out an encore. If knuckle-cracking was an Olympic sport, Fake Beethoven would clean up on gold.

He turned and jogged across the Keynote courtyard. As usual, the courtyard was crowded. Locals and tourists showed up all day, every day to stare at the Keynote. Most oohed over it. Some complained about the design, saying that a building should look like a building.

Then there were the protesters. They held up cardboard signs showing Mike Dante’s face with a big X over it. Shouted, Give us back our homes!

Fake Beethoven zigzagged through the crowd. Near the Keynote entrance he collided with a girl my age. They both hit the ground. He grabbed the arm of a nearby woman, pulled himself up. The woman was wearing stiletto heels. Not great for balance. Down she went too.

By now everyone was watching. Some laughed, thinking it was a comedy routine.

Fake Beethoven ran off, waving. Not just waving his hand, though. He was waving the girl’s cloth bag and the woman’s purse. He ran into the Keynote lobby and disappeared.

I had a sudden sick feeling. I clapped a hand against my back pocket.

My wallet was gone. And with it, the two one-hundred-dollar bills I’d cashed from my latest Charlie’s Chicken paycheque. I had plans for that money. My local music store on Commercial Drive had second-hand noise-isolating headphones set aside for me. Bose headphones, the best of the best. I’d been wanting some for ages. Once I plugged the Bose into our electric piano at home, I would only hear my playing. No shrill cackles piercing up through the floor from our landlady. No audience screams from the reality shows our neighbour beside us watched. No car alarms from the street. Nothing.

But now that wouldn’t happen. Bye-bye, Bose.

I remembered Fake Beethoven raising one hand from a pocket to wipe away a pretend tear. Now I understood. The moment before, he’d slipped my wallet into the pocket.

People were helping the girl and woman up. The girl winced. She was having trouble standing. The woman started screaming.

"My jewels! My jewels!" Bystanders jabbed at cellphones, calling 911.

I wasn’t in the mood to wait for police. Like Beethoven, I was impulsive. And I had a score to settle.

I charged over to the Keynote lobby. I yanked open one of the black-glass doors, looked around the lobby—and spotted him.

Except it was the real Beethoven, glowering at me from a big portrait. I nodded at him in greeting. One wild-haired, impatient guy to another.

On a black door in a curving glass wall, the word Andante sparkled in silver letters. I tried the door. Locked. Flattening my nose against the glass I squinted inside.

No costumed composer. No anybody. The restaurant wasn’t open to