My neighbour, fond of his late-night rock music, would turn up the volume at two in the morning. Out of frustration, I bought my son a violin, and we began practising scales precisely at eight oclock, when my neighbour was finally drifting off to sleep.
Back then, at half past one in the night, the ceiling above my bedroom would stir: first a low, distant rumble, as if a storm was brewing, then a barrage of bass so fierce the crystal glasses in my cabinet would shake and chime anxiously in time with the drums.
My neighbour above, his name was Brian Thompson. He was utterly devoted to his own brand of artistry, which consisted of endlessly cycling through the discography of Led Zeppelin and early Iron Maiden, accompanied by questionable lager and at any hour he pleased.
Ive always been the non-confrontational sort. Working as an accountant, I raised my seven-year-old son, Ethan, on my own, and wished above all just to sleep soundly at night. Yet when you wake to the sensation of Robert Plant growling Whole Lotta Love in your ear, even the greatest peacemakers patience is soon spent.
The first time I went up to Brians flat, it was two in the morning. I wore a dressing gown and slippers. The door swung open to reveal a man in his thirties, dishevelled and bleary. The scent of cigarettes and heavy rock wafted from the hallway.
Brian, would you kindly show some respect? I tried to sound calm. Its the middle of the night. Ive got work tomorrow, and Ethan needs to be up for school.
Whats the issue? he replied, genuinely baffled, leaning on the doorframe. Its not that loudmy kits high quality, bass is nice and smooth.
My chandelier is swinging, I countered.
Fine, Ill turn it down, he muttered, shutting the door.
The silence lasted barely ten minutes. Soon enough, the racket resumed.
The next day, I decided to follow protocol. I rang the local constabulary, who arrived an hour and a half laterwhen Brians music marathon had ended and he was deeply asleep. The officers shrugged. No disturbance, nothing to record. Speak to the community officer, hell have a word.
The officer did visit, but it took a week.
Ive spoken to him, he reported over the phone. He promised to be quieter, but you must understand, the fines are token amounts. He simply doesnt care.
And so, the cycle continued. Night after night, my nerves frayed under the relentless thump-thump-thump. I took to valerian, arrived at work pale and exhausted, and loathed my home, Brian, and my own helplessness.
My boy has talentit must be encouraged
The idea struck one Saturday morning. I was at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea, gazing at the dark circles under Ethans eyes. He, too, was sleep-deprived.
Mum, can I learn to play the violin? he suddenly asked, scrolling through his phone.
If youve ever heard a violin handled by a novice, its no musicits the auditory equivalent of an emergency siren, the universe itself tearing open in a shriek.
Of course, darling, I replied, grinning with a predatory satisfaction I hadnt felt in ages. And well get you the finest violin we can.
That afternoon, we visited the music shop. The proprietor, a gentle, elderly man, helped us choose a quarter-sized violin.
Does the boy have an ear? he asked.
Hes got extraordinary motivation, I said.
Meanwhile, I thoroughly examined the local Noise Ordinance Act. On weekdays, disturbances were permitted from eight in the morning; weekends, a tad later.
Brian often finally quieted at around four a.m. And at eight, he was always in his deepest sleep.
Monday morning, eight oclock. Ethan and I stood in the living room.
Go ahead, Ethanmajor scale, loud and expressive.
The resulting sound was beyond wordslike a cat yowling with its tail slammed in a door, mixed with the screech of a nail across glass. The violin, unmuted, sent its high-pitched cries perfectly through the floor to Brian above.
After ten minutes, something crashed above. Presumably, Brian himself. Five minutes later, someone banged on the pipes. We kept goingafter all, the law was on our side.
At 08:20, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Brian, bleary-eyed and half-dressed, looking like a survivor of disaster.
What are you playing at?! he rasped. Its eight in the morning! People are still asleep!
Good morning, Brian! I replied cheerfully. Were rehearsing. Ethan has real promisehis tutor insists he practise every morning before school. At least an hour.
Youre joking, right? My heads splitting!
Curious, I mused. We werent even loud. By the way, did you enjoy Whole Lotta Love last night? I thought the bass was a little weak.
He looked from me to Ethan, who stood ready with violin and bow, like a tiny soldier.
Youre doing this on purpose?
Its art, Brian. It demands sacrifice.
Harmony through music
We kept at it for a weekevery morning at eight sharp. By the third day, the upstairs concerts ceasedBrian hoped that if he kept quiet, we might stop too. But, as everyone knows, learning demands consistency.
Friday evening, Brian came down himselfsober, in jeans and a shirt.
Look, neighbour, he sighed. Lets strike a deal. I cant take that squeal anymore. Its stuck in my head even in broad daylight.
Im listening, I replied, inviting him into the kitchen.
I laid a sheet of paper and pen on the table.
The terms are simple. Absolute silence after 10 p.m.
What about guests? he tried bargaining.
And what if Ethans inspired at seven on Sunday morning? I replied evenly.
Brian visibly shuddered.
Fine. Quiet after ten. Deal. And that violinwill you sell it?
No, I said. It staysguaranteeing the agreement. Itll rest atop the wardrobe, ready and waiting.
We both signed this impromptu peace treaty. Its held for half a year now. Ethan has since lost interest in the violinhes now taken up chess.
The block is peaceful at last. Occasionally, Brian and I exchange hellos by the lift. He regards Ethan warily, and mewith something close to admiration. I believe hes realised that a soft-spoken accountant with a well-mannered child may prove far more formidable than any rock-and-roll rebel.
