The neighbour upstairs was an ardent fan of rock music, and for some reason, he found the early hours of the morning two oclock exactly the most suitable time for blaring his favourite tunes. I bought my son a violin, and we started rehearsing scales at eight sharp, just as the neighbour finally drifted off.
Every single night, around half past one, the ceiling of my bedroom would tremble as if threatening a thunderstorm. First, a dull drone filled the air, then came bass lines so deep and strong that the crystal in my cabinet started rattling in time with the drums.
My upstairs neighbours name was Stephen. He was utterly passionate about what he called art, which meant endlessly looping the discographies of Iron Maiden and early Genesis over dubious lager at any hour.
Ive always been a peaceable sort. I work as an accountant, and raise my seven-year-old son, Oliver, on my own. My greatest wish is simply a normal nights sleep. But its hard to stay pacifist when you wake up convinced Bruce Dickinson is screaming Run to the Hills right into your left ear.
The first time, I trudged up at around two in the morning still in dressing gown and slippers. Stephen, about thirty, opened the door with ruffled hair and bleary eyes. The flat reeked of stale smoke and loud electric guitar.
Stephen, have a heart, I said, struggling to keep my tone calm. Its the middle of the night. Ive got work tomorrow and Olivers got school.
Whats the bother? he answered, genuinely confused and leaning on the doorframe. Its not that loud. Good gear, soft bass.
My chandelier wobbles, I replied.
Alright, Ill turn it down, he muttered, shutting the door.
Peace lasted exactly ten minutes. Then it all began again.
The next day, I followed protocol and called the police. They arrived after ninety minutes, but by then, the musical marathon was over and Stephen was fast asleep. Shrugging, the officers said, Theres no noise now, not much we can do. File a complaint to the council, theyll have a word.
The council officer really did visit but only a week later.
Ive had a chat with him, he said over the phone. He promised to keep it down, but honestly, the fines are barely anything, so it makes no difference.
And so it went on. Every night the pounding rhythm thump-thump-thump battered my nerves. I started drinking chamomile tea, arriving at work with pallid skin, growing furious with Stephen, the flat, and my own helplessness.
I noticed Oliver was struggling too. That Saturday morning, sitting in the kitchen with my coffee, I caught sight of the deep shadows under his eyes. My poor boy wasnt getting any rest.
Mum, can I learn to play the violin? he asked, flicking through something on his phone.
If youve ever heard a beginner with a violin, you know it isnt music. Its more akin to the shriek of a distressed feline high-pitched, reality-bending noise.
Of course, darling, I replied, for the first time in weeks flashing a smile as sharp as a fox. Well get you the best instrument we can find.
We went to the music shop that very day. The shopkeeper, a polite elder gentleman, took a while selecting a quarter-size violin for Oliver.
Does the lad have an ear for music? he asked.
Hes got outstanding motivation, I said.
I also read through all the local noise regulations. During the week, noise was allowed from eight in the morning onwards, and a bit later on weekends.
Stephen usually quieted down by four. At eight, he was flat out.
Monday morning. Oliver and I stood in the lounge.
Lets start, darling. C major scale. Loudly, and with feeling.
What followed is hard to capture in words. It sounded like a cats tail trapped in a door, mixed with fingernails scratched across glass. Nothing muffled the violin, its sound travelled freely through the concrete, directly upwards to the neighbours floor.
After ten minutes, I heard something crash upstairs perhaps Stephen himself. Five minutes later, a furious banging on the radiators. We kept going the law was on our side.
At 8:20, the doorbell rang. I opened it. Stephen stood there, shirtless and in boxers, red-eyed, looking like hed survived a disaster.
What on earth are you doing? he croaked. Eight oclock! People are sleeping!
Good morning, Stephen! I said brightly. Were practicing. Olivers got talent; his teacher says daily sessions are a must, especially before school. At least an hour.
Youre joking? My heads splitting!
Thats odd, I replied. Were not that loud. By the way, how was Run to the Hills last night? Thought your bass was a bit weak.
He glanced at me, then at Oliver, who stood like a little soldier with violin and bow at the ready.
Youre doing this on purpose?
Its art, Stephen. It asks for sacrifices.
Harmony through music
We continued for a week. Eight oclock, every morning. After just three days, the upstairs midnight rock marathons halted. Stephen hoped if he behaved, wed stop too. But learning takes persistence.
Friday evening, Stephen came down. Sober, in jeans and a shirt.
Listen, neighbour, he said wearily. Can we strike a bargain? I cant take it any more. That shriek echoes in my brain even at daytime.
Im listening, I said, inviting him into the kitchen.
I placed a sheet of paper and a pen on the table.
Simple terms. Total silence after 10pm.
What about guests? he tried bargaining.
What about Olivers inspiration at seven on a Sunday? I replied calmly.
Stephen flinched.
Alright. Silence after ten. Deal. And the violin will you sell it?
No, I said. It stays. Just in case. Ready and waiting atop the wardrobe.
We both signed our impromptu peace pact. Six months on, it holds. Olivers violin now gathers dust hes taken to chess but the entrance hall is peaceful. Sometimes we bump into Stephen in the lift. He greets Oliver with caution, me with respect. I think hes realised: a quiet accountant with a well-behaved child can be far more formidable than any rock enthusiast.
