My neighbour was fond of blasting rock music at 2 oclock in the morning. When I bought my son a violin, we began practising scales promptly at 8am, just as my neighbour was drifting off to sleep.
It was always at half past one in the morning that the ceiling above my bedroom began behaving suspiciously. First, a distant rumble echoed, much like a thunderstorm gathering somewhere far away. Then came the low frequencies, and the bass swept through so strongly that the crystal glasses in the cabinet would vibrate anxiously to the rhythm of the drums.
My upstairs neighbour was called Gareth. He had a great passion for what he termed “artistry”endless, meticulous listening of every Rammstein album and early Iron Maiden, accompanied by questionable lager at any hour.
I am, by nature, someone who avoids conflict. I work as an accountant, raise my seven-year-old son William alone, and long for nothing more than a proper night’s sleep. But when you wake up to the feeling that Till Lindemann is hollering “Du Hast” directly into your ear, your inner pacifist swiftly surrenders.
The first time, I trudged up at around two in the morningdressed in my dressing gown and fluffy slippers. The door was opened by a man of about thirty, blokeish and bleary-eyed. The flat reeked of cigarette smoke and heavy rock.
“Gareth, really, have some mercy,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “It’s the middle of the night. Ive got work in the morning, and Williams got school.”
“Whats the harm?” he replied, genuinely baffled as he leaned against the doorframe. “Im not loud, the kit’s decent, the bass is gentle.”
“My chandelier is swaying,” I countered.
“Fine, Ill turn it down,” he grumbled, slamming the door.
The peace lasted a grand total of ten minutes. Then the cacophony returned, as always.
The next day, I decided to follow the rules. I called the police. They arrived an hour and a half later, by which time Gareth had ended his musical marathon and was peacefully snoring. The officers shrugged: “Theres no noise now, nothing to record. Write to your local constable, theyll have a word.”
The constable did come, but only a week later.
“I had a chat,” he said over the phone. “He promised to keep it down. But look, the fines are tiny, it doesn’t bother him.”
And so it continued. Every night, my nerves were hammered by the same rhythm”bam-bam-bam.” I started drinking camomile tea, showed up at work with a grey complexion, and began to despise not only this house and Gareth but also my own helplessness.
Children have talentsthey must be nurtured
The idea struck one Saturday morning. I was in the kitchen with a cup of tea, staring at the deep shadows beneath Williams eyes. He wasnt sleeping well either.
“Mum, can I learn the violin?” he suddenly asked as he flicked through something on his phone.
Have you ever heard a violin played by a beginner? It isnt music. Its a high-pitched shriek that sounds as if reality itself is tearing apart.
“Of course, sweetheart,” I replied, and for the first time in over a month, my smile was genuinely fierce. “Well get you the best instrument we can.”
We went to the music shop that very day. The salesman, a refined elderly gentleman, spent ages helping us choose a quarter-size violin.
“Does your boy have an ear for music?” he asked.
“Hes got splendid motivation,” I answered.
Meanwhile, I pored over the local “Noise Act.” On weekdays, noise was permitted from eight in the morning; weekends, a bit later.
Gareth usually quietened down by four a.m. And at eight, he slept particularly soundly.
Monday. Morning. William and I stood in the sitting room.
“Go on, darling, C-major scale. As loud as you like. With gusto.”
What followed simply defies description. The noise was like a cat whose tail had been trapped in a door, combined with the screech of chalk against a blackboard. The violin, unfettered by any obstacle, resonated exquisitely through the floors, sending greetings straight up to Gareth above.
After ten minutes, something crashed from upstairs. Presumably Gareth himself. Five minutes later, came frantic banging on the pipes. We didnt stopthe law was behind us.
At 8:20, the doorbell rang. I opened it. Gareth stood on the threshold in a vest and boxer shorts, with bloodshot eyes and the face of a man who had survived catastrophe.
“What are you doing?!” he croaked. “It’s eight in the morning! People are sleeping!”
“Good morning, Gareth!” I replied cheerfully. “Were practising. Williams got talent; his tutor says we ought to rehearse daily before school. At least an hour.”
“Youre joking, right? My heads splitting!”
“Curious,” I said, feigning surprise. “Were not loud. By the way, how did ‘Du Hast’ sound last night? The bass seemed a bit weak to me.”
He looked at me, then at William, who stood in the hallway like a miniature warrior, violin in hand.
“Is this deliberate?”
“Its art, Gareth. It demands sacrifice.”
Harmony through music
We practised every morning at precisely eight for a week. By the third day, the night concerts from above ceasedGareth was hoping that if he behaved, wed do the same. But as everyone knows, you can’t interrupt the learning process.
Friday evening, Gareth came down himself. Sober, in jeans and a shirt.
“Look, neighbour,” he said wearily. “Lets talk. I can’t take it anymore. That screech is stuck in my head even during the day.”
“Im listening,” I said, inviting him to the kitchen.
I laid a sheet of paper and a pen on the table.
“The terms are simple. Absolute silence after 10:00pm.”
“What about guests?” he tried to bargain.
“What about Williams inspiration at seven oclock on a Sunday morning?” I replied calmly.
Gareth visibly shuddered.
“Fine. After tensilence. Deal. And the violin will you sell it?”
“No,” I replied. “It will stay. As a guarantee that the agreement is upheld. Itll rest atop the wardrobe, primed and ready.”
We signed our makeshift “treaty of silence.” Its held for six months now. William hasnt touched the violin in ageshes taken up chess instead.
The flats grown quiet. Sometimes, Gareth and I exchange morning pleasantries by the lift. He glances at my son warily, and mewith a newfound respect. It seems hes learned: a quiet accountant with a well-mannered child may be far more formidable than any rocker careening through the night.
