My neighbour was fond of listening to rock music at two in the morning. I bought my son a violin, and we started practicing scales, precisely at eight oclock sharp, just as the neighbour was falling asleep.
Every night at half past one, the ceiling in my bedroom took on a curiously lively personality. At first, there was a distant hum, almost like a thunderstorm gathering somewhere afar, then the low tones joined in, and the bass pulsed so intensely that the crystalware in our cabinet tinkled nervously in time with the beat of the drums.
My upstairs neighbours name was Geoffrey. He was an ardent devotee of the musical arts, which, for him, meant endlessly replaying the discography of Iron Maiden and early Led Zeppelin, accompanied by dubious lager at any hour.
I am, by temperament, a peaceful man. I work as an accountant, raise my seven-year-old son Edward on my own, and my greatest wish in this world is simply to sleep soundly. But when you wake up with the sensation that Bruce Dickinson is screaming Run to the Hills directly into your ear, even my inner pacifist quickly abandons the trenches.
The first time I went up to his flat, it was nearly two in the morningdressed in my dressing gown and slippers. The door was opened by a man in his thirties, dishevelled and bleary-eyed. The flat stank of cigarettes and heavy rock.
Geoffrey, could you please show some consideration? I asked, striving for calm. Its the middle of the night, I have work tomorrow, and my son has school.
Whats the big deal? he replied, genuinely puzzled, leaning on the doorframe. Its not that loud. The speakers are decent, the bass is gentle.
My chandelier sways, I answered.
Fine, Ill turn it down, he muttered and slammed the door.
The silence lasted all of ten minutes. Then, everything resumed its usual course.
The next day, I decided to do things properly. I called the police. They arrived ninety minutes later, by which time Geoffreys musical marathon had ended and he was snoring peacefully. The officers only shrugged. Theres no noise now. Nothing to report. Write to your local council; theyll have a word.
The council officer did show up, but only a week later.
I had a word with him, he told me on the phone. He promised to keep it quieter, but you know, the fines are minimalhe doesnt care.
And so the cycle continued. Each night brought that same relentless beat: thump-thump-thump. I began taking herbal teas for my nerves, turned up at work looking grey-faced, and fiercely hated this flat, Geoffrey, and my helplessness.
Children have talentsand they must be cultivated
The solution arrived unexpectedly, one Saturday morning. I sat in the kitchen with a mug of tea and looked at the dark circles under Edwards eyes. He wasnt sleeping well either.
Dad, can I learn to play the violin? he asked, scrolling through something on his phone.
Have you ever heard a violin in the hands of a beginner? Its not musicits a shriek that prompts an immediate evacuation; a high-pitched screech as though reality itself is tearing.
Of course you can, son, I replied, and, for the first time in a month, I managed a genuinely predatory smile. And well get you the best instrument.
We visited the music shop that very afternoon. The salesman, a cultured elderly gent, took his time selecting a quarter-size violin for us.
Has the boy got a good ear? he asked.
Hes got excellent motivation, I replied.
Meanwhile, I thoroughly studied the regional Noise Regulations. On weekdays, youre allowed to make a racket from 8am onward; weekends, a bit later.
Geoffrey typically went quiet around four in the morning. At eight, he was fast asleep.
Monday morning. Edward and I stood in the living room.
Go on, son, a C major scale. Loudly. With feeling.
What happened next defies description. The sound evoked the shriek of a cat with its tail caught in the door, mixed with the scrape of a nail across glass. The violinunmuted, fully resonantvibrated perfectly through the concrete floors, delivering greetings right up to Geoffrey above.
Ten minutes later, a crash came from up top. Likely Geoffrey himself. Five minutes after that, someone banged on the radiator. We didnt stop; the law was on our side.
At 8:20am, the doorbell rang. I opened it. Geoffrey stood before me in a vest and boxers, his eyes red, looking like hed survived a disaster.
What are you doing?! he croaked. Eight in the morning! People are sleeping!
Good morning, Geoffrey! I replied cheerfully. Were rehearsing. Edwards got a talenthis teacher says practice every morning before school for at least an hour.
Are you winding me up? My heads splitting!
How odd, I said, feigning surprise. Were not that loud. By the way, how was Run to the Hills last night? I thought the bass was a bit weak.
He looked at me, then at Edward, standing in the hallway with his violin and bow, like a tiny soldier.
Youre doing this on purpose?
Its art, Geoffrey. It demands sacrifices.
Peace through music
We practiced for exactly a weekevery morning, strictly at eight. By the third day, the nocturnal concerts upstairs ceased. Geoffrey had hoped if he behaved, wed stop as well. But a childs learning cant be halted carelessly.
On Friday evening, Geoffrey came down himself. Sober, dressed in jeans and a shirt.
Look, mate, he sighed, Lets make a deal. I cant take it anymore. That squeal echoes in my head all day.
Im listening, I said, inviting him in.
I set out a sheet of paper and a pen on the table.
The terms are simple. Absolute quiet after 10pm.
What about guests? he tried to bargain.
What about Edwards inspiration at seven on a Sunday morning? I countered calmly.
He visibly flinched.
Alright. Quiet after ten. Deal. And the violin will you sell it?
No, I said. It stays. As a guarantee. Itll rest atop the wardrobe, primed and ready.
We signed this improvised peace pact. Its held for six months now. Truthfully, Edward has since abandoned the violinhis passion is chess these days.
Our building is wonderfully peaceful. Now and then, Geoffrey and I greet each other at the lift. He glances at my son warily, casts me a look of respect. I suspect hes learned: a quiet accountant with a well-mannered child might be far fiercer than any rocker.
Theres a lesson Ive come away withwhen pushed, even the meekest among us can discover surprising strength. Sometimes, peace comes not through confrontation, but a clever bit of counterpoint.
