The Piano

It had been years since anyone had come. But one day I knew someone had opened the lid, and I opened my eyes after years of sleep. I saw little fingers reaching over the keys. This player was very rough, but there was a light in his eyes when he played, and his playing was never unbearable no matter how many mistakes he made. Yes, this little boy had the light.  I could hear his mother calling him back to do his studies, and I saw his fingers very slowly lift off the keys in hesitation, and his little legs slowly slide off the bench. I looked around at the room while the boy was gone: it was morning, and I was in a shabby room with that could barely fit a couch and a TV. I was surprised that this family was able to accommodate me. I was rather large and grand, after all.  I waited for the boy that day. He came back when the room was moonlit, very tired, but as he begin to play it seemed that his energy kicked up, as if he had been drinking coffee that the adults always seemed to have with them when they came to play. They’d spill it on me often. This boy took good care of me though, he always brought back a rag to clean me with. Even though the rag just made me dirtier, I felt respected by the boy. It had been a while since I’d had a friend. 

I had been waiting for someone like this boy. Sure, years ago my situation was much better. I had been stationed at the Carnegie Hall, with its ornate walls and flowery pomp, but my players were all tiresome and stressed. Then, one of my pedals broke off, and the next day they took me out of the Carnegie Hall and into a large truck. They drove me to a warehouse, set me down in the back, and locked those great big doors. I slept for a long time, and no one played me. How many years has it really been? I thought.  I saw a newspaper in the corner of my new room that read: The New York Times, Feb. 12th, 2009. The last time I remembered being awake was when they put me in the warehouse in 1991. It felt strange to be in a simple house now, with a normal family. The boy was now playing a new melody he had discovered. Perhaps the little one would be a composer, I thought. His mother called him again for bed, and he slid off the bench reluctantly again. I thought I might like it there. 

It must have been midnight when I saw the front door open, and a man with dark circles under his eyes and a shiny brief-case walked in, he glanced at me with surprise and astonishment. He had the same light in his eyes as the boy when he saw me, but his eyes darkened again and he walked out of the room. 

At sunrise I could hear the low groans and incessant typing of the man in the room behind me.  After a little while he came in my room and sat perched like a hawk on the corner of one of the couches. His typing fingers moved with grace. They were elongated fingers, and his thumbs moved with elasticity, like he had once reached across octaves for one of Beethoven’s sonatas, or ran down the keys like in Tchaikovsky’s nocturnes.  I have seen many piano hands, but I recognized this man’s hands. They stood out to me. They were familiar. 

“Daddy!” the boy came in an hour later. He ran and jumped on the man’s lap, crushing one of the keys. But the man didn’t notice, he tossed the boy in the air. 

“When did mom buy the piano?” said the man. 

“Yesterday”, said the boy with a grin.

“I hope it wasn’t too expensive.” Said the man routinely, there was some pain in his eyes when he said it.

“Bill is an old piano.” Said the boy solemnly. 

I’d never had a name. 

“Bill is his name, I see.”

“Could you teach me daddy?” 

“Not this week, maybe when I get back from my next conference.”

“But you just got back. You should stay this time, and stop hanging around those weird old guys.”

The man smiled, but he didn’t respond. He coughed suddenly.

******

It was raining heavily, and the pitter patter sounded like notes. The rain was the only music I had heard in a long time. The boy had stopped playing me. The father never came around anymore.  The mother wore black all the time.

 The boy came in the room and stared at the rain with a blank look in his wide eyes. He was shivering, though a fire was near. His mother came in, looked at the boy, and sat down beside him.

“Why don’t you play Bill honey? It make take your mind off your dad.” She said while she stroked his messy hair. She said the word ‘dad’ under her breath. 

The boy shrugged, looked over at me, and looked at the window again.

Someone knocked on the door. The mother went and opened it with the look of someone who could never be surprised by anything, everything surprising had already happened.  I heard an unfamiliar voice:

“Hello Charlotte, how are you holding up?...of course, well I have brought some things from his town office, in case you wanted to have them…… is there anything else I can do for you….Charlotte?” 

“No, but thank you for the things Maryanne.” 

“Of course, I’ll leave you now. Tell Joey I say hi.” 

That was when I first learned the boy’s name.

“Maryanne brought of a lot of your dad’s things.” Said the mother to the little figure still staring at the window. 

“A watch, a fountain pen, the Moonlight Sonata, by Beethoven.” The mother looked at the Beethoven cd very sentimentality, with the look of someone remembering something very perfect. With a breath like she was mustering up courage, she put the cd in a stereo near the boy, perhaps hoping it would distract him. She left the room with a look of tenderness at the boy. 

Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata began to play. All the sudden, it seemed like the boy was no longer a figure, his face was sad, but there was light in his eyes again. He stood mesmerized by the stereo. At the end, with the last C minor chord fading out of hearing, he stood frozen by the stereo, then he got up and walked over to me. He got slowly onto the bench, and began to play. 

He was playing Beethoven’s moonlight sonata, note for note, measure for measure, till the whole piece was complete, and nearly perfect. He had memorized the piece after one listen. Then I remembered. I had only known one other man to be able to do that.  The boy’s father.