THE PIANIST
Any requests?
Leaves frame painting frame painter; he is painting with notes.
He paints on white ivory and on black, and in one breath he is left and right and up and down and everywhere and nowhere. In places his brushstrokes are light, sun-faded, gentle. In others they are typhoons, black winter days, breakups and monsters and nightmares. His expression, too, changes as he paints. Today he has chosen something from Liszt, a Hungarian Rhapsody. Not No.2, naturally. This afternoon he is playing, painting, Hungarian Rhapsody No.6, and it occurs to him as he nears the end of the piece that it is too cheerful, too airy, for the day he has had. Still he finishes playing, sits there until the notes are gone and the paint has dried and the room is dead and silent.
He stands up. The job is done. His ears are ringing. The hanging houseplants above the piano brush his cheek as he stands. It is flowering season now. He lingers for a moment, smells the flowers. It is well-deserved after a day like the one he has just had.
He cracks open the window and looks down, then out at the lawn of the manor, then out past the long driveway. When he began this afternoon’s session the sky had been pastel-blue but now it is moody—there is a thunderstorm on the horizon. He pulls a bloodied notepad from his pocket and notes this down.
Tonight’s piece will need to be loud. It will need to impress.
And he waits for the guests to arrive.
* * *
They arrive in high spirits.
“Who invited you?” says the woman to the group she walks in with. Like most guests, this woman is in her 80s, and she is wrapped in a fur coat as ivory-white as her hair; her face is a cake of makeup. This would, in bygone eras, have been considered garish, but he has noticed an uptick in makeup as of late. Maybe this is in style? Her accent, too, is strange. He cannot quite place it. He thinks he may have heard something similar spoken by a beggar, long ago.
Nobody answers the woman’s question at first. Then a younger woman—the only young person of the batch—looks up at her, says “A friend of a cousin’s aunt. I think.”
“Right,” says the older woman, “some distant relation. I’d have guessed. You don’t quite fit in with this crowd, you know” she says, pinching the younger woman on the cheek. The younger woman grimaces. “But I’m glad you’re here. I, as a matter of fact, don’t know who invited me. But by the looks of it, this should be a brilliant performance. By God, look at the attention to detail on the marble finish there!”
The older woman finds an older man to ogle at the marble with. It never ceases to amaze him that they do not question why none of them remember getting an invite. Why none of them know, quite exactly, where they are. But then it must be part of the place, part of its charm. A sort of spell. Though he cannot remember ever casting one.
The younger woman of the group is the only one who does not seem to have fallen for the spell. She wanders around the room like she might step on a landmine at any moment. She inspects the marble head-carvings as if they might be hollow. She looks at the floor, eyebrow raised at suspect carpet-stains. He does not blame her for this. It tends to be that young people are more cautious. He watches her from afar, from the bench of the piano. Nobody has paid him any attention yet. It could be part of the spell; it could be that as the pianist, he is there as a set-piece. Not a person to be talked with, but a cog in the machine of the night’s entertainment. A part of the instrument itself. Strangely, he does not mind this thought.
He sits there as the older folk talk, their conversation eventually winding down as they find their way to the seats. The room is not large; there are always twenty guests. No more, no less. They sit and stare at him, wordless. The room is now silent again, but one seat is empty.
He scans for the young woman and nearly jumps with shock. She is standing right next to him. The woman smells of strong perfume. Its smell resembles the flowers hanging above the piano. And, for a reason he will never be able to understand, he decides to do something he has never done.
“Good evening,” he says. “May I help you?” She seems surprised he has spoken. Surprised and relieved. He had often been told his voice could have that effect.
“Um, yeah. I don’t know if this is a weird question—well, maybe it is, I don’t know—but what sort of event is this? I sort of remember getting an invite from my cousin’s aunt’s friend. But now I don’t really know. I’m a little confused. Where are we? Am I having some sort of mental breakdown?” As she works through the logic of her statements she begins fidgeting with her fingers, looking around at all corners of the room.
“I don’t think so,” he says.
“You don’t think what?”
“That you are having a mental breakdown. It’s possible, but unlikely. It’s probably not why you are here.”
“Um, ok. That’s good to know at least,” she says with a nervous laugh. “But where are we? If you don’t mind me asking. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be here.”
“You most certainly are,” he says.
“I most certainly am what?”
“Supposed to be here.”
“And why is that? Can you tell me where we are? What’s going on?” Now she’s getting upset, he can tell. The older folks in the room seem to have set in stone. They are paying this conversation no attention, but they might if she gets louder, upsets the spell.
“This is a piano performance,” he says. “I’ll play a song, and that will be all. Just one song.”
“Great. Yeah, great, I love piano. Helpful. Cool. But where are we?”
“Where are you from?”
“Birmingham.”
“Right. Then I’d say we are near Birmingham.”
“You’d say?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. You’re from Birmingham, yes? How else would you have gotten here?” She sighs and furrows her eyebrows but, in the end, seems to decide he is right.
“It’s just that I have a doctor’s appointment to get to,” she says. “I think it’s today. Anyway, I don’t really want to go. I don’t think it’s good news. But I should probably go anyway, right?”
He studies her for a moment. Then he says, “I normally don’t do this, but do you have any requests? I prefer classical compositions. But anything goes.”
“I really know nothing about classical music,” she says. “But I do love Caribbean music. There’s a song called Ojalá, by Silvio Rodriguez. Do you think you could play a cover of that?”
“I’m familiar,” he says, as he makes himself familiar with the song. It is an interesting choice, he thinks, as he listens to it in the recesses of his mind. But it will do. “Take a seat, please. I’ll play now.”
“Great, thanks,” she says. She walks to the final empty seat in the room with less trepidation than before. He is pleased to see this. And he begins.
* * *
Leaves frame painting frame painter; he is painting with notes.
He paints on white ivory and on black, and in one breath he is left and right and up and down and everywhere and nowhere. In places his brushstrokes are light, sun-faded, gentle. In others they are typhoons, black winter days, breakups and nightmares and monsters. His expression, too, changes as he paints. Tonight she has chosen Ojalá, by Silvio Rodriguez. He has to play loud for the song to be heard over the thunder outside; the rain that beats on the window-panes. As he plays, he looks out into the crowd and locks eyes with the young woman. She is crying—tears of sadness and of joy, he thinks. For her, in this moment, it is paradise.
And then the song ends. The room is dead and silent.
He stands up. The job is done. His ears are ringing. The hanging houseplants above the piano brush his cheek as he stands. It is still flowering season. He lingers for a moment, smells the flowers. They remind him of the woman’s perfume.
He cracks open the window. The thunderstorm has passed and outside there is the smell of fresh rain on grass, and all is quiet save for the frogs in the creek over the hill. He pulls a bloodied notepad from his pocket. Take more requests, he writes. For, though he is Death, he thinks his work need not be so cruel.
And he waits for the next guests to arrive.