STORIES, AFTER EIGHT

THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE...Chapter eight

Paris, 1956

The last notes of the piano seemed to hang in the air with what felt like a vibrant echoing, Martin thought. He realized there were tears in his eyes. He looked at Bijou sitting motionless in his chair, stunned at the performance, his eyes slowly opening with the last indelible playfulness on the keys. He turned to Martin immediately.

“How old is this boy?” he asked.

Martin turned to Annaliese, and then looked at Rudi. He asked him how old he was, and nodded, as if he was thinking something over.

“He’s nine,” he said, when he realized he hadn’t said anything.

“That boy is nine years old?” La Niña asked. “That boy has a gift,” he said, looking at Annaliese. “If I can hear it, then damn straight he can, can’t you, Martin?” he asked, shifting his attention. “The boy is gifted. That’s what she wants to know, isn’t it? Are you going to tell her? Because if you don’t, I will.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Martin said.

“What’s he saying?” Annaliese asked, and looked at Rudi who sat fully engaged, listening to everything.

“He liked it,” Martin said.

“He liked it? He says all of that, and all you say is that he liked it? What are you not telling me? Or do you still blame me for everything?” she asked.

“I thought I did. I mean, I wanted to; maybe I still do? But this? This is more than that,” he said. “It’s more than you and I.”

“Blame you for what?” Rudi asked.

“Never mind,” Martin said. He looked at Annaliese. “He’s very good. Enter him into European competitions and he’ll win his age group. He won’t win the full competitions, but he will, one day.”

“Why? Is he not good enough? I thought you said you  liked it?”

“Do you want me to get into the technicalities of the piece?” Martin asked. He turned and looked at Rudi. “In my opinion, you played it too fast. If there was a conductor here, he’d be able to rein you in and keep you in check. There isn’t a conductor with you when you’re up on stage. You’ve got to learn how to keep time in your head. There’s no metronome counting out time for you. Can you count?” he asked. “In your head when you’re playing, I mean? Can you count out the time?”

“I’ve been trying,” Rudi said.

“That comes with practice. If it were me teaching you, I’d suggest you start at eight o’clock every morning. Play for a minimum of five hours—always five hours—then take a break for lunch. After that? Practice one piece — an etude — but only until five o’clock. No matter what time you start after lunch, you play no later than five o’clock. After dinner, I’d expect you want to spend the rest of the night reading over the score. That’s where you get to feel the time in the way it’s written. And make sure to read whatever notes the last person that owned it, may have written down.”

“How old do you recommend he be before he competes?”

“The youngest he can compete is fourteen.”

“I can’t afford to pay for lessons for the next five years,” she said, and looked at Rudi. The boy seemed to accept it, and closed the flap on the keyboard.

“Wait,” Martin said. “Take the score back with you and read it. Figure the speed out in your head — use the metronome — but count out the bars as you play it in your head. You were four minutes and forty-seven seconds too fast. That tends to happen when you’re nervous. A good pace — an acceptable one — would be forty-one minutes. You came in at thirty-seven minutes and change.”

“I thought it sounded fast,” La Niña said thoughtfully, playfully, and looking at Bijou, smiled. “Hey look, there’s that man,” he said, pointing at the window, and Bijou turned to look.

“I see him,” Bijou said in a calm voice. “Martin? That’s the man that was looking for you last night.”

Martin stood and turned, but the man turned away just as Martin moved. Martin walked to the window, pressing his hand up against the glass. He saw the man in the distance, but soon lost him in the crowd. He was walking with a limp though, he’d seen that much, and his left shoulder drooped — almost as if it had been broken and not properly reset.

“Well, he’s gone now,” Martin said, wiping the grime of the window off his hands; he turned to look at Annaliese. “Bring him back tomorrow at the same time. If he can slow himself down, I’ll know that he can listen for one thing, but more importantly, I’ll know that he understands. You always have to study if you want to understand Beethoven. But if you can read music, then you can read Beethoven, and that’s when a new door opens.”

“You want him to do this again tomorrow?” La Niña asked.

“I’m sorry. Is that going to be a problem?” Martin asked. “Heaven forbid that I should inconvenience you.”

“It’s been my experience, that music is never an inconvenience,” Bijou replied.

    *

Martin had pulled the piano out of the corner earlier, so that Rudi would get the full effects of the instrument’s sound. He’d pushed it back into the corner later, but not as far back as it should have gone. He sat on the bench and looked out over the room. His view had changed. He could now see the large mirrored wall, and in the reflection of it, the back of the room. He liked the new view, and wondered if Bijou would notice the difference.

It’s just for the night. I’ll be pulling it out again for Rudi tomorrow.

He sat down and let himself drift away with the music. 

    *

Martin stood at the bottom of the stairs leading up at the Sacré Cœur the next morning and sighed, looking up before he began the long, steady climb. The dawn had broken, the morning light casting long shadows behind him — his own shadow folding down the length of the stairs. He thought about stopping halfway through his climb and maybe smoking one of his last three cigarettes, but decided it might be more enjoyable to have it after his croissant, with his espresso.

He saw her when he reached the top of the stairs. Annaliese. She was sitting on one of the two chairs, a small plate with a half-eaten croissant in front of her, another croissant on the plate in front of his chair. He approached her with a sense of trepidation; a wariness mirrored by an unease that bordered on the dire apprehension of the dreaded past.

“What are you doing here?” he asked as he pulled the chair out and sat down. The waiter came out with his espresso and placed an ashtray on the table. Martin thanked the man with a dismissive nod. The waiter looked at Annaliese, smiling before he walked away.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t mind. I wanted to talk to you,” she said softly.

“Talk to me? About what? There’s nothing for us to talk about, is there?”

“Please Martin, don’t make this any more difficult than it already is,” she said.

“Difficult? ” he said with a laugh. “For who? You? I’m not planning on making this difficult, or even awkward, for that matter. Maybe it’s the circumstances that are making it difficult? Or maybe you just can’t face whatever it is you think you need to discuss with me? Because of, you know, the guilt?” he added, levelling a look at her.

“Martin, please,” she said, reaching into her purse and taking out a packet of cigarettes; his brand. She dropped them on the table in front of him.

“Is that meant to be a bribe, Annaliese?” he asked.

“It’s meant to be a gift,” she said. “I suppose it depends on whether you accept it as such, doesn’t it? Maybe I should have said it’s a peace offering, instead?”

“Alright…like that’s going to appease me for a life time of suffering? What exactly do you want? Are you here to address the elephant in the room, as the Americans like to say?” he asked, picking up the cigarettes and shaking one out of the packet.

“The elephant in the room?”

“Are you going to tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about? Please, Anna, give me some credit. My life may have been ruined by the War, but so was yours. We were both shattered by events that were out of our control. Except for one singular difference.”

“And what, pray tell, would that be?” she asked, stiffening.

“The fact that you betrayed me.”

She sat in silence, finally picking her purse up off the small table and slipping her arms into her coat, which was hanging off the back of her chair.

“Obviously, this was a mistake,” she said, looking at him.

“Coming here? Or coming here with Rudi?” he asked.

“Both, I’m starting to think.”

“No. Rudi’s is a great talent — an amazing talent. Whoever was teaching him, did the best they could, but I don’t think they can take him any further. He has to be brought up to the next level.”

“Well, that isn’t going to happen now then, is it? I can’t afford to pay for lessons anymore — not for five years, anyway. My only hope was that he’d enter a competition and win the prize. But that isn’t going to happen now, is it? I’m just wasting my time here.”

“Sit down,” he said, and she paused, looking at him with her arm in her right sleeve.

“I said sit down,” he said once more.

“Why? I can see the blame in your eyes for what you think may have happened —”

“Of course I blame you!” he said, his voice harsh. “Who else could it have been?”

“And what if I told you it wasn’t me?”

He smiled. “You mean that it wasn’t you who slapped me? Are you saying that I was mistaken? Imagining it maybe?”

“Are you done?” she said.

“No, I’m not done. I watched the Staats arrest Dieter on the street, Anna! Right in front of his apartment. We were going to leave. I was going to drive to Switzerland. Instead, they beat him in the back of the car as they drove him away, and I never saw him again.”