by Daisy Allen
My fingers graze the keys.
I love the sound of this old piano. The hours I’ve spent hearing new students fumble and find their way around it, and the sheer perfection that is the performance of some of the more advanced students. Making classics by Beethoven and Mozart their own.
I play the beginning notes of Beethoven’s “Fur Elise” and hum along.
“Dum dum dum dum dum ...dum da da da...”
I close my eyes, letting my fingers find their own way over the keys. After “Moonlight Sonata”, it’s probably one of the most popular piano pieces in history and the bane of every piano teacher’s existence.
But I love it.
The simplicity, the pure classical form of question and answer. I wonder if there’s been a single day since I learned the piece myself when I haven’t played it. I know this piece like most people know how to breathe. It just comes naturally from somewhere within me. An involuntary action that comes from somewhere in the very genetics of your body, your cells.
The music coming from my fingers lifts my spirit and I feel it start to erase the stress and worry of the day away.
“Da dum dum da... da da da dumm.”
I think I’m smiling as I hum along which would probably look silly to someone who couldn’t feel what I’m feeling, as the music permeates my body and mind.
My fingers can feel the ending is coming and I have to hold them back to stop them from rushing to the end and let it come as Beethoven intended. In the notes’ own pace and time.
I giggle a little. And then giggle at my giggle. I shouldn’t be so happy at playing such a common, simple piece. But to me that’s the best music of all.
A clap from the doorway startles me and I can see a reflection in the piano’s polished woodwork even before I turn.
He’s back.
SEBASTIAN
I watch the kids stream out of the school’s double doors. There are more than I imagined could be crammed into what looks like an average-sized school building.
While I wait for the school to empty I count the windows and wonder which one is Cadence’s classroom. And if she’s there looking out at me.
I can’t believe I’m here. Like some creepy stalker, scouring the Australian coast looking for a woman I met in a store for two minutes once. Put like that, it really does make me sound crazy. But the crazy part is that it doesn’t feel wrong at all.
Why I’ve felt like I can’t take a full breath unless I’m in her presence since the moment we met, I don’t know. Why when I touch her, the air around us can’t even contain the excitement and breaks into sparks, I don’t know. Why when I saw her in the store, in the front row of my own concert, in the dark alley, nothing else seems to focus and all I can see is her, I don’t know. It just is.
When I opened my greenroom door to see the rosin box and my note laying there on the floor, discarded, I told myself to stop. Stop chasing her, stop thinking about her, stop wondering about what it would be like to be with her. Stop playing over and over the short but quippy conversations we’d had that had left my mind reeling and my body wanting.
And my resolve had held strong, and it had lasted...a night. And this morning, first thing, I had Hank drive me to the music store where it had all started and it had led me here.
I don’t know why she didn’t come see me last night.
But I am going to find out why, and I am going to change her mind.
***
The hallways are empty when I walk through them. I cringe a little at the latent smell of high school boy that’s lingering and I wonder how many of these lockers house rotting sandwiches and month-old fruit.
I pass door after door, staring into abandoned classrooms, chairs left haphazardly around the room, dust still billowing in the air from cleaned blackboards. Five, six, seven rooms I’ve counted and still no Cadence to be seen.
But now, I can hear a soft tinkling from somewhere in the distance. It’s so soft, it almost feels like I’m imagining it. But my brain recognizes it before I do, and as I make my way to the further classroom down the hall, I can hear myself humming along to the melody of “Fur Elise”.
The door to the classroom is open, and the sound is crystal clear now. I don’t have to look to know who’s playing. It’s her. It can only be her.
Her touch on the piano is exquisite, and I want to just close my eyes and let the music envelop itself around me. This piece that has been so overplayed, it’s been relegated to almost a clichéd, banal experience, is coming alive to me like it hasn’t in years. Somehow she’s made this composition, this elevator, phone hold, cell phone ringtone music sound like what it was originally supposed to be...a love song. “Fur Elise”, for Elise...a music composed out of love, a gift from Beethoven to a beloved.
She breathes life, she imbues love back into it.
I creep to the doorway and peek around.
I watch her lost in her own performance. She’s smiling softly and swaying slightly. Her eyes are closed and she seems so at peace. And I know what that feels like. But it thrills me to see it manifested in her as well.
This woman...she could understand me. When so many other have tried and failed.
The familiar song is coming to an end and I feel my face flush at the thought of confronting her.
Get it together man, I psych myself up. I can’t remember the last time I was nervous talking to a woman, but everything feels new with her, and as if there’s so much as stake.
The music ends and I step into the room, clapping gently.
She stiffens and then whips her head around.
She does NOT look happy to see me. In fact, her eyes are both cold and distant, but it looks like she’s trying not to look angry at the same time.
I hadn’t expected she’d roll out the red carpet, but I thought that it’d just been cold feet that had her leaving last night without seeing me. But it seems like something much, much more.
“Hi, Cadence.” I still get a thrill out of saying her name. Like it ties me to her, knowing this information about her.
“What are you doing here?” She turns back to the piano, her back to me.
Her shortness stops me in my tracks. “You didn’t come see me backstage last night.” I state, hoping it would provoke her to tell me why. I can’t see her face but I hear her take a breath. But no words follow. I take the chance to take a few steps closer to her. “So, I thought I’d come see you instead.”
“How did you know where to find me?” Another question. This isn’t turning out how I’d hoped, I thought I was going to be the one getting answers. But if it relaxed her, I could play this game for a while.
“George.” I say, naming the music store owner.
“George?” She seems surprised at the name. “Oh. Right. The rosin.”
“Yeah.” One more step.
“So, last night? Why didn’t you come see me?” I ask again. This woman’s stubbornness is the stuff of legends.
“I did. I did see you.”
“You did?” I think quickly but nothing comes to mind. “Where? I waited.”
“You looked busy.”
“Well, that’s normal backstage, it’s crazy back there. You should’ve just come up and interrupted me.”
Her voice drops so low I can’t quite make out the words. “You didn’t look like you would appreciate being interrupted...with her, with that...woman.”
“Woman?” What was she talking about?
“The woman you were hugging and kissing. Outside your dressing room door.”
Oh my god. She saw me with-...Fuck! “Whoa, hang on Cadence, I can...um, shit. I can explain that.”
“No.” One word. Clear and firm.
“Just let me...” I scramble, I walk right up to her, hoping she’ll let me clarify what happened.
“No!” She turns around to face me. The forcefulness of her refusal seems to shock her even more than me.
“Ok,” I back off, holding my hands up in surrender.
&
nbsp; “Sebastian.” Her voice wavers and I can tell whatever she seems to be struggling to say is both important and hard for her.
I let her take a breath, and take a risk and reach out, hooking my finger under her chin and lifting her to face me.
“Just say whatever you need to say. I’ll listen.”
My words seem to have an impact on her and she swallows and starts to talk.
“I. Just. Can’t. Sebastian. Do this with you. Start anything. Your lifestyle, this band and you being who I imagine you are, you’re going to break my heart. Last night, for a split second I thought I could handle it, and that I could just have some fun, but I can’t. And I’m glad I saw what I saw, because it gave me a taste of what would be in store for me, and as hard as it was for me to see last night, it’ll only be worse in a few days’ or a week’s or a month’s time. So you don’t need to explain or apologize about anything. Because it doesn’t matter. This isn’t going to go anywhere. I don’t want it to.”
I don’t know what to say.
But I think I know enough about this weird, mysterious woman to know, nothing I say right now is going to change her mind.
So I don’t. I will give her time.
I move my finger away from her chin but she doesn’t look away. Her gaze unsettles me, I expected her to turn away after the speech, but it seems to have emboldened her instead.
I pivot away from her and take a step toward the middle of the room.
“You conduct the orchestra?” I gesture to the semi-circle of chairs.
“Yes.”
“How big is it?”
“Almost fifty students.”
“Wow!” I’m honestly impressed. Even at my renowned music college, conducting a group of fifty is a task undertaken only by the best or the most committed. I knew she was talented, now I had a little sense of her tenacity and commitment.
“They any good?” I ask, expecting a humble response.
“They’re the best.” She answers, without missing a beat.
I can’t help but laugh at the way she says it so matter of factly. She says it without an ounce of bragging. She actually thinks they are the best.
She just shrugs at my reaction and repeats her statement. “They are the best. They are motivated, hardworking, passionate and just plain talented.”
“All of them?” I don’t know why I’m questioning her, I think I just like to hear her speaking with such conviction.
“Sure. I mean, some more talented than others while others work harder than the naturally gifted ones.”
“So it’s really the common factor maybe, that makes them the best.”
“What’s that?” She asks.
God, she doesn’t even see it.
“You.”
Her face flares red in an instant and she turns back to her piano, which I’m starting to realize is her security blanket. I have one too, my cello.
“You play beautifully.” I realize I haven’t told her yet.
“No, YOU play beautifully.” She sighs and I wish I had a recording of the sound.
And then I tell her what I’ve been thinking since I walked into the school grounds. “You’re too good for this place, Cadence.”
She doesn’t say anything and just turns on her creaky piano stool and follows my eyes around the room. The dark, decaying room with the falling apart music stands and the stained carpet. The dusty shelf of music scores held together by browning masking tape that would crumble under a strong breath. I watch her sitting there, like an angel amongst ghetto ruins. The only light in the place.
“You should be teaching...or performing in some of the best schools, the best concert halls in the world. Trust me. I’ve been in them. You wouldn’t be out of place.”
“So, you mean where there would be other teachers just like me?” Her voice asks quietly.
“Yes! Really, really talented musicians. The best there are. From all over the world. You’d beat them all out, all those people vying for a place there. Killing themselves and each other for a chance there.”
“Hmmm.” She grows pensive for a few moments, then speaks up again, “Oh. So, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” I’m thrilled that’s she’s engaging with me.
“You’re saying those places are filled with amazing teachers? Musicians? The best of the best?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” And hoping she’ll believe.
“Then why would they need me?”
Well, that shut me up.
I had never thought of it that way before. Probably because I’m a selfish bastard.
“Wow. I didn’t even think...”
“It’s OK. It was sweet, thank you.” And she gifts me with the sweetest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. “Thank you for thinking that I could have a chance at such amazing places as those. That you think I could do better. But that exact want for me to have something better? That’s exactly how I feel about my kids.”
Her sincerity touches me and I feel warmed by her giving spirit.
“It’s too bad that not everyone sees it that way, though.” She adds.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” She sounds embarrassed that she’s said it.
“No, tell me.” I urge her softly.
“Well, it just looks like we’re not going to have enough money to take the kids to Nationals in Canberra. We just don’t have the money.”
“Canberra?”
“Oh, I forgot, most people don’t know that Canberra is the capital city of Australia. It’s where the National School Orchestra Competition is held.”
“How much would it cost?”
“Thousands. Thousands we don’t have and don’t have enough time to raise. For the bus, for accommodations. For the entry fees. A lot of miscellaneous costs you couldn’t imagine. Thousands...it might as well be millions.” It’s the first time, other than when she declared that there was never going to be anything between us, that she sounds like she’s given up.
“So – what will happen?” I ask, honestly interested.
“What do you think?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
Strangely, she grins at me and it’s nice to see the life light up back in her. “You’ve been a privileged meeeeeeeeeeeellionaire too long. What happens when you can’t afford something? You just don’t do it!”
“Well, that seems wrong.” I said plainly.
She laughs, “Change that to ‘unfair’ and you’ll sound just like my kids.”
“I like me already.” I say haughtily.
“Well, yeah, most people like hanging around with people the same mental age as themselves,” she chuckles.
I turn to her, trying to look insulted. But seeing the light dance in her eyes makes me burst into laughter as I shrug, surrendering, “Hey, when you’re right, you’re right.”
Our laughter dies down and it’s quiet in the room, but not awkward. I’m watching her as she looks around the room, and I can see pride on her face. She’s built something here, I feel. Probably something like the pride I feel when I see our CDs on display or walk past our promo posters. Something tangible that documents the success, the result of all our hard work.
“Did you enjoy the concert last night?” I don’t want to stir up her ill feelings about last night, but I’m hoping she won’t mind talking about the performance.
She turns completely around on the piano stool, tucking her hands under her legs. She doesn’t answer immediately, but it doesn’t make me worry. It looks like she’s trying to find the right words.
“It...it wasn’t what I expected,” her words are slow and measured.
Well, that makes me a little nervous...what HAD she expected?
“I didn’t know what to expect from ‘classical music mashed with rock’,” she continues, a look of confusion spreads now across her brow.
I can’t help but laugh. “I know, right? Who came up with that brilliant description?”
&nb
sp; She seems to relax at my response, as if she was worried about offending me. “It just doesn’t seem like the right way to describe it.”
“How would you describe it?”
“I would...I don’t know,” she stops.
“No, it’s OK, it can’t be worse than ‘classical mashed rock’. It sounds like a side dish for an early bird special at the pub on a Thursday night.”
The sound of her unbridled laughter makes me want to repeat what I said, just to draw it out a little longer.
“Well, I’d go with something a little more elegant. Contemporary Chamber Rock maybe? It could tie in your style a little more elegantly than mashed potato rock classics or whatever it is now. So the contemporary would cover the modern music you do, and the concept of ‘chamber music’ in the description would suggest classical music too.”
I sigh. Of course she would get it.
“But anyway, whatever you call it – last night was...it was life affirming.”
I had heard it all before – all the words describing our performance, but that one was and I imagine, will always be, my favorite.
“It affirmed to me, that music is essential to beauty, to life,” she adds.
And in that moment I didn’t know whether to propose to her, or bend her over that piano and show her just how life affirming I could be.
“Ha, I even got the kids to warm up to a jam session playing “Bitter Sweet Symphony” and let them experiment with blending it with some Beethoven this afternoon.”
“And?”
“They loved it! They’ve already come up with a list of songs we could try mashing together in our next jam session.”
“NO! We don’t need any competition!”
“Well, you’ve got it, buster!”
We grin at each other. Connecting over this common passion.
And then it comes to me. I jump up a little, just on the spot, I’m so excited.
“Cadence? I have a proposition for you.”
“Sebastian, I already-...”
“No, hear me out. This has nothing to do with you and me, it’s actually a favor for the band.”