The first movement, hectic and intense, only built up that atmosphere of fear and danger. It was predatory and ruthless, almost tearing at the nerves as it flew by at high speed. In my opinion, the pianist played it a little too fast, as if forgetting that this was just the beginning of the sonata, not the finale or etude. I’d heard from someone that musicians tended to play too quickly when they were very nervous. Their accelerated heartbeat threw off their internal rhythm, making it feel like they were playing too slowly. It was a subjective feeling, of course, but one that many new musicians seemed to fall into. Sure, the Japanese pianist kept a straight face the whole time and didn’t show a trace of nervousness, but who can know what’s happening beneath the mask? In my opinion, it was a common mistake to judge an artist’s worth by their behavior, their movements and facial expressions. I’d heard people say that pianists from Asia were technically perfect, but devoid of emotion. I didn’t think that was true at all, just an impression people got because the pianists were trained to show no facial expressions as they played.
Suddenly, someone’s cell phone rang. Rebuked by the thunderous glares from his neighbors, he quickly hurried out. The pianist didn’t even seem to notice. She kept playing, calmly, as if nothing had happened. The transition to the movement allowed her only a momentary respite, then her fingers flew across the keys again, as if trying to relieve the tension the work had built up, without success.
The rhythmic three-note chord filled the room like the sound of a beating heart. A jagged crescendo in the lower register was played by the left hand, while the right sung gentle chords as if trying to calm the left and stop the growing outbreak of madness. It nearly succeeded. The first explosion was successfully thwarted, but after a while the tension began to grow again, to the point where the gentle right hand could no longer control the situation.
A whirlwind of notes broke free and spiraled out of control, ringing with all the power that the piano could produce. It was a very technically difficult piece, requiring enormous efficiency and strength. I was surprised that the tiny woman managed to perform it without any obvious problems, despite the fact that her hands seemed barely larger than a child’s. Precisely the reason I had such respect for Asian artists – they never ceased to amaze me.
After the impressive climax, the piece drifted back into a second lyrical phase, like a glimpse into a better world, but the peace didn’t last long this time, either. Drama exploded from the keys, and all the musical struggles within the movement came to a head in a powerful coda that put one in mind of the dramatic works of Beethoven.
The second movement, Scherzo, started out packed with drama and internal turmoil, then it melted into soft, gentle notes that offered the listener a momentary respite from the drama as the pianist’s fingers danced across the entire range of octaves and chords. A powerful crescendo attacked midway through the movement, dark and diabolical, and then the return to softness again.
Finally, the artist moved into the third movement, the famous Funeral March. It was music that had frightened the composer himself, which was why he’d seldom performed it publicly. Frequent renditions, replications, and alterations had turned the March into one of the most well-known pieces of classical music in our era, but also rendered it quite commonplace, so it no longer raised the kind of thrills it must have evoked in Chopin’s day. It was easy to fall back on musical cliché, if the performer didn’t have an interesting new take on the idea. The petite performer played the march very well and technically correctly, but compared to the interpretations of Rachmaninoff or even Ivo Pogorelić, her performance didn’t sound dark or frightening, simply… bland.
The final movement made for an impressive ending in just about every rendition, though. Those seventy-five bars played in rapid succession summoned the magic of the underworld, as if a tragedy had taken place a moment earlier and could not be avoided. It was mysterious, frantic, almost complete gibberish to the ear. Sometimes it sounded as if the music were distorted, as if heard through water. The coda was short but intense, even to modern ears. What a shock it must have been to the listeners in the mid-nineteenth century.
“That always sounds like someone’s pulling on a cassette tape’s ribbon to me,” I commented during a break.
Mark smiled. “I haven’t heard that one before. Usually people talk about it being the wind rustling between gravestones, but your comparison is more modern. Well, not so modern anymore, I suppose, but you take my meaning.”
“More modern, and less romantic,” I replied, feeling a momentary surge of pride that an expert appreciated my musical interpretation. “What did you think of performance itself?”
He scratched his nose, and cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Not the best, to be honest. That’s one of the hardest pieces there is, and I don’t just mean technically. It’s just plain hard to perform, because most of the action happens in the first part, and after that the tension weakens. I think it would be more prudent to play down the beginning and use Funeral March as the sonata’s focal point. This pianist spent all of her emotion at the very beginning, which left the rest of the composition feeling empty.”
“I wonder if it’s possible to play this piece perfectly at all?” I mused. “Apparently, Schumann said that Chopin’s Sonata No. 2 isn’t truly a sonata at all, but a prison wherein he confined his four most aggressive and unruly children.”
“Yes. You may be right,” Mark replied. “That sonata requires a truly brilliant pianist. Did you notice the difference between the pieces by Schumann and Chopin? You seem to be something of a professional.”
“Oh, hardly!” I laughed. “I just went to a music-oriented high school, but I don’t even play anymore. I prefer to listen to others rather than torture both the listeners and the audience with my attempts.”
“Such self-criticism,” he said, looking unconvinced. “Most likely undeserved, as is usual in such cases, but let’s return to the question. Did you notice the difference between those two compositions?”
“Of course. Schumann seems very calm and balanced, almost classic, while Chopin’s sonata seems like the work of…”
“A madman?” Mark suggested with a grin.
“Let’s go with ‘someone very unbalanced’.”
“Exactly. That’s the paradox. The music of an artist who likely suffered from schizophrenia, sounds so calm and gentle, while Chopin – a man who was by all accounts very social, clear-headed, witty, and popular – seems downright sick and almost demonic.”
“So you believe Schumann was schizophrenic?” I asked, intrigued. “I’ve heard differing opinions on that.”
“I think so,” he said, “but you’re right, some people claimed he had syphilis. There are reports that he had auditory hallucinations, and one time he even tried to drown himself in the Rhine, but was rescued just in time by some local fishermen.”
“Oh! I’ve never heard that story.”
“Apparently he was also very interested in spirits and the occult. An extremely interesting character, but quite tragic.”
We had to pause our conversation then, because the pianist returned to the stage to resume her performance. The program was packed with Chopin’s mazurkas, and Manuel de Falla’s spectacular Ritual Fire Dance. Once the pianist had finished her set, taken her bows, and vanished off stage, we picked up where we’d left off.
“I read somewhere,” I said, “that de Falla wrote an entire opera entirely based on the themes from Chopin’s work. Is that true?”
“Yes, but it was never performed,” Mark replied. “Towards the end of his life, he wrote the Balada De Mallorca, inspired by Chopin’s Ballade No. 2 in F Major. He was apparently quite fascinated by Chopin’s work.”
Commenting loudly amongst themselves on the performance, the crowd around us was beginning to rise and head towards the door. We waited for the crowd to disperse.
“My invitation for that glass of wine still stands,” Mark said, moving a couple of empty chair
s out of our way.
“Gladly,” I replied absentmindedly, gazing around the dark interior of the church.
There is something mysterious yet strangely soothing about the semi-darkness, scented with incense, wilted flowers and candles. It was a welcoming, friendly kind of darkness, illuminated only by the lamps on the altars and above the paintings, and the white columns which seemed to produce their own weak glow. More than once, I’d been chased out of a church late at night after I’d become lost in my own thoughts, by attendants wanting to lock up and go home for the night.
“Yes, gladly,” I repeated with a smile, when I realized that Mark was studying me curiously. “I always feel an odd kind of melancholy after a concert like this one. I want to cry like a little girl. I can’t help it, that’s just how I react to the sound of beautiful music. And despite our criticisms, it was still beautiful and it was definitely music, wasn’t it?”
“So where are we going?” Mark asked when we finally escaped the church and made our way back to the street, which was still quite busy despite the late hour.
“I’ll have to rely on you, I don’t know local bars at all,” I said, then I gestured towards a brightly-lit doorway nearby. Through the doorway, I could see some men sitting at the bar, and vacant tables further inside. “How about that one? It’s close to home, and I’m sure they have wine. This is France, after all.”
“Oh… um…” Mark looked flustered and embarrassed all of a sudden. “I’m not sure you’d like that one…”
“Why not?” I asked, surprised. “It looks nice enough. No crowds, no drunkards, and…” I glanced back at the men inside and smiled. “They seem to have some rather nice eye-candy on offer, too.”
“It’s a gay bar,” he said bluntly, then fell silent, clearly waiting to see what my reaction would be. I glanced at him, and saw a frown on his face.
Is he homophobic? I wondered. Paris was hardly the place for such a person. It was a city where gay men and women walked down the street holding hands – or other parts – just as freely as straight people. I was surprised to see that kind of reaction.
“Yes, it’s a gay bar,” he repeated, clearly reading my momentary silence wrong. “Let’s look for someplace else.”
“No, there is no need,” I said with an impatient wave of my hand. “I was just surprised by your tone. I’ve never been inside a gay bar before, so I’m curious to see what it looks like. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this place looks really… normal.”
“Normal?” he echoed. “What did you think a gay bar looked like?”
“I have no idea,” I admitted. “I guess I was picturing guys in chaps and skin-tight leather, or at the very least a bit more dancing.”
“Or ridiculously large muscle-man or drag queens in gaudy makeup?” Mark suggested, sounding genuinely amused now. “I see you’ve been to the Pride Parades.”
“Well, yes, actually …”
“You’ll be fine, then,” he said, beckoning me inside. “Nothing here will surprise you, and we’ll be quite safe.”
The atmosphere inside the bar was just like any other bar I’d been to. The music was a bit too loud, echoing from speakers above the bar, and I could hear the sounds of laughter and cheerful conversations all around. There was nothing remotely shocking or frightening, which is what I’d silently feared while doing my best to be open-minded and polite. The crowd was mostly men, but I did see a few women here and there. Really, it was just like any other bar, though the men were more handsome than most.
And all of them lost to the women of the world, I thought with an internal sigh. What a pity for us!
“We can go if you’re uncomfortable,” Mark said. Apparently, he was watching my reaction to the surroundings quite carefully.
“No, no. Let’s stay here, I like it.” It was a lie, but only a little white one, mostly because I didn’t want to seem like the provincial goose that I really was. “It’s just new to me. I’ll get used to it. It’s kind of a novelty, you know?”
Mark laughed and nodded.
“Why don’t you tell me the story while you acclimatize?” he suggested, accepting the wine menu from a man who looked more like a movie star than a waiter.
We spent the next hour sipping wine and chatting about Marie’s letters, and my suspicions associated with them. Mark was rather skeptical.
“I seriously doubt that she meant Chopin. I mean, I have read that he was quite popular with the ladies, but none of the biographies I’ve read said anything about a romance.”
“What if it was a brief, secret romance?” I suggested, unwilling to just let it go without proof either way.
“This is Paris. Someone would have noticed, and there would have been gossip. Although…” He paused to think it over for a moment, then shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe it did manage to slip by unnoticed. Chopin’s libido was well-known, and it got him into some rather… shameful problems in Vienna before he came to Paris. It’s unlikely that he’d suddenly turn celibate, especially in Paris of all places. Maybe you’re right.”
Over the course of the conversation, he’d begun using my first name in the typical relaxed, familiar American style. At first he’d immediately apologized for the familiarity, which was considered a social faux pas in both France and Poland, but I was happy to grant him permission to use my given name and soon we were chatting away like old friends. Mark ordered another glass of wine, and I felt myself growing pleasantly relaxed. It was such a nice little pub, with a friendly atmosphere and an interesting conversation partner. I felt a stab of guilt for having such a good time without Tadeusz. The poor thing was probably still working. I glanced at my watch, and realized that no, he was probably fast asleep.
“But,” Mark continued, oblivious to my internal dilemma. “Chopin didn’t just compose and perform in Paris, he also enjoyed himself, as every young person does. He’s known to have spent plenty of time with his friends at restaurants, pubs, and cafés, not to mention being invited to dinner quite regularly by his wealthier fans. He was also known to be quite the snappy dresser, which no doubt made him attractive to young women of high society.”
“So he would have had plenty of chances to meet Marie,” I said. “You have to admit that.”
“Yes, and he was quite fond of female company. Apparently he was rather shy, but it seems that many women actually like that.” He shrugged, as if he couldn’t comprehend why they would.
“So it’s not incomprehensible that he may have had quite a few affairs we don’t know about?”
“Well, yes,” he admitted. “The more I think about it, the more likely it seems to me that it could have happened. It must have been very brief, though, and well-hidden. I find it hard to believe that he’d get a girl pregnant then just abandon her, though. That would be contrary to his upbringing.”
“Unless…” I raised my glass and my brows suggestively. “He didn’t know about the pregnancy.”
We talked late into the evening, then finally we rose to leave. Mark was an interesting conversationalist. It turned out that his knowledge of music was just as extensive as his knowledge of painting, especially when it came to Chopin. He readily admitted to being an avid fan.
“When are you leaving Paris?” he asked as we headed back out into the street.
“Probably tomorrow, but I haven’t decided yet. Why do you ask?”
“If you can postpone it until Monday, we could go to a jazz club tomorrow night. I know a lovely place that I think you’ll really like. Sometimes I play drums there with a couple of my friends.”
We agreed that I’d call him the next day once I’d settled on my plans. I had a lot to do, but I was quite curious about the club. I’d never been to a jazz club, either.
Mark walked me all the way back to the apartment. We exchanged numbers outside the gate and said our goodbyes, then I headed upstairs feeling like I’d gained some valuable life experiences that day. As soon as I was upstairs, I kicked off my shoes and wandered around enjoying
the softness the carpet beneath my feet while I turned my phone back on.
And then I froze, staring at the screen: seven missed calls from Tadeusz, and a message on the voicemail. I quickly played the message, and heard his worried voice demanding, “Call me back as soon as you get this! No matter what the hour! I repeat, immediately!”
I glanced at my watch. It was already after midnight, but he had been adamant that I call him back no matter how the hour. What in God’s name could have happened?
“What d’you mean, w-what happened?!” Tadeusz demanded when I called him and asked just that. He was so upset that I could hear him stuttering, as he always did during moments of high-tension. “That’s what I’ve been trying to find out! I’ve been calling you over and over like an idiot, and your cell is off?!”
“Honey, I was at a concert at the Church of Saint Merri church,” I explained. “Remember, I told you I was going? I had to turn my phone off.”
“The concert lasted until midnight?!”
“Well, no,” I admitted. “Afterwards, I… well, I met a friend and we went to have a glass of wine together.”
“Friend? Which friend?”
“Do you remember that guy from Louvre? The one who was going on about the symbolism in that painting?” I began cautiously, knowing full well he wouldn’t give up until he knew everything, but also careful of what I said for fear of making things worse. “He was at the concert and we got to talking. Afterwards, we decided to have a glass of wine at a little café near the church – I couldn’t say which one now. It would have been rude to refuse, especially since he’s quite the fan of Chopin and knows a lot about him.”
Daguerreotype: The Mystery of Frédéric Chopin Page 10