The Upright Piano Player

by David Abbott

  The fire had gone from his belly and he was no longer the tiger of five minutes ago. He sounded worn and querulous. Henry closed the taxi’s door.

  “Just go. It’s not worth it.”

  The fun over, the gawpers and the grinners had gone on their way, but Henry had stood there, elated. There is always pleasure in taking responsibility when others shirk it, and the incident had reminded Henry of his days at the company. He had felt in charge. Sheer vanity, of course, but he was reassured to know that he could still act decisively when needed.

  Cheered by this knowledge, he abandoned his trip to the bookshop and made for home. On the way, he made his second decisive move of the day. He stopped at a travel agency and bought a ticket to Miami, for a flight leaving in three days’ time. He had decided to bring forward his trip to Florida. He would forget Maude by remembering Nessa.

  18

  The Ritz-Carlton in Palm Beach is proud of the paintings on its walls. Guests are encouraged to take a conducted tour of the rooms and corridors, though in fact, most of the good paintings (if you like liberally varnished nineteenth-century landscapes) are to be found just off the lobby in the ground floor lounge and bar.

  It is here that people take afternoon tea and meet for pre-dinner drinks. In the evening there is a piano player and if you are back late from a concert it is a good place to snack on spring rolls, filet mignon, or a sandwich. You will always find somewhere to sit—that is, from Monday to Friday.

  At the weekends, it is standing room only. The hotel books a dance band, four musicians and a singer—old hands, who are rarely stumped by a request. Most of the people who fill the plump chairs and sofas at the dance floor’s edge are not guests, but local residents. The few tourists lured onto the floor by the familiar strains of Gershwin and Porter are easily identified by their lack of finery. The locals make an effort, the men in slacks and jackets, the women dressed for a party in chiffon and satin. The results are plucky rather than impressive. Designer gowns from a former era, lovingly preserved in polyethylene, hang uneasily on bodies that have had no such luck. Some of the couples have obviously danced in competitions in the past and for them the dance floor remains an arena. In the confined space they somehow manage to impose themselves, gamely rerunning their ballroom triumphs.

  Jack and Nessa are younger than the other dancers and not part of the clique. They sit at the back of the room, distanced from the musicians so that they can hear themselves talk when not dancing. Lately, they have been doing a lot more not dancing. When they started coming two years ago they would be up for every jig. Now, on a good night Nessa might manage one in four.

  “It’s not all bad, Jack,” she says as they sit down. “It gives us more time for drinking.”

  A waitress had followed them to the table with a bottle of red wine. She was a student who worked part-time and Jack knew her. In the long summer vacation she had sometimes helped out at the café.

  “Hi, Kara, how’s it going?”

  He noticed the damp stains on the girl’s ankle-length skirt.

  “Been better, I guess?”

  The girl frowned as she wrestled with the corkscrew. The cork refused to leave the bottle.

  “I can’t believe this is happening to me. I can feel myself blushing.”

  “There’s no rush, we’re not going anywhere.”

  Twenty-five miles away, Henry was also not going anywhere. The cab taking him to the hotel from Miami airport was gridlocked on Interstate 95.

  “How far to go?”

  “Oh, we’re about halfway, sir. Traffic will ease up once we’re past the Fort Lauderdale intersections. You take it easy now.”

  Henry closed his eyes. It was 1:00 in the morning, London time, and he was tired. When they finally arrived at the hotel he had been asleep for an hour.

  “We’re here, sir.”

  Dimly, he heard a second voice and opened his eyes. A man in a uniform was opening the door of the car.

  “Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton, sir.”

  The warm night air invaded the cab’s interior, surprising him. Under the hotel’s covered portico, cars were waiting to be parked. The owners, fearful of losing their slots in the Grill, had abandoned their vehicles, leaving doors open and headlights blazing as they grabbed their tickets. Over the hum of the idling motors, Henry could hear music—the tempo of a foxtrot curiously choreographing the darting runs of the valets as they parked one car and hurried back for the next. He paid the driver and, bleary-eyed, followed a bellboy into reception.

  At the desk there was a line and he wandered into the lounge. White heads bobbed on the dance floor and he turned away. A few minutes later he was escorted to a suite on the ground floor. He was told that he had direct access to the ocean but was too weary to pull back the curtains. He would check it out in the morning. As Henry fell into a dreamless sleep, Jack and Nessa, somewhat unsteadily, got to their feet for the last waltz.

  Henry was awake at 5:30. He put on a dressing gown and went out onto the terrace. The air was moist and a stiff breeze from the south ruffled the palm trees on the narrow lawn that separated him from the beach. In the blackness, he could hear the clamor of the ocean. His room faced due east and he sat on the terrace waiting for the dawn, drifting in and out of sleep. At 8:00, he was woken by bright sunlight shining in his eyes. He showered and changed into shorts and a T-shirt and went looking for breakfast. The restaurant was almost empty and he was shown to a table by the window. Below him he could see the swimming pool. He thought he would spend the morning there before seeking out Nessa.

  At the buffet he picked up a bowl of blueberries and a croissant. Carrying the plates back he saw that a couple with four young children had sat down at the table next to him. The father was in his mid-thirties, lean with a boyish face and sandy hair. His wife, it seemed, had dressed in a hurry. Her sneakers were unlaced and not all of her T-shirt was tucked into her shorts. Her hair was still damp from the shower and she and the children sat slumped in their chairs as the father, too loud and cheery for the hour, took control.

  “What’s the agenda today? The pool? That’s what I’m saying!”

  Henry took another look outside. The pool area seemed large enough to avoid Daddy’s bonhomie.

  Half an hour later, Henry had positioned himself on a sun-bed by the deep end of the pool. He imagined that the young children would be confined to the shallow waters at the other end. The family arrived soon after and settled themselves alongside Henry. It quickly became obvious that the four children were already contenders for the U.S. swimming team. One of the boys was particularly adept at swimming under water. He would push off, arms to his side, and glide almost the length of the pool before surfacing. Each time he did this, his father would burst into song.

  “They call him Flipper! Flipper! The king of the O-C-E-A-N!”

  Hearing the chorus for the tenth time, Henry left for the beach.

  He decided to walk south into the wind reckoning that he might need help from the breeze on the way back. It was Sunday, but at this hour the beach was almost empty. Two joggers passed him, cheerful women with enough stamina to shout out greetings.

  In the distance he could see a figure standing at the water’s edge. He found the walking hard going, his feet slipping in the soft sand. He went closer to the water looking for a firmer footing. He had not realized how unfit he was. To get his breath back, he stopped and feigned an interest in the dark bulk of a container ship inching along the horizon. After his walk, he would see if the hotel had a gym. He turned south again, now walking on a gritty strand of the beach that gave him more purchase, but hurt the soles of his feet. The figure in the distance was now walking slowly towards him. He could see that it was a woman. He pondered in advance the etiquette of passing a lone woman on the beach: was it correct to say “Good morning,” or should one avoid eye contact and walk by silently as though deep in thought? The problem was solved for him.

  “Henry? I can’t believe it. Is that you?�
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  In a movie they would have run towards each other as the violins soared, but here in real life, Henry had to fight an impulse to turn and hurry away. The voice was unmistakably Nessa’s, but even from fifty yards he could see that this woman was not Nessa. She continued walking towards him, her knees too prominent, her thighs thin and wasted. Beneath her floppy sun hat he could see nothing but the glint of dark glasses. Oh God! Please let it not be Nessa! He had stepped off the strand of shale and his feet were sinking into the sand. He stopped walking and waited for her.

  “Henry, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  She clung to him and kissed him on the cheek. He turned for the second kiss, but she had reverted to the American custom and stepped away. Embracing her, he had felt her hip bone, its hard edge like a diagnosis.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” he said.

  “Well, you succeeded.”

  She had removed her sunglasses and he could see her face.

  “I’m sorry. I never knew.”

  “I didn’t want you to know. What could you do?”

  That night they went to dinner in Palm Beach. The restaurant, booked by Henry through the concierge, was slick and commercial. The risotto they ordered appeared almost instantly. It was sticky and straight from the microwave. Obviously, there had been no chef in the kitchen with twenty-five minutes to spare—no purist prepared to add the broth to the simmering rice slowly, spoonful by spoonful. They were offered dessert within forty-five minutes and were out the door within the hour. At the curb, a valet ran forward to collect the ticket for their car.

  “I hope you had time to park it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the young man said, Nessa’s sarcasm wasted.

  Back in the king-size bed in the ducal suite, jet lag and grief combined to keep Henry awake. He had his radio with him but in America even the 2:00 a.m. talk shows are too vibrant to dull the senses. The nuts are nuttier, the angry ones angrier, and he turned the dial hunting boredom. For a while he thought he had found it on a religious channel. The preacher was sonorous and simplistic. Henry closed his eyes and prepared for sleep, but the preacher man was just getting into his stride.

  “God,” he intoned, “is like the good pharmacist, measuring out our medicine, so that we get not one more particle than is good for us. NOT ONE PARTICLE MORE! He never sends us more pain than we can handle.”

  “What goes wrong with suicides, then? You smug bastard!” Henry shouted out loud.

  19

  Aged thirty, Maude had so far avoided serious disappointment—not because her life had been blessed, but because, until now, she had been careful. If she saw unhappiness on the horizon she ducked down a side street and took a different route. At university she had gained a reputation as a tease. She was flirtatious and enjoyed the intellectual challenge of courtship, but rarely would she take the relationships further. She liked novels where lovers are separated by fate or duty, but remain true to each other. She would joke (only half-joke) that unrequited love is the only kind of love that lasts.

  Sleeping with Henry had been an act of kindness. She had been nervous about shagging a man only a few years younger than her father—not an agist thing, she had told herself, more a matter of aesthetics. As Henry had undressed she saw with relief that his body was not repulsive. His legs were free of the knotted veins she remembered well from her father’s rare ventures onto the beach.

  Henry had come to her bedroom like a visitor to a museum, expecting to look, but hesitant to touch. Their lovemaking had been friendly and conversational. Not fireworks, but good enough, he hoped. He had found her body beautiful and had told her so. When he got up, she had remained in the bed, watching him put his clothes on, knowing that he would find it disconcerting. She had turned on the bedside television while he was still on the stairs.

  At the time, she had thought they would go on to enjoy a sentimental friendship, punctuated every so often by sex, but not about sex. She understood that Henry’s agenda might be different; for she recognized his need for physical reassurance, but she had never doubted that he would settle for her terms. What choice did he have? When she thought of their future together, they were never in bed, but in Paris or Rome—walking by day, then dining at night beneath the trees, the heavy silverware catching the last gleams of a setting sun. She laughed at herself, but the adolescent images persisted. She had even planned the routes of the walks they would take, the hotels they would stay in. She imagined unhurried time with him.

  Seeing him distraught on the trip to Norfolk had unnerved her. It was not merely the new complications in his life that had disturbed her, but the way he had looked in anguish. For the first time she had seen him in an unfavorable light and it had been finis. It was a shallowness in herself that she acknowledged. In the past she had ended comfortable relationships because a man, good in every other way, had turned up for a date in trousers too low on the hips or had tipped his head too far back when drinking. Brown eyes, smoking, jewelry, heavy watches, facial hair, bad teeth, an overlarge knot in a tie or an undersized gratuity at a restaurant—for Maude there had always been countless hurdles on the road to love. Now, it seemed, she had added a soft jawline to the list.

  The journey back from Norfolk had been tedious. The taxi driver had been content to sit behind the swaying rump of a caravan all the way to Norwich. It had taken her more than four hours to get back to London.

  The following day she had phoned the brasserie and told them that her mother was ill and she had to go back to Bristol. She knew that Henry would come looking for her with apologies and tales of his grandson and she did not want to be around when he did. She had to be gone before the daydreams returned: the bijou breakfast room at the Hotel Montalembert with its warm baguettes and ramekins of Normandy butter—and then the stroll to the Jardin du Luxembourg to see the small boys with their pond boats, all of it, as charming as ever.

  20

  Nessa had decided to e-mail Tom and Jane.

  The cancer had not impaired her handwriting, which still retained its youthful vigor, though mysteriously these days her spelling had become unpredictable.

  She would know when a word looked wrong, but she could not always call up the right combination of letters to put it right. If she did not nail the word the first time she was stuck, for she hated to use a dictionary. She was like one of those male drivers who would rather stay lost than stop the car and ask for directions. Last month, she had bought herself a computer that corrected her spelling for her. She now sent e-mails with capital letters, punctuation, and conventional spelling. She hated the abbreviated texts she sometimes received in return.

  “Since there’s no restriction on space,” she would reply, “why turn a message into a puzzle? Please, send it again in English.”

  My dearest Tom and Jane,

  Do you know that Henry is here? It’s so good to see him! I couldn’t believe it. There I was, out for my early morning stumble on the beach when I saw this man at the water’s edge looking out to sea. It’s true what they say in the novels—I went weak at the knees (not so difficult in my case)—at that distance he was only a shape, but I knew it was him. I can’t run nowadays, but my heart was racing instead.

  I could tell he wasn’t sure it was me. I had my floppy hat on and dark glasses and as you know my body is, well, different. I think he wanted to run away, but I called out—and then we met and held each other. (Briefly, but it was the first time in years.) The joggers were kind enough to run around us.

  Poor Henry, everything’s hit him at once. Did you think he has changed? I do. He’s less certain about things—not surprisingly. I showed him some photographs of Hal as a baby and he broke up. I know he was dreadful after the divorce, not answering your letters, but I wish we hadn’t kept Hal from him. It was cruel, don’t you think so now?

  We go for quiet meals together and talk. I could say a lot more, but it’s probably enough to say that I’m happy. What would make me even happier is if you
could bring your trip forward and come out and join us. Would Miss Martha let Hal miss a few days of school? He’s so young. It wouldn’t harm, would it? Let me know if it’s possible.

  All my love, Nessa xxx

  PS. Tonight, Henry is meeting Jack for the first time. I do so want them to be friends.

  After Ocean Avenue crosses the Intracoastal Waterway it continues for about a mile before it reaches the intersection with U.S. 1. The road remains flat, but the neighborhood goes downhill. The store signs are suddenly brash, anticipating the competition of the highway ahead. The local Hair & Nail, a modest business with four chairs and a permanent staff of two, optimistically announces itself with a two-story sign on top of its one-story building. Opposite, a fiberglass marlin leaps through the roof of a fishing tackle shack. Close to the road, the deli has rigged up enough neon to constitute a driving hazard.

  Only two enterprises hold back. One is a florist’s where the grimy windows disguise the fact that what’s on offer is an Inter-flora service and not flowers, at least, not real ones. By the door, half a dozen silk blooms gather dust in a dry bucket. Like plain pets in a dogs’ home they have been waiting a long time for someone to take them home.

  Next door to the florist, forming a little enclave of nonaggression, is an Italian restaurant. It is a family business that for thirty years has been content to let its food do its advertising. Nessa has booked a corner table for 8:00.

  “Henry, why don’t you sit yourself in the middle, looking out. Jack and I have been here so often we know there’s nothing to see.”

  The restaurant is catching its breath after the bustle of the early-bird crowd and not all the tables are taken.

  “The hectic time here is between 5:30 and 7:00 p.m. The old-timers eat earlier every year. Soon the doctors will be advising anyone over sixty to get all their eating done before noon,” Jack explains.