The Most Important Thing

by Avi

  Gramps turned to Marco. “The composer’s full name was Johann Sebastian Bach. Eighteenth century, German. Great harmonies. And guess what? Twenty children.”

  Marco, saying nothing, looked at Mrs. Pelescue.

  “Ah, you know your Bach,” she said to Gramps. “What did you think, Marco?”

  “I like it,” he said.

  “Now,” said Mrs. Pelescue, “about the recorder. It —”

  Gramps interrupted: “Didn’t become popular in Europe until the fifteenth century.”

  “Goodness, you do know a great deal about music.”

  Marco studied the floor.

  Mrs. Pelescue placed sheets of music paper marked with basic scales on the music stands, then showed them the proper fingering for three notes. “Not the tips of your fingers, but the fleshy part so as to cover the holes completely.” She then explained the right way to put the recorder to the lips and blow.

  “This way.” She demonstrated, sounding a clear, firm tone. “Marco, let’s start with you.”

  Marco lifted his recorder to his mouth and blew. The sound came out squeaky.

  “Good start, but — look how my lips and tongue work.” Mrs. Pelescue demonstrated anew. “All right, Marco, again.”

  Marco made a second try. That time his tone was firm.

  “Excellent!” Mrs. Pelescue cried. “A quick learner. Now, Mr. Amalfi,” she urged. “You try.”

  Gramps lifted the recorder to his lips and blew. The sound was shrill.

  “Try it this way,” Mrs. Pelescue suggested.

  Gramps made a second attempt. If anything, an even stranger sound resulted.

  “Again, please,” she said with a smile. “It does take some practice.”

  No improvement.

  “Marco. Show your grandfather.”

  Marco blew into the recorder. His sound was good.

  “First rate!” Mrs. Pelescue cried. “Mr. Amalfi, watch the way Marco does it.”

  Gramps frowned but paid close attention as Marco gave a demonstration. Then Gramps tried, but he continued to have difficulties.

  Mrs. Pelescue smiled patiently and explained once more, focusing on Mr. Amalfi.

  When the hour-long lesson was over, Mrs. Pelescue complimented them both and gave instructions about practicing.

  “Remember,” she said, smiling but playfully shaking a finger at them, “a half an hour of practice each day. But the Amalfi Duo has begun.”

  “What do you think?” Gramps asked Marco as they walked home.

  “She’s nice,” Marco said.

  “You sure got the hang of it fast,” said Gramps.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be better than I am soon.”

  “Probably,” Gramps agreed.

  Over the next week, the Amalfi Duo practiced faithfully. Marco quickly mastered the first assignment. Out of boredom with simple scales, he taught himself a few extra notes, and then went on to learn the first tune in their music book. His tone was even. His finger work was smooth. What he played sounded melodic.

  As for Gramps, no matter how much he practiced — and he worked much more than the half an hour a day that was suggested — his tone remained erratic, hesitant. He became so frustrated, he purchased a second book, Teach Yourself the Recorder, and worked with that, too.

  Marco, who listened and watched Gramps struggle, said nothing.

  At the second lesson, Mrs. Pelescue called upon the duo to show her what they had achieved that week. Marco played first.

  “Well done, Marco!” Mrs. Pelescue exclaimed. “I’m really impressed. You have a natural talent. Now, Mr. Amalfi, let’s hear what you have accomplished.”

  Gramps was not nearly as good as Marco, so Mrs. Pelescue had to correct his fingering and help him with his blowing technique. As the lesson progressed, she spent more time with him than with Marco.

  Over the next three weeks of lessons and practicing, Marco advanced rapidly, whereas Gramps, though he did get a little better, lagged far behind.

  One day in school during lunch, Nicky said to Marco, “My mother told my father that you’re a natural musician.”

  “She did?”

  “Said you had real talent.”

  “What about my grandfather?”

  “Said you were better. You said he knows everything. Well, trust me, he doesn’t know how to make music.”

  At the end of the fifth lesson, Mrs. Pelescue said, “I have been thinking. While I do believe it’s quite wonderful that the two of you want to play together, perhaps each of you would make better progress if you had separate lessons. Of course, you’ll come at the same time, one half-hour lesson after the other. That way,” she said with care, “you could go at your own pace. What do you think?”

  Marco looked at Gramps.

  “Mr. Amalfi?”

  Gramps frowned. “I don’t think so. The idea was that Marco and I would be the Amalfi Duo.”

  Mrs. Pelescue pursed her lips. “In time, perhaps. All in good time. As for separate lessons, well, for now, let’s hold off.”

  “What do you think of Mrs. Pelescue now?” Gramps said as he and Marco walked home from the lesson.

  “I really like her.”

  “I find her impatient,” said Gramps. “And I’m not always sure I understand her instructions. Do you?”

  “We could take separate lessons,” said Marco.

  “Hey,” said Gramps, “we’re supposed to be the Amalfi Duo.”

  That week Gramps made the decision — which he carried out faithfully — of practicing two hours a day. He did this in his own apartment when Marco was at school. As for Marco, not only did he do his required half an hour; he too put in some extra time.

  Gramps said, “How come you’re practicing more? You don’t need to.”

  Marco said, “I like playing.”

  “I’m sticking to half an hour a day,” Gramps said.

  At the lesson the following Thursday, Mrs. Pelescue said, “Bravo, Marco!” when he played his assigned Mozart. “I can tell you’ve been working really hard. A natural. You need to move on to even more sophisticated music.”

  Then, when Gramps played his piece, a rather simple French folk song, she said, “Well, Mr. Amalfi, that certainly shows some improvement. But — here I must push you just a little bit — if you could find a way to practice just a little more . . . perhaps an extra fifteen minutes a day, I assure you, you would make even greater progress. Do you think you could try to do that?”

  “I’ll try,” Gramps said grimly.

  It was the following Monday afternoon, when Marco and Gramps were walking home from school, that Gramps said, “We haven’t played our fact game for a while.”

  Marco sighed, then said, “Who was president when the First World War began?”

  “Wilson,” said Gramps. “Admit it. I know American history backward and forward.”

  Marco glanced up at Gramps, but said nothing.

  Then Gramps said, “Mind carrying your own backpack? I’m a little tired today.”

  That night, when Gramps had gone to a talk at the local library, Marco called Mrs. Pelescue. “I was sort of thinking that you were right. Gramps and I should have separate lessons. I’d like to get good, and he, you know, sort of slows me down.”

  “I think you’re right,” she said.

  “Only thing: you have to tell him. If I say anything, he’ll get upset.”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  By the end of the following week, it was agreed — with urging from Mrs. Pelescue — that Marco and Mr. Amalfi would take separate lessons.

  “Do you mind the separate lessons?” Marco asked his grandfather as they walked home from school.

  “Not at all,” Gramps snapped. “Only for a while. Until I catch my stride.”

  Marco said, “I’m glad you suggested lessons. I really like them.”

  Gramps continued to practice at least two hours daily when Marco was at school. He played from a book Mrs. Pelescue had suggested: Popular B
roadway Tunes for the Recorder. With all his hard work, he did get better, though he had trouble keeping the proper tempo. Fortunately, Mrs. Pelescue had an extra metronome and was willing to lend it to Gramps. It helped, a little. As for his finger work, that continued to be clumsy.

  Marco worked extra hard, too, practicing a Brahms sonata that was as lovely as it was difficult. Whenever the boy played the haunting melody, it brought real emotion to Gramps.

  “Why do you get all worked up when I play that?” Marco asked him.

  “Why do you think?” Gramps replied. “Because it’s nice.”

  When they walked home from school, Gramps insisted they play their fact game. What’s more, he rapped out his answers and then added comments like, “See? I knew it,” or, “Bet you didn’t think I’d know that one, did you?”

  “No substitute for experience,” said Marco.

  “Don’t you forget it,” said Gramps.

  In May Mrs. Pelescue announced that it was time to decide on the piece they would be playing for her students’ annual June recital.

  Marco’s response was “Could I play that piece you had me listen to the other day?”

  “That’s Samuel Barber’s Adagio,” she said. “It’s harder than it sounds, but it pleases me that you want to do it. It’s very beautiful.”

  When she asked Gramps to consider a piece for the recital, he became silent and then said, “Who is going to be there?”

  “The usual. My pupils and their parents. It’s quite a lovely occasion. You know, Mr. Amalfi, it’s what I think music is really about, a shared experience.”

  Gramps said, “Will any other adults perform?”

  “Other than you, Mr. Amalfi, I don’t have any other adults taking lessons.”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Mr. Amalfi said glumly.

  It was while the whole family was at dinner that Marco mentioned the recital. He wanted his parents to be there and told them what he was going to play.

  “The Amalfi Duo’s debut,” exclaimed Marco’s mom with delight.

  “What are you going to play?” Marco’s dad asked Gramps.

  Gramps scowled. “I’m not sure I’m going to.”

  “How come?” Marco’s mom asked.

  Gramps studied the food on his plate, rolling over a carrot with his fork. “It seems to me,” he said, “that music — my music, anyway — is a private thing.”

  At school the next day, when Marco was eating lunch with Nicky, Nicky said, “I heard you and your grandpa play the other day during your lessons. He’s so bad. But you know what? You’re good.”

  At dinner that night, Marco’s mom asked Gramps about the recital. “Have you made up your mind about playing?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “You should,” said Marco.

  “Why?” demanded Gramps.

  Marco said, “You heard what Mrs. Pelescue said. ‘Music is for sharing.’”

  “I like that,” his mom agreed.

  “Come on, Dad,” Marco’s father said to Gramps. “Marco’s right. And we really want to hear the Amalfi Duo.”

  “We’ll see,” was all Gramps said.

  The next day Marco listened as his grandfather practiced “Memory.”

  “I thought of doing it for the recital, but it doesn’t sound right,” Gramps complained.

  Marco said, “Sounds good to me.”

  “Really think so?” He looked at Marco hard.

  Marco turned away. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Well, Mr. Amalfi,” Mrs. Pelescue asked him at the end of the next lesson, “have you made up your mind about playing in our recital?”

  “When is it?”

  “One week from Thursday.”

  “I’m certainly getting a lot of pressure to play.”

  “From who?”

  “Marco.”

  “Mr. Amalfi, you do realize how unusually talented Marco is, don’t you?”

  “Probably gets his talent from me,” Gramps said. He was staring glumly at the floor.

  “You have gotten better.” Then she added, “Considering where you began.”

  At dinner — it was just Marco and Gramps — Gramps said, “You really think I should play at that recital?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “This was your idea. That we’d play together. The Amalfi Duo.”

  Gramps frowned. “We’re not actually playing together. But, maybe. One condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your mom and dad can’t be there.”

  “Why?”

  “Needs to be just people involved in music.”

  “But —”

  “I’d feel better about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  The recital was scheduled in one week’s time, four o’clock on a Thursday afternoon.

  As soon as Marco went to school, Gramps practiced. As for Marco, he told Gramps that after school he was going over to the park to shoot baskets. Once there, he found an isolated bench and practiced his recital piece.

  The day of the recital came.

  “Are you nervous?” Gramps asked Marco as they approached the Pelescue house. He was wearing a suit. Marco had on a white shirt with one of his father’s ties. The collar was a bit big, and made him look smaller than he was.

  “Not really,” Marco said. “You?”

  “Experience has to count for something,” Gramps said, and used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  When Marco and Gramps arrived at Mrs. Pelescue’s, recorders in hand, her other students were already there. They were all young people, ranging in age from six to fourteen. Most of the kids had brought along at least one parent, though one girl came with her babysitter. Everyone was dressed up. The boys wore neckties. The girls wore dresses.

  When Marco came in, Nicky sidled up to him and whispered into his ear. “My mom says it’ll be okay if we play football in the yard after refreshments are served.”

  “Cool,” said Marco.

  Mrs. Pelescue had arranged twenty-four folding chairs so that they all faced the alcove. She ushered her students into the front seats. The parents and Nicky sat behind.

  Mrs. Pelescue stood before the group.

  “This is always a special occasion,” she said, her hands clasped before her, a warm smile on her lips. “As I always tell my students, playing music together is the essence of music. Of life, if I may say so. You students have all worked very hard. All of you have something to share. I’m proud of you.

  “Now, I think we will start with Virginia Woodly. Ginny and I have been working together for two years. Ginny, will you come up and play for us?”

  The girl stood and took her seat before the music stand.

  Mrs. Pelescue placed some music on it, then bent over and whispered, “Tell the audience what you will be playing, dear.”

  Virginia looked up and blushed. “I am going to play Corelli’s Sonata in D Minor,” she said breathlessly.

  With solemn silence, the people in the room gazed at Virginia.

  Putting her recorder to her lips, Virginia played with a touch of nervousness, missing one or two notes. But as she played, she gained confidence. The audience listened intently, respectfully. When she finished, there was warm applause.

  “Good job, Ginny!” Mrs. Pelescue enthused.

  One by one, she introduced the rest of her students. While some played better than others did, all played with great conviction. The audience was generous with its response.

  Then there were just Marco and Gramps left to play.

  “The next musician, Marco Amalfi, is a new student this year. While he has not been playing for very long, he plays with very real talent. Marco?”

  Marco stood and took his place on the performance chair. He looked up and caught Nicky’s eye. Nicky winked at him. Marco grinned back. Then he looked at Gramps. He was sitting very still, his face pale.

  Marco, composing himse
lf, said, “I’m going to play Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, as transposed for recorder.”

  He began to play, quickly capturing the deep, slow, and intense passion of the music. The room seemed to swell with painful emotion. The small audience, taken by surprise, listened raptly.

  When he had finished, Marco lowered the recorder. For a moment, the audience, caught up in the power of the music, remained silent. Then they applauded enthusiastically.

  A beaming Mrs. Pelescue stood up. “Isn’t that wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Just a few months of study.” Impulsively she gave Marco a hug. “A natural musician.

  “Now,” she said, “we have a special treat. When Marco came to study with me, he was part of a duo. The Amalfi Duo, they call themselves. His grandfather, Mr. Amalfi, decided to study with me too. What a brave thing it is when someone his age is willing to try something new. So, Mr. Amalfi, if you please.”

  Gramps, recorder in hand, stood up. Stumbling a bit, he came forward on shaky legs. He took the chair as Mrs. Pelescue placed his music on the stand before him.

  Gramps pressed his hands together. They were trembling. Mouth dry, he tried to swallow and then licked his lips. Though he knew he needed to begin, he could not move.

  “Mr. Amalfi,” Mrs. Pelescue said in a stage whisper, “would you tell us what you’ll be playing?”

  Gramps looked up.

  “Well, ah,” he began, “it’s called ‘Memory,’ by Andrew Lloyd Webber. From the musical Cats.”

  Hands unsteady, Gramps lifted his recorder to his dry lips. He licked them once, twice, scrutinized the music, and started to play. His fingers seemed to have a life of their own. A clumsy life. The notes squeaked, slurred, tumbled. Though horrified by what he was hearing, he made himself go on.

  Mrs. Pelescue stepped forward and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Amalfi,” she whispered gently, “why don’t you stop and try again?”

  Gramps stopped playing. Breathing deeply, he looked out at the audience. Everyone in the room, faces absolutely devoid of emotion, was staring at him. Tension filled the room. Mr. Amalfi looked at Marco. The boy was staring at him, too, his face blank.

  Summoning his strength, Gramps started to play again. This time, the music came a little easier, but with his hands still wobbly, it was often off-key, constantly on the edge of going out of control. Twice, he felt compelled to stop and breathe deeply, but forced himself to go on. When he played the final note and knew he was done, he was drained, exhausted.