The Pianist
2009
I pretended I was a great pianist.
Tired of the out-of-tune and mangled pianos found in the university’s practice rooms, I sought a more suitable instrument. Remembering the piano on the stage in the auditorium, I hurriedly make my way to the Fine Arts building.
It is dusk.
I walk down the hall and cautiously, quietly, enter the auditorium glass doors. It’s completely silent. The enormous room is warm and stuffy but not unpleasantly so. I pause at the top of the stairs and gaze down at the illuminated stage. My heart leaps.
The piano glistens in the brilliant stage lights, its black sheen visible even from my position at the rear of the auditorium. I glance around the room, listening intently. I’m not really supposed to be here. After a long moment, I start down to the stage taking care to remain quiet. I step carefully onto each stair, balancing lightly on the balls of my feet to muffle my approach. I look back warily at the sound booth to make sure I have no hidden observers.
After what seems like several minutes, I stop in front of the stage and look up at it. It’s a lot higher than it originally seemed. My gaze slides to the beautiful piano poised in the hot spotlight. I can see its pure ivory keys and the numerous wires residing in its elegant and open frame.
Once more, I glance around guardedly. After all, only real musicians are allowed on stage. The privileged and talented. I am no such thing.
Silence.
I turn my eyes back to the piano.
Applause fills my ears. I am dressed in a fine, black satin gown, diamonds glittering around my neck and dripping from my earlobes. My dress whispers around me as I climb the stage stairs and approach the piano. Despite the incredible amount of heat radiating from the stage lights, I am comfortable. I hover just beside the piano bench and gaze out at the crowd.
More applause.
I smile politely and give one or two nods to those I recognize in the audience. As the clapping subsides, I turn and gingerly sit on the luxuriously cushioned bench. My gown flows around me and glides into place. I stare at the keys, my eyes glazing over and hands tense in anticipation. All other sights and sounds fade from my mind. Slowly, I place my fingertips on the keys so that no sound is emitted.
I see the patterns, the rhythms swirling over the keys. I feel them too – my fingers tremble. I rest my foot gently on the pedal and compress it. My fingers react spontaneously and a soft, very soft, sound fills the air. I hold back a shiver. The sound is so sweet. Unbelievably clear and pure, like the secret stream found in the greenest and most lush part of the forest. I am shocked. Never have I heard a sound so fulfilling. My heart sings – and the music pours from my fingertips.
It’s romantic. Intoxicating. There is no auditorium. The stage lights are not spotlighting me; they are merely trying to outshine the piano. I hit the bass keys and the sound rumbles in my chest and resonates through the auditorium, a deep, rich sound. As my fingers dance over the keys, I catch glimpses of the crowd. The brilliant smiles; the approving nods.
The piece flows to an end, trailing off in a satisfying minor chord. I don’t take my foot from the pedal. It’s too sweet, too beautiful. I let the sound echo throughout the auditorium.
Finally – finally – I release the pedal, my eyes set in a trance on the keys. Had that…been me? Applause bursts forth from the audience and I snap out of my music-induced stupor. I stand, resting a fond hand on the piano and bowing my head as the ovation swells.
I close my eyes.
When I open them several moments later, I find myself staring down at my worn sneakers and torn jeans. I slowly look up at the empty chairs and the silent auditorium. The spotlight is warm – a little too warm now. I grab my jacket from the stage floor, pull it on, and hurry down the stairs. I bound up the auditorium stairs and start for the glass doors, but something stops me. At the top of the staircase, I look back at the stage, my heart pounding.
The piano is smiling at me.
I smile back. I was a great pianist.
Tired of the out-of-tune and mangled pianos found in the university’s practice rooms, I sought a more suitable instrument. Remembering the piano on the stage in the auditorium, I hurriedly make my way to the Fine Arts building.
It is dusk.
I walk down the hall and cautiously, quietly, enter the auditorium glass doors. It’s completely silent. The enormous room is warm and stuffy but not unpleasantly so. I pause at the top of the stairs and gaze down at the illuminated stage. My heart leaps.
The piano glistens in the brilliant stage lights, its black sheen visible even from my position at the rear of the auditorium. I glance around the room, listening intently. I’m not really supposed to be here. After a long moment, I start down to the stage taking care to remain quiet. I step carefully onto each stair, balancing lightly on the balls of my feet to muffle my approach. I look back warily at the sound booth to make sure I have no hidden observers.
After what seems like several minutes, I stop in front of the stage and look up at it. It’s a lot higher than it originally seemed. My gaze slides to the beautiful piano poised in the hot spotlight. I can see its pure ivory keys and the numerous wires residing in its elegant and open frame.
Once more, I glance around guardedly. After all, only real musicians are allowed on stage. The privileged and talented. I am no such thing.
Silence.
I turn my eyes back to the piano.
Applause fills my ears. I am dressed in a fine, black satin gown, diamonds glittering around my neck and dripping from my earlobes. My dress whispers around me as I climb the stage stairs and approach the piano. Despite the incredible amount of heat radiating from the stage lights, I am comfortable. I hover just beside the piano bench and gaze out at the crowd.
More applause.
I smile politely and give one or two nods to those I recognize in the audience. As the clapping subsides, I turn and gingerly sit on the luxuriously cushioned bench. My gown flows around me and glides into place. I stare at the keys, my eyes glazing over and hands tense in anticipation. All other sights and sounds fade from my mind. Slowly, I place my fingertips on the keys so that no sound is emitted.
I see the patterns, the rhythms swirling over the keys. I feel them too – my fingers tremble. I rest my foot gently on the pedal and compress it. My fingers react spontaneously and a soft, very soft, sound fills the air. I hold back a shiver. The sound is so sweet. Unbelievably clear and pure, like the secret stream found in the greenest and most lush part of the forest. I am shocked. Never have I heard a sound so fulfilling. My heart sings – and the music pours from my fingertips.
It’s romantic. Intoxicating. There is no auditorium. The stage lights are not spotlighting me; they are merely trying to outshine the piano. I hit the bass keys and the sound rumbles in my chest and resonates through the auditorium, a deep, rich sound. As my fingers dance over the keys, I catch glimpses of the crowd. The brilliant smiles; the approving nods.
The piece flows to an end, trailing off in a satisfying minor chord. I don’t take my foot from the pedal. It’s too sweet, too beautiful. I let the sound echo throughout the auditorium.
Finally – finally – I release the pedal, my eyes set in a trance on the keys. Had that…been me? Applause bursts forth from the audience and I snap out of my music-induced stupor. I stand, resting a fond hand on the piano and bowing my head as the ovation swells.
I close my eyes.
When I open them several moments later, I find myself staring down at my worn sneakers and torn jeans. I slowly look up at the empty chairs and the silent auditorium. The spotlight is warm – a little too warm now. I grab my jacket from the stage floor, pull it on, and hurry down the stairs. I bound up the auditorium stairs and start for the glass doors, but something stops me. At the top of the staircase, I look back at the stage, my heart pounding.
The piano is smiling at me.
I smile back. I was a great pianist.