Fingers

by William Sleator

  There was a shocked tittering when Humphrey finally did make his appearance; many of these people had probably been expecting a little boy. “We can only hope his playing has matured also,” Prendelberg murmured snidely to his companion, in English. Perhaps she was an American.

  Even after ten years, Humphrey still looked sheepish and uncomfortable when he stepped out before an audience. He blushed faintly, his lips were pressed tightly together, his eyes downcast He sat down, breathing heavily, and waited for a moment. Then he wiped his profusely sweating hands on his pants—no matter how Luc tried, he could not rid him of this embarrassing habit—and launched into the Bach Italian Concerto.

  The first movement could have been worse. He remembered to put in a couple of pianissimos and even a mild crescendo—though for the most part he cranked the music out at his usual unvarying heavy forte. And though he left the dynamics entirely out of the third movement, the notes rippled out flawlessly at an incredible pace, approaching a metronome marking of 160 to the half-note. It sounded as ridiculous as a record played too fast, but it was still impressive in a mechanical way. The second movement, however, made the audience squirm. It’s supposed to be slow and velvety and serene, the whole point being to render the jumps in the left hand smoothly, without using the pedal. Humphrey obediently kept his foot on the floor, but the phrasing was beyond him. The notes came thumping out one by one, separate and rude, relentless. It couldn’t have sounded less musical if it had been played by those Swiss bell ringers who have to run across the stage between notes. It was so miserably bad that even after the machinelike but brilliant third movement, the applause was feeble indeed. Prendelberg made a nasty face and didn’t even bother to clap.

  On to the Schubert A Major Sonata, opus 120. Again, an almost impossibly fast rendition of the last movement, following a grossly unfeeling and muddy performance of the second. (So annoying of those classical composers to keep throwing in those sensitive second movements!) And on to Ravel’s Jeux D’Eau, technically perfect but utterly meaningless, without any delicacy or liquid feeling. Prendelberg actually groaned aloud when Humphrey banged out the first notes. I began worrying that he wouldn’t even stay until the end.

  Wisely, there was no intermission. We had learned the hard way not to give the audience a chance to escape before the concert was over. And the program was short. Humphrey finished with Stravinsky’s Trois Movements de Petrouchka. It had certainly been a triumph on Luc’s part to train Humphrey to negotiate all those changing meters. And it was the most successful number on the program, being mostly loud and fast anyway.

  Nevertheless, the applause at the end was embarrassingly weak. Humphrey bowed stiffly once, then ran off the stage. Before he even hit the wings the applause had diminished to a few single bursts. Already Prendelberg, shaking his head in disgust, had risen to his feet and was starting to move away.

  But after about one second in the wings Humphrey lurched back onto the stage, propelled from behind by invisible Bridget, clutching an untidy bundle of music paper in his hand. “For my encore …” hue began.

  A dismal sigh went up from the audience, many of whom were already scurrying out the back doors. Prendelberg kept moving, determined to leave. But his companion, taking pity on Humphrey, or perhaps just feeling uncomfortable about so conspicuously walking out, tugged at Prendelberg’s arm. He sank unwillingly back into his seat, swearing quietly and looking at his watch.

  “Uh, for my encore,” Humphrey croaked, “uh, I will play a piece by Laszlo Magyar, uh, Impromptu, opus twenty-seven, number one.”

  There was a confused rustling and whispering, and a few bursts of rude laughter. “The fool can’t even get his opus numbers right,” Prendelberg said, not too softly.

  “What do you mean?” said the blonde woman. She had a New York accent.

  “There’s no such piece. The last thing Magyar wrote was Opus twenty-six, number three. God knows what the imbecile’s going to play now. I just hope it isn’t one of the long ones.”

  Tenderly, Humphrey arranged my papers on the music rack. Now Prendelberg seemed reluctantly interested. “Odd that he’s using a score,” he said, leaning forward. “Wonder where the hell he got hold of it. It almost looks hand-written.”

  I was nervous now. All of a sudden I felt as though I had to pee and throw-up and faint, all at once. I didn’t really care about the piece of garbage, but it was still my first composition, about to be performed in public. Nobody knew who I was, but I still felt naked and exposed. I hoped Humphrey wasn’t going to make the music sound more trivial than it already was.

  He raced through the chromatic scale passage and banged out the big opening chords with his usual blunt enthusiasm, fortissimo all the way. But then he held the last note of the introduction just a little longer than it was written, as though there were a fermata over it; it sounded right that way. When the theme began, the notes came tinkling out delicately, light and very soft I could hardly believe it. Humphrey was actually putting some expression into the music.

  He kept it graceful and leggiero for some time, building only slightly, so that when the first dissonant diesel blast came blaring out, it was a very effective dramatic surprise. Even I, who had composed the piece, wasn’t prepared for it Prendelberg almost jumped out of his seat The rest of the audience was listening hard.

  Prendelberg continued to look more and more puzzled as the piece went on, getting faster and louder. The notes that came pouring out of Humphrey’s hands were close to real music now. I sat there listening to it and judging it and had to admit grudgingly that it wasn’t all that bad. Even the twentieth century jazz notes, which I had expected to stand out like sore thumbs, instead gave the music a subtle eerie timeless quality.

  The piece continued to build and then, unpredictably, suddenly, went quiet and delicate again at the end. Humphrey executed a gorgeous decrescendo, each note softer than the one before. By the last note, exquisitely faint but still definitely audible, everyone was leaning forward.

  Humphrey took his hands off the keys and rested them in his lap, not moving from the piano bench. For a long moment there was complete silence. Had they loved it or hated it?

  Then a confused babble broke out, which quickly turned into excited applause. It wasn’t thunderous, it was not a standing ovation. But when Humphrey finally got up and stood there blushing and bowing a couple of times, the waves flowing up at him from the audience were almost as enthusiastic as they had been when he was a darling little prodigy.

  I was baffled. I couldn’t imagine what had gotten into Humphrey. That afternoon, his playing of the piece had been as dull and unmusical as ever. Tonight he sounded good. Where did he get that touch of real artistry?

  Humphrey left the stage, was pushed out to take another bow, and then retreated again to the wings. The applause slowly died; they were enthusiastic, but not enough to demand a second encore. Beside me, Prendelberg was on his feet. “I just wonder where the hell that non-existent music came from,” he said.

  “What do you mean, ‘non-existent’?” said the New York blonde.

  “I mean Magyar never wrote that music. I don’t know who did write it or where he dug it up, and I’m just a little bit curious to find out what’s going on.”

  He took her arm and ran up the three short steps onto the stage. I went up right behind them. Several other intense-looking people were also going up on stage and back to the dressing room, to confront Humphrey no doubt. It was going to be an interesting little session. I hoped Bridget’s performance would be as intelligent as Humphrey’s had been.

  The door to the dreary little cubicle where Humphrey changed into his tuxedo was already open. Within stood Humphrey, rumpled and perspiring under the single bare light bulb that hung from the ceiling flanked tensely on either side by Bridget and Luc. Behind them you could see a plank table along one wall, a small cracked mirror and Humphrey’s street clothes strewn squalidly on a folding chair.

  It was a tight squeeze, onc
e Prendelberg, still with the blonde, three scholarly-looking men and a stern-faced woman had all pushed into the tiny space. I hovered just outside the door, peering around their large bodies to watch the action. None of them knew that I even existed, which was just as well, I suppose.

  There was a brief flurry while they shook Humphrey’s hand politely, uttering meaningless remarks in accented English. “Uh, very interesting performance.” “Quite a technique, young man.” “You certainly beat merry hell out of that Steinway, my boy.” But they quickly ran out of things to say, because no one could honestly congratulate him on his performance. In the awkward silence, Humphrey wiped his hands on his tuxedo jacket. Bridget, filling the room with smoke, fought to keep her grim smile in place.

  Finally Prendelberg said, “Curious piece, that encore.”

  “Indeed,” said one of the men. The stern woman sniffed.

  “Not one I’m familiar with,” Prendelberg went on craftily. “And not really a typical Magyar composition, either.”

  In the background though I was, when Bridget heard that she zeroed in on me instantly with one of her blackest looks. I slid out of range behind Prendelberg’s large rear end.

  “But it makes rather a stunning ending to a recital,” he continued. “Odd, that no one else has ever performed it Would you mind telling me who published it?”

  Humphrey began cracking his knuckles, which sounded like cap pistol shots in the bare cubicle. He didn’t say anything, waiting for Bridget and Luc, who usually did all the talking. But this time they were not going to come to his rescue—the less they said, the more convincing it would be. Surprised, Humphrey turned to Luc, who only looked down at the floor. With panic in his eyes, he-swung around to Bridget. “Don’t crack your knuckles, Humphrey,” she said.

  “Peters is definitive edition of Magyar, yes?” the stern woman said solemnly, in a Russian accent. “But this thing you play, is not included, no?”

  “Er, I … uh,” observed Humphrey, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his blush deepening. He began cracking his knuckles again.

  Bridget lightly touched his hands. “We told you what would happen, Humphrey dear, but you insisted on playing it anyway,” she said. “Don’t you feel you owe your audience an explanation?”

  “It’s … it’s not published,” Humphrey blurted out. “It’s new. Nobody knows about it yet.”

  “I see,” Prendelberg said, nodding. “A new composition by a man who died in 1903, well over fifty years ago. I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

  “I can’t help it,” said Humphrey, his voice rising to a miserable squeak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to happen. It just came to me.”

  “It came to you?” said one of the men. “But then you composed it, my dear boy, and not Magyar.”

  “But I don’t know how to write music. I never did-it before,” Humphrey explained, his head trembling slightly, his eyes wide and alarmed. “I don’t even remember doing it I started hearing funny noises, and a voice, and then I … that’s the last thing I remember. Then, in the morning, I … there was the music.” His eyes were filling up with very genuine tears. “Don’t be mad,” he pleaded, looking at Bridget.

  It was beautiful. No one could have sounded more sincere and heartrending than Humphrey did. He had even obligingly “remembered” hearing a voice and music, which of course had only been our suggestion the morning after. I was impressed; Bridget really knew her stuff. Now, stroking his hand and biting her lip, she managed to appear concerned, but also a trifle embarrassed.

  “Sol” Prendelberg lifted his chin imperiously. “You are claiming that Magyar, in spirit form, used this boy as a medium to compose a new work, yes?”

  “Please!” Bridget said with a laugh, cleanly detaching herself from any such ridiculous notion. “I’m afraid we made a little mistake, that’s all.”

  “We never should have let him play it,” mumbled Luc, who was watching Prendelberg with an expression of doglike adulation.

  “Of course we shouldn’t have,” said Bridget. “And I do apologize for the confusion. It’s just that the poor boy yearned so to perform the thing. And he does work so hard.”

  “But he did write the piece himself?” Prendelberg pressed her. “That much you do know?”

  “I’m afraid he did,” Bridget said with a casual shrug. “He just got into an ugly mood, which isn’t like him, and then insisted on staying up half the night and scribbling it down. Now he says he doesn’t remember. Of course we’re worried about him. It’s some sort of medical problem I’m sure. It’s of no concern to anyone else, really. And since Humphrey is very tired, I think it might be best if you could all leave us alone now.”

  She had guts all right Magyar’s ghost had only just been brought up, and already she was asking them to get out.

  And Prendelberg was ready to go, tightening his grip on the blonde. “I would suggest,” he said, “that if he ever has one of these episodes again, you’d be wise to keep the results off the concert stage. Come, Tina.”

  This was the only opportunity we would have to put over this crazy hoax on the music world. And was this going to be the end of it, this empty little fizzle? After all the work I had done?

  “Wait. Give me moment, please,” said the Russian woman, stepping toward Humphrey. She was not solemn now; her eyes were fixed on Humphrey with intensity, and blotches of color had appeared on her bony cheeks. “Is manuscript? May I examine, please?”

  “Oh, well, I suppose so, if it won’t take too long,” said Bridget. “Where did you drop it anyway, Humphrey?” she asked him indifferently.

  “I have it here,” Luc said. He fumbled around with a music case and brought out the sheets. He held them out to the woman, and I could see his fingers tightening on the papers. I didn’t blame him for wanting to pull them away from her. She sounded like an expert. Who knew what flaws she might find that could give the whole thing away? If only I had worked harder at making it authentic!

  She looked the pages over carefully, her tongue poking out between her thin lips. The others watched over her shoulder. “Is not Magyar’s handwriting, of course,” she murmured.

  “Well, it’s not mine either,” Humphrey said defensively, protective of his precious music. It gave me a funny feeling to see how proud he was of my composition.

  “Yes. That could be,” she said. She turned to address the others. “See how many changes, how messy, how composer is unsure of ideas.” She pointed with a long finger. “See how he makes impatient blots with ink where he doesn’t like, how ugly he writes, how feeble and shaky the stems of notes, how disorganized is working habit. Signs of confused, neurotic mind.”

  Bridget actually had the gall to flash me a wicked little smirk, even at that tense moment

  “My God,” said Prendelberg. “Don’t tell me you’re taking this nonsense seriously!”

  At that point I became aware of footsteps and heavy breathing behind me, but naturally I was too preoccupied by what was happening in the dressing room to turn around and see who it was.

  “I do not say I believe.” She gestured at Humphrey. “But boy is natural, anyone can see. Though music is odd, yes … Of course, music is clearly twentieth century, not nineteenth.”

  My heart sank. I closed my eyes to shield myself from whatever lethal glance Bridget might be aiming at me now.

  “Music is not Magyar we know,” the woman went on implacably. “But is foolish and trivial and empty, structure is weak and immature, is nonsensical harmonic progression, is insult to civilized mind.” She was shaking the papers at Prendelberg now. “In short—emotion is exactly right! Is what Magyar would write in twentieth century.”

  My knees went weak with relief. Now I looked at Bridget. Her face was drained of color, but she managed to cock an eyebrow at me.

  “And you, Pitzvah,” this marvelous Russian woman was saying, “You, of course, know nothing of recent experiments in Soviet Union, of research on psychic phenomena, very scient
ific, very controlled. This is not only case I observe. You want to know if I take seriously? Yes, I take seriously, very seriously. Why not?”

  “You mean you believe in his ghost?” cried Prendelberg’s blonde, clasping her hands together and making an excited little hop. “Oh, I’m so glad! I always wanted to believe in a ghost.”

  There was a babble of Italian behind me. I felt a rude push, and before I knew it, two paparazzi had squirmed into the dressing room and were madly snapping pictures of Prendelberg and the girl, who was apparently a celebrity in her own right.

  “Oh, no, no, don’t take pictures of me, I’m a mess!l” she cried, giggling and grinning at them as she spoke. “Humphrey is the one you should be photographing,” she explained, switching to broken Italian. “Did you know, a famous composer’s ghost comes and makes him write music. And the experts believe it!”

  After that, it was a while before we got out of the theater. When we finally did leave, we were too excited and exhausted to pay any attention to the shabby little old man who was waiting patiently in the unlit alley outside the stage door. Humphrey scrawled his autograph on the man’s program without even glancing at him. It was too dark to see what he looked like, though the old guy did seem to be opening and dosing his mouth as if he had something to say. But we brushed right on past him before he had a chance to get it out.

  He did manage to croak feebly after us as we hurried down the narrow cobblestone street, something in garbled English that might have sounded like, “Mixmaster of the mind … sold you a B natural …”