“Look, mom,” I say, and my voice is choked. “Here,” I try again, “this is my first piano recital. Remember? You had all your students practice so hard, especially me. I was seven years old, and was assigned to play a lovely, cheerful piece: The Entertainer.”
“Right there, there I was, coming forward when my turn came up, and bowing to the audience, just the way you had taught me. I had no stage fear back then, because I had never stumbled in public before. And here, see? I adjusted the distance between the piano and the bench before taking my seat, just the way you had instructed, so I may reach the keys. And there, by these pleats in the background you can tell: someone was standing there, unseen, ready to whisper to me, to guide me from behind the curtain, if necessary. This was you, mom.”
“And for a second there, I closed my eyes—see?—thinking about what you had told me: to draw a difference, a sharp difference, between my version of this piece, and the cheap version which could be heard, from time to time, in our neighborhood: it was meant not to delight in the music for its beauty—but to announce, with a chirpy, irritating repetition, the arrival of some ice cream truck.”
“And so, I began. I touched the keys and incredibly, from the first note I felt my hands flying, in full control, over the keyboard. On the repeat, I played the melody an octave higher; after which I glanced at the audience and could spot grandma, looking up at me. Here,” I point her out. “You can tell how my music delighted her, and set her feet in action, because look: they went tapping under her, all over the floor.”
“And mom, my heart was so light! I felt happy and at the same time—reckless! There was no need, really, for you to be there, to watch over me. I hope that did not disappoint you, somehow.”
“For the first time in my life, the piano came alive under my fingers. I was Wild! Strong! Invincible! Which reminded me how, around my third birthday, I had assembled a drum set of sorts, with trash cans and lids and pots and pans. I had rung and slammed and beaten them with all my might, and with full abandon—until, mom, you stopped me.”
“Now I took my bow, and to the sound of cheers, my heart swelled big inside of me. I thought: I had brought them joy and in return, they were giving me a long, loud round of applause. My God, I could reach out to them! I could touch them, which was an entirely new revelation to me.”
“But I was worried, mom, because you would not say a word, let alone pay me a compliment. Perhaps you were afraid of what it might do to me. ‘Let it not go to his head,’ I heard you tell dad that night, after you had tucked me in. ‘Anything,’ you said, ‘would be better than an inflated ego.’”
“So out of respect to you, dad, too, refrained from giving me a pat on the back. Next morning, Grandma said nothing, not a single comment—but she gave me a piece of chocolate under the table. I gave it back. A good word, a little encouragement, that was all I wanted. It would have made all the difference.”
“And yet—under your guidance—I would react with polite humility, denying myself any sense of pleasure, when someone praised me. I was trained so well, mom, to keep running on empty. Even so, despite my humble mumble, I was dying to get more.
After a few more years of this, I knew that by now, no word would ever be good enough. If someone said, Good work, Ben! I wished they would fall to their knees and touch their head to the floor, and give praise to the Lord for having looked upon my face, and listened to my music, because after all, I was The Entertainer! I was an Idol, no less!”
She is looking out the window.
I lean back, no longer referring to the photographs, talking now out of blind pain. I talk freely, as if in front of a stranger I have just met in a foreign place, perhaps in some airport; a stranger whom—beyond any doubt—I shall never see again.
“Mom,” I say, hoping she cannot hear me. “Mom, I became so greedy, so eager for admiration that for me, the only escape was to quit playing altogether; which I did, mom, just before turning thirteen. Still, I admired you, and looked up to you, praying that you would give me more things against which to rebel. I remember that. You called it misbehaving. Stop it, you said then. Stop being so immature.”
This is when I hear the clap, and when I sit up I can see that the album has been pushed shut, perhaps by accident, between her hands. My mother has closed it. This is a simple fact—but to me, it is startling. I consider it, wondering: does this mean what I think it means?
Has she been listening all along, taking in my long-winded whining? Has she grown tired of it? Would she want me to describe something else—something about her, for a change?
So I lift the front cover, even though her hand is still there, on top of it, close to the metal clasp. This time the album falls open to the beginning, or rather, to the second page, where something is amiss. Something is not right, not quite right—but at first, I cannot put my finger on it.
At the top of the page, there is a picture of mom smiling at the camera, which means she was smiling at my father. She is young—perhaps in her early twenties—and you can tell she is pregnant.
At the bottom, there is a picture of a little boy with long lashes. You can tell how excited he was, how fascinated by that single, twisted candle in front of him, on his birthday cake. And if you look closely in his eyes you can see a twinkle, and that flame right there, reflected twice.
She is looking out the window.
And it is not until she lays her hand flat right here—between the two pictures, in the middle of the page—that in a flash I realize: there is a picture missing.
There is a picture missing.
It is a simple fact, which makes me uneasy, anxious even, as if my heart has just skipped a beat. It feels as if the story of my life depends, for its completeness, on having a record for that moment—a moment back then, at the beginning—when my father snapped this picture.
The only record left to me, relating—in some way—to my birth, is an image of a loaf of bread: a braided challah, weighing exactly as I did as a newborn baby, which leaves me now with a lump in my throat. Where is my first baby picture? Was it taken? By whom, and why?
Did my mother take it with her, in her suitcase, when she left home? Or did my father tuck it in his purse, so he could take a peek from time to time and see me, and remember that moment, even when I traveled far, far away from him? What has been lost here, lost to memory—and what has been gained?
Then, to the thin sound of, As your bright and tiny spark... Lights the traveller in the dark... Though I know not what you are... Twinkle, twinkle, little star, I get to my feet.
This, now, is where I must close.
I bend over as if to bow before my mother, the way she herself taught me to do, at the end of my little performance, so many years ago—but then, just before I can lift the album from her lap I sense a change: a slight movement.
She has lowered her head. And now, her long fingers start gliding over the clear plastic seal, feeling through it, perhaps finding the subtle impression of an edge, I mean, the edge of the first picture. It is raised—by the thinnest measure—from the surface of the page. Her hand slides over, now feeling the edge of the second picture. Her gaze seems to be focused straight down, at the void right there between them, in the middle of this page.
In awe, I stand back. She is looking now, looking directly at the missing picture.
The Entertainer
Chapter 9
I know this melody, know it quite well, and in spite of myself, it is pulling me in. I should have turned away when I had the chance, and run down the stairs. I should have left the door locked. I should have resisted the urge to cross the threshold—but now it is already too late.
I am startled to hear it, thrumming faintly inside, because for years I have imagined the piano crouching there, in heavy slumber, with no one there to touch it, no one to awaken its sound. In awe I take off my shoes, and now I can feel the hum, not only in my ears—but in my entire body, reverberating full and deep.
The notes are s
oft, hesitant, and the interval between one press of the key and another is too long here, too short there, a bit confused and inconsistent, as of someone whose mind is drifting away—or else, a beginner.
I have never seen a player sit by the instrument the way she does. Instead of sitting upright—like my mother—Anita is slouched. Her head is tilted to the left, close to the keys, as if she is longing to lay there, over the ivory surface, which is so cool, so calming. She lets her hair cascade, and flow down as it may, like a stream of molten lava spreading over ice. For all I know, she lets her mind be carried away, far away in a dream, to a place way down, way beyond.
Her eyes are closed, as if she is in a trance. The right arm drifts to the far right, and the fingers, they stroke the keys right there, in that position, in a playful sequence, one that is distinctly familiar to my ears. Her fingers fly closer, and repeat it, an octave lower this time. And again, they fly even closer, an octave even lower—and with a gentle stroke, repeat the same sequence, now for the third time.
Now the sound is slow, to the point of being utterly sluggish. Even so, it brings back a good vibe.
This is the intro, the opening for a piece of music I played a long time ago, in my very first concert, when I was seven years old: it was The Entertainer.
I think that somehow—without even knowing that I am standing there, looking at her—Anita can sense the draft, the rush of air from the open door. Her eyes flutter and at once, I can feel the beat of her heart, pounding there under the hum of the piano. I can see the sudden awakening, the scare, even; which is how I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she has never practiced in this place.
To her, it must feel hostile. In spite of having taken some lessons—who knows where—she has never played our white piano. She cannot do it here, in my presence, or in the presence of my father. I suppose I know why.
With one step I close in on her, and hang over her shoulders; which brings a shudder over her. In an instant, Anita pulls her hand away from the keys, as if she has been caught—by a bad stroke of luck—in something worse than theft.
“Don’t,” I say. “Please, don’t stop.”
“No,” she denies. “I didn’t even start.”
“Please, let me hear you,” I plead, taking a step back, to give her some space.
Anita takes a deep breath. For the first time I realize how afraid she is, afraid of anyone listening to her music, especially my father. I suppose he expects her to be perfect; which must be an impossible burden. I understand it, because I have been there: growing up with a mother who had no tolerance for errors, and no forgiveness either, I have carried that burden before.
Even so, I have no idea what to say, how to calm her down, and make it clear to Anita that I get it, I do. To me, this is a moment of revelation: I can imagine not only how she feels—but also, how my father looks at her, how he thinks of the forgotten woman then, and something shifts in his mind, so that all of a sudden he sees in her that which, for a long time, he must have been yearning for: mom coming back—back from that place, a place called Sunrise—perhaps to forgive him, at long last. Let bygones be bygones.
In Anita, he may catch a glimpse of mom, reborn.
Mirrored in the open wing of the piano, her face is so young, so alive with the red glow of her hair. Her green eyes shine back from the polished surface. This, I suppose, is why my father is so drawn to Anita. Apparently, he wants her to learn to play the piano, but then—even though she is just a beginner—he expects her to reach a level which no one can sustain. Not even mom.
In our family, forgiveness is something you pray for, something you yearn to receive—but so seldom do you give it to others.
And so, Anita may never stumble, never make any mistakes, because he wants her to be exactly, just exactly like mom, who in her good years—before losing her balance—could produce such a heavenly sound, and vary it over an incredible range, from a murmur to a powerful burst, until her music would swell in you, and bring tears to your eyes.
“Go away, Ben,” says Anita, without even turning around. “I don’t want to play. And you, you can’t make me! Hell,” she says sharply, “I’ll do as I please.”
She pauses, waiting for an answer, and when I hesitate to give it, she glances back at me, over her shoulder. “What,” she says, this time in a low, seductive voice, “you think I don’t feel the way you’re looking at me?”
I can find no words, and no way to come back at her. So before she can stir, and get up from the bench, I raise my right hand. Then I stroke the keys, using the same fingering, playing the same sequence I have heard her play, just a minute ago, with the same sort of dreamy sluggishness, so that the same phrase springs up from the deep, from the belly of the piano, and winds up trembling softly, quivering in the air, just like an echo, delayed.
I must have caught her at a weak moment, because now I detect a sparkle of tears. A shadow has just passed over her eyes, darkening them. Perhaps a memory of that moment—that ugly, embarrassing moment that happened between us, back there in her bedroom—has just crossed her mind.
I cringe every time I think about it: I found myself in her presence, burning with desire. There was no way I could hope to arouse her—but oh, how miserably I failed!
The demon in me struggled to break free, and I, in turn, strove to hold it back—but somehow, my efforts came to nothing, even worse than nothing, because now I have no doubt, no doubt whatsoever: she must hate me.
Watching me raise my hand, Anita may think it is meant to subdue her, rather than simply to reach for the keys. She may wonder why I am parroting her phrases, mimicking her flawed way of playing, because after all, on my mother’s side I come from a long line of musicians, whose performance was legendary for being nothing less than perfect. She may believe I am doing it for no better reason than to mock her mistakes.
Now she darts a glance at me as if to ask, What, you laughing at me?
No, I wish to say. What I want is... Well, I am not really sure: perhaps, just to lay my head here, on your shoulder. Perhaps, to lean my brow against your lips. Perhaps, to touch the tiny freckles on your cheek. Above all else, I want—but cannot bring myself to tell you—I really want to hear you laugh.
Just like here, this note. Listen, can you hear it? This soft sound, rolling, rising, ringing up here?
Anita shakes her head, as if she could detect the whisper, the quiet whisper of my thoughts. To me, her pose is so alluring when she bends down to the floor, in the shadow of the piano, to pick up some crumpled piece of paper. Then she starts twisting away under me. For all I know, she is aiming to get up, to leave me here, alone.
Is this a game she is playing with me? I do not have the faintest idea. But if it is, perhaps I can beat her in it.
So then, bang! I pound the keys, this time fortissimo—with full strength!—as if to cry, Stop! No more darkness, no more gloom! There’s a thud, there’s a boom! Hear this, right here? Hear my voice? Tell me, Yes—you have no choice!
And before this phrase fades out Anita straightens her back, and places her hand on the keys. Then, to my astonishment, she plays the next phrase of music, this time with raw, intense force, which I never knew existed in her, bringing it to the verge of destruction, making it explode all around me. And I, in turn, explode with the following one, because how can I let her outdo me? I am, after all, The Entertainer...
Here I come! Here I drum! No more woes. Let me close! Let me in, hold me tight! Don’t resist me, do not fight—
At this point Anita kicks the bench back, and I tip it over behind us. She sways her hips to the beat, and I tap the floor. And we find ourselves bouncing there, almost dancing in place, playing the piano side by side: she on the high notes, I—on the low.
Her intervals are somewhat uneven, her melody is off, here and there. But these things do not matter—not to me, anyway—because just like Anita, or even more than her, I happen to be out of control, maybe because it has been a long while since the las
t time I practiced. I have not touched the keys for so many years, out of nothing else but rebellion, a silent rebellion against my mother. So my fingers feel a bit rusty—and yet I respond, quite swiftly, to the way Anita plays. I do it in an instant, harmonizing the sound, filling in some of the awkward intervals with a flurry of chords.
Sometimes I find myself having to take my hand away, so she can play the same key immediately after me. On some notes, my right hand crosses her left hand, in an exchange that is wild and fiery—like no duet I have ever seen, or listened to! One way or another it blends, it mixes into a sound, which you might call a crude, unruly, unrestrained racket. But to the ears of a madman, it can be called music.
If my mother could see me now... If, out of nowhere, she would appear—which would make me jump to attention—I can only imagine how she would draw back, how she would wince at having to listen to this thing, this terrific uproar, which for some reason, makes it all the more delightful to my ears.
My mother is elsewhere, and I must admit: at this moment I find myself thankful that she cannot be here—but then, listen! In her place, someone else knocks, quite loudly, on the open door.
And without bothering to wait for an answer, our guest marches right in.
At the thump of her footsteps, my hand draws, abruptly, to a halt. Anita, too, stops playing, and she turns around, speechless for a moment. Meanwhile, the echoes of our cacophony can be heard throughout the small space.
You can imagine them bouncing off the walls, flipping over backwards, coming down again—until, at long last, they land flat, barely stirring, down there on the floor.
“My, my,” says the old woman. “Am I late for something?”
“Aunt Hadassa!” I cry in surprise, and hurry to pull the cover over the keys.
If not for the rosy blush over her cheek, Anita appears to be cool and collected, much more so than me. The smile on her face is irresistible, and there is no way for me to tell if she is friendly, or just pretending to be so.
The White Piano (Still Life with Memories Book 2) Page 8
