by Chris Cander
She’d withdrawn her hand, and he took it again and put it back on top of his; then he began to play once more, very slowly. This piece had a different tone, predominantly but not exclusively of longing. His left hand, carrying hers like a passenger on a float, progressed through steady, repeated arpeggios while the right worked on long, flowing phrases that superimposed insane rhythms onto the meter. It sounded almost improvised, how the right hand flourished in contrast to the left. The piece seemed to shift back and forth in sections between happy and sad, major and minor, so perfectly mimicking her own emotional ambivalence that she thought he might be reading her mind. She wasn’t sure what might be transpiring between them, but certainly she had never come so close to understanding what it felt like, physically and emotionally, to play her Blüthner.
“I thought you said you couldn’t play,” she whispered when he finished.
His eyes were deeply sad when he looked at her. “No. I said that I didn’t.”
“Was that first piece you were playing by Scriabin?”
“You know Scriabin?”
“Just that one,” she said. “What are the chances that you’d be playing it?”
He sighed. “Pretty good, I’d say. It was my mother’s favorite.”
Clara leaned away and looked at him, her mind processing the coincidence. “Wait a minute. It was my father’s favorite, too.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“What?” Now she was staring. “Why?”
He trapped her with that unblinking gaze that could hold hers, even in the barest glow of moonlight, perhaps a touch beyond civility. Then he stood up and ran his fingers over the top of the piano. “You know these other marks? These dings that didn’t show up in the pictures you posted?” Clara nodded. “You didn’t know why they were there, you said. But why would you? You weren’t there the day that my father made them.” At this, Greg’s eyes turned to glass. “You weren’t there when he picked up the poker for the fire and brought it down again and again, screaming at my mother the whole time. I thought he was going to kill her. He did, actually. Not right then. Not directly. But he wanted to hurt her, and so he decided to attack her piano. He didn’t destroy it because I showed up, and he decided to use the poker on me instead.” He swung his leg out stiffly to demonstrate the proof of this claim. “It never really healed properly, but at least it was me and not her.”
“Oh, God.”
“So in the days after what we’d refer to as ‘the accident,’ my father returned to his usual drunken stupor. I was in my own stupor from the pain meds, and my mother was in her private personal hell, trying to deal with everything. But I remember very clearly that she wanted to get the piano out of the house before he sobered up enough to demolish it.”
“That’s what you meant about her having to get rid of it.”
Greg nodded. “I think she really believed it was the piano that made my father so angry. Even more than the fact that she had a lover.” He cleared his throat. “So she called him—her lover, I mean—and asked him to come take the piano and keep it for a while, until my father calmed down or she could finally leave him. And he did.”
“He calmed down?”
“No.” He cleared his throat again. “I mean he—the lover—came to our house. He picked up the piano and took it home.” Greg paused. “To his daughter.”
Clara got up and took several steps backward, nearly tripping on a blanket. The world where she was standing began to recede and she was pulled back into the shadowy depths of memory, where the days before the fire were kept. She recalled the night her father brought the piano home, the low voices of his colleagues, her mother’s guarded posture, her wound-up tone when she asked, “What are you doing with that piano, Bruce?”
Clara took another step backward, then turned and hopped out of the truck bed, as if to distance herself from Greg’s story. “That’s absurd. That’s absolutely absurd.” She was pleased that her voice sounded so steady and certain.
“Is it?” he said gently. “You told me yourself you didn’t know where he got it. Well, he got it from my mother, who was his lover, and took it to your home to help her keep it safe.”
She felt a cold heat climbing her neck, a metallic taste under her tongue. She yanked the blanket off her shoulders and tossed it on the ground. “My father brought me this piano as a birthday gift. A gift. I’m not exactly sure what it is that you’re insinuating, but it sounds like you’re calling my father an adulterer and a liar.”
Greg followed her out of the truck, opening his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. “I’m not trying to insult your father. At the time, I had no idea about their relationship, either. But from what little my mother told me before she died, he was a great guy. She loved him. She trusted him. They were in love, and they were planning a life together.”
“A life together! Are you fucking for real? He was married! He wasn’t in love with your mother, he was in love with mine!”
“How do you know?”
The calm logic of his question enraged her. “Can’t you even hear what you’re saying? My parents died together in a house fire fourteen years ago. Together.” She raised her voice in order to silence her doubt. The investigators had called it a fire “of suspicious origin.” They were never able to determine if it was deliberate or accidental, so she’d never known anything beyond the fact that they were gone.
“Clara,” he said, more softly still. “Look. I’m sorry about your parents. Believe me, I know how much that hurts. But I’m telling you the truth: your father and my mother were in love. They met because of the Blüthner. We didn’t get to take it with us when we left Russia. It was years before she got it back. Somehow your father helped in returning it to her, and they became friends. I was fourteen then. You’d have been, what, seven or eight? She told me that after they met, your dad started taking piano lessons from her.”
Clara shook her head. “He never took a single piano lesson. Never! He couldn’t play at all. He told me so himself.”
“You’re right about his not being able to play. My mother said she tried for two years to teach him, but all he could play was ‘Chopsticks’ because he never practiced. But he wasn’t really trying to learn. At first the lessons were just a cover, to legitimize spending time together and the feelings they were developing. She told me they usually just talked, or else she’d play for him. Her favorite piece was that one by Scriabin, and he loved hearing it, over and over again. Eventually, things evolved, as they obviously do when people are attracted to each other.” He shrugged. “Our parents were lovers, Clara. At least for the last three years of his life. That’s the answer to your question about why your father loved her favorite piece of music. I might be an asshole for telling you, but it’s the truth.”
He looked so smug. What did he know about her father’s life? His audacity made her furious. Without thinking, she lunged at him, striking him with her right fist directly on the chest. She followed that with another and another until Greg stumbled on his own lame leg and tumbled backward onto the cracked earth and she fell right with him, now raining punches and slaps and swats with both hands, even the broken one, on his chest, neck, face, ears. She used those self-defense skills her uncle had taught, even though the self she was defending wasn’t an adult stranded in the desert, but a desperate twelve-year-old orphan that was huddled deep inside her.
KATYA SAT ON THE EDGE of the couch with her back straight, her son’s broken leg elevated on a stack of pillows beside her. He was sleeping again, unaware of her or anything else, but Katya wouldn’t leave his side. What else could she do, both of them aching so deeply for their own reasons? If she couldn’t protect him, then at least she would keep him company. Mikhail had finally woken up from his drunken sleep and gone to work, mumbling an apology. If he’d noticed that the piano wasn’t there, he hadn’t mentioned it. A profound lonel
iness now permeated the house.
The old Polaroids of Death Valley were spread out on her lap, and she was caressing the border of the one at Racetrack Playa. Miserable once again, she felt herself moving fifteen years backward in time, looked at the stone in the photograph, alone in the barren playa, sailing away from her. She wondered where in Bruce’s home her piano was. She’d been there a few times, in secret. It was larger than her house, but there weren’t many big spaces. Had he put it in the front room, like she would’ve done? Did his daughter like it? Did his wife?
The phone rang. “It’s time, Katya. It’s been almost exactly two years since you told me ‘two more years,’ ” Bruce said. “We’re not living honestly, not like this. You said you wanted to wait until Greg was out of high school, and he is. And now that Mikhail knows, there’s no reason to wait any longer. It’s not safe for you. It’s only a matter of time before he flies into another rage against you or Greg. Or even me, for that matter, assuming he finds out who I am.”
“He doesn’t know your name. I told him it was just a letter from a lovesick young student, that I’d dismissed him when I discovered his true feelings. Then he wanted to know why I kept the letter, and I said it was only for evidence in case this crazy boy tried any monkey business.”
“That was good thinking, my love. And yes, I do intend some monkey business.” This was meant to be funny, she knew, but they were both too anxious to laugh. After a moment, he said, “Tell me you’ll leave him.”
“As soon as I can do that safely, I will.” She wanted to and would; she’d been dreaming of it for almost four years, ever since that first kiss, sitting at the Blüthner in her living room. She’d tried to keep her feelings platonic, and for a time was almost successful. But soon it became unbearable to sit near him and not feel his lips on hers, his hands in her hair. The piano lessons became a euphemism: Can we have a lesson tomorrow afternoon? Or That was a wonderful lesson! They began talking about a future together soon after they first made love. But now that it was here, that it was a real possibility, she was afraid. She couldn’t imagine Mikhail’s rage if she told him she was leaving, and at least she’d need to wait until Greg could bear his own weight again.
“I’m telling Alice this week. Friday night, in fact. I’ll arrange for Clara to spend the night at her friend’s house, and I’ll ask Alice for a divorce. She knew something was up when I brought the piano home. It’s time.”
“Will it be difficult?” she said. The year before, they’d gone to a concert and, afterward, to a small, out-of-the-way bistro for dinner. It was dark and romantic, the food delicious. Bruce held her hand across the table as they sipped their dessert wine. They talked about introducing Greg and Clara, where they might get married, maybe opening a small music school. It was a perfect night until Bruce noticed his wife in the opposite corner—though she, too, was holding hands with someone else. Afterward, Alice convinced Bruce to try to reconcile for Clara’s sake, and he’d felt guilty enough to stay, but it hadn’t lasted. He’d called Katya four months later, only five months ago, begging her to meet him at the bungalow. Katya wondered, guiltily now herself, how Alice would feel once she learned that they’d resumed their affair.
He hesitated, and she could hear him take a breath. “Yes,” he said, “it will be difficult, especially for Clara.”
“Do you think she will understand? Still so young—not even twelve yet.”
“I don’t know. Not right away, certainly. But eventually she will. I know she’ll love you once she finally meets you, gets to know you.”
“I want very much for her to. I have always wanted a daughter.”
“I know. And I hope Greg will understand.”
“There is no doubt that he will. He is very unhappy. Mikhail and he, they don’t get along so well.”
“Obviously. Mikhail’s a savage.”
“Bruce?”
“Yes?”
“Do you still love Alice?”
“Not the way I love you.”
“You are very brave,” she said.
“What choice do I have?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s not me who’s brave, Katya. It’s you.”
* * *
—
She stared at the sailing stone that looked like her piano in the photograph and began playing an imaginary keyboard on her knees with fingers that ached for something productive to do. In her mind she heard the missing notes whispering like ghosts in her ears. When had she last made a decision that would transform her life? Even long before Mikhail, she was accustomed to letting others decide for her. Would it be like this with Bruce? It seemed that all her talent had won her no independence. She played the imaginary piano, adding up her losses as she went, and trying to make those bits of nothing into something she could tuck into herself and hold there: hope or strength or bravery. Her fingers danced across the invisible keys next to her broken son, but the truth was, she didn’t feel brave at all.
* * *
—
“Mama, tell me the story,” Greg said drowsily. The tapping of her fingers, even against the fabric of her dress, had awakened him. “How Sasha makes the tundra green.” It was August in California, but he was still shivering on the couch. His leg ached every moment—he was already growing used to the pain—but his heart ached even more to see her using her lap as a substitute piano, as though she, too, were lost and wandering in some cold, distant place. In the three days since the Blüthner had been taken away, she was constantly wringing her hands, massaging her fingers. Did they want to play as much as he wanted to hear? He needed her to think of something else. “Please, Mama.”
“I don’t want to tell about Sasha’s music,” she said. “There’s no more music for now.”
“Can you call those men and get them to bring the piano back?”
“No, Grisha. I cannot.”
“But you need it, Mama.”
“No. Well, yes.” She stood up carefully so as not to disturb his leg. “But if I bring the piano back, your father will destroy it.” She didn’t want to say that Mikhail might do something even worse, starting with Grigoriy.
“I won’t let him.”
“And you’ll sacrifice your other leg for this? No, my son. I will find a way for us to be safe. And happy, very happy. But for now we must wait.” She didn’t dare tell him what they were waiting for.
“Who were those men?”
“Good men, kind men.”
“But who?”
“Chi-chi-chi. That’s not your concern.”
“Where did they take it?”
She shook her head. Greg watched as she looked down at her long fingers as though they were not her own. His mother might’ve trusted those people who took the piano away, but he didn’t. Why should he, when even she didn’t know where they’d taken it? She wasn’t the same without her Blüthner. What if they didn’t bring it back? What would happen then?
GREG DIDN’T SPEAK AT ALL. He grunted when Clara hit him in the chest, let out staccato huffs when she slapped his face; he only mildly deflected her blows and mostly seemed to be waiting for her to finish, like somebody who was used to getting beat up. His refusal to fight back further enraged her, but only briefly. Images of her father began flickering into her white-hot thoughts, and she slowed and then stopped, still straddling Greg, whose arm was draped across his face. She brought her fists down on his chest one final time before collapsing onto the dirt next to him, her body curling around the ripping pain in her right hand and the questions in her mind, and now she was sobbing.
Greg pushed himself onto his side slowly—she’d inflicted some pain, for sure—and touched her on the shoulder. “Clara. It’s okay.”
Lost inside herself, she didn’t register either his touch or his voice. She cried into the dirt until she couldn’t any longer, and when she stopped, his
hand was still resting lightly on her shoulder.
She lay for a while on her side, staring through the dark at the ground’s polygon shapes from this unusual angle. Did her father die loving someone besides her mother? Her mouth was dry, her lips caked with dust. She could die there, she thought, all her bodily fluids leaching out onto this dehydrated scrap of nowhere. And what would it matter? What good had she done with her life thus far anyway? What, except dragging somebody else’s piano from her childhood through an insignificant adolescence and into an unremarkable adulthood? That piano, her upright companion with its eighty-eight keys to her locked store of memories. Maybe she’d tried to access those fragile memories of her parents too often, altering them irrevocably each time until, as with some photographs, she could no longer recall the original experiences, only the last time she’d thought of them. Maybe by now all her memories were lies.
“Did you ever meet him?” Clara asked, her face still pressed against the dirt, in the fading hope that Greg had gotten her father confused with someone else.
“Once. Right after the accident. The night he picked up the piano. I was pretty out of it, but I remember one thing: the port-wine stain on his face. He had one, didn’t he? I mentioned it to my mother a week or so later, asked her who the man with the birthmark was, and she burst into tears. It was just after your parents had died, and she was heartbroken. She told me everything, actually, not just a little: when they met, that they hadn’t meant to fall in love, that it had been innocent for a long time. She was worried that I’d criticize her, but I didn’t. My father was a monster even before he broke my leg. I couldn’t blame her for wanting someone else. She wouldn’t tell me your father’s name, though. She said the last time she’d spoken it out loud was when she’d told him she loved him the night before he died, and she refused to ever say it again. That she wanted to keep the music of his name inside her.”
The night before her parents died would have been a Thursday. Her father always worked late on Thursdays, didn’t he? Why was that? What would her mother have been doing? Standing with one hand on her hip, smoking a cigarette, and looking out the window, her padded shoulders squared off against whatever it was that made her so irritable? It was a forgettable night, one like any other. Clara couldn’t remember the weather, or what they’d had for dinner, or if she’d called her best friend on the phone before bedtime, as she usually did. It hadn’t seemed necessary that night to retain those mundane, routine details. She hadn’t known that it would be the last normal night of her childhood.
