by Sarah Beard
We took a cab back to the school, and Nathaniel remained quiet and distracted. Before I got out of the cab, he told me he’d come see me the next day before he went back to Colorado.
I ended up handing my tickets to some people in front of the Lincoln Center. Then I spent the rest of the night holed up in a practice room working on a Liszt piece, trying to play with the emotion that Margo thought I lacked.
seventeen
T he next afternoon, I stepped into Margo’s studio for my weekly private lesson. She sat at one of the Steinway grands, playing a romantic piece with flowing, unhurried tranquility. Her studio was homey, with rich red carpet, Victorian-style furniture, and the scent of flowery perfume. The walls were full of ornately framed photographs and old handwritten scores of famous composers. Some photographs showed her on stage in her younger years, a robust beauty with long, flowing red hair. Other photographs showed her posing with other world-famous conductors and musicians. Evidence of a life well lived, immersed in her passion for music.
She rose to greet me, her long flared skirt swaying as she approached me with open arms, graceful like a ballroom dancer. A jeweled lily brooch adorned her ruffled blouse, the buttons of which were almost popping over her buxom chest.
“Bonjour!” She laid hold of my arms and gave me air kisses, her puffy red hair tickling my nose. “I’ve been looking forward to our lesson, ma chérie. What did you bring today?” She eyed the sheet music in my hands.
“That Brahms Hungarian dance we were working on, and a Chopin waltz.”
“Did you bring the Liszt piece I asked you to?”
“Yes, it’s right here.”
“Wonderful. Let’s start with the Chopin.”
Two grand pianos sat side by side on the carpet, and we each sat at one. I played through the Chopin waltz, whisking through splashes of rapid notes to produce a lilting rhythm. She nodded her head and breathed “Oomp-pah-pah, oomp-pah-pah” while waving her arms along to the pulse.
“Very good,” she said when I finished, sliding on her glasses and turning to her keyboard. “But the repeat phrases need to be more distinct. Maybe try something more like this.” She dove gracefully into the piece and easily tackled the passages with energy and fluent, nimble fingers.
I repeated the passages, trying to echo the way she played it.
“Yes, yes. That’s it.”
We went through the rest of the piece together, her listening, teaching, and demonstrating. I took in every word, every nuance her fingers produced, then tried to duplicate them.
Next she requested the Liszt, but since talking to Nathaniel the night before, I had been dreading playing this piece. It was a sorrowful, emotionally packed piece, and I was suddenly self-conscious playing it, knowing what Margo had said to Nathaniel.
I started playing, trying to make it sound as melancholy as I could.
“Stop, stop,” she interrupted halfway through. “You’re focusing too much on the technicalities,” she said, pinching her index finger and thumb together. “You know the notes. Now try to interpret the song. Make it mean something to you.”
“It does mean something to me.”
“Tell me, Aria, what does it mean to you?”
“Music means everything to me.”
“But what about this piece? What do you think it is about?”
“Sorrow. It sounds like sorrow.”
“Then why do I not feel sorrow when you play it?”
I shrugged awkwardly, unsure how to answer.
“Let me tell you something about Franz Liszt. He led a tragic life, full of failed relationships, deaths of his children, alcoholism, and long periods of profound depression. He once said to a friend that he carried with him a deep sadness of the heart, which ‘must now and then break out in sound.’ You are right, Aria. This piece is about sorrow. Imagine what he must have been thinking about when he wrote it. And what are you thinking about when you play it? Are you thinking of sorrow?”
“I . . . I’m thinking about continuity, dynamics, tone.”
“And that is why I don’t feel sorrow when you play it. It sounds technical because you’re thinking technical. Music is not meant to be a mathematical formula. It is meant to display and evoke the deepest hidden emotions of the human soul. If you don’t put your heart and soul into this piece, no matter how well you play technically, it will sound flat.”
Just then, the studio door opened, and I turned to see Nathaniel in the doorway. Margo leapt to her feet and greeted him with a hearty embrace and all kinds of French exclamations. “What brings you here, darling?” she gushed.
“I came to say good-bye to Aria.” He glanced at me and smiled. He looked better today, not so pale, but still a little off.
I stood and went over to him. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes. Sorry about last night. How was the symphony?”
“Oh.” I looked down, feeling bad about wasting his tickets. “I didn’t go. I gave the tickets away and spent the night practicing.”
Nathaniel chuckled and Margo wrapped an arm around me. “Such a busy little bee.” She laughed.
We spent a few minutes chatting, then we said our good-byes and Nathaniel left, promising to call me in a few weeks. Margo and I went back to the pianos. “Oh, my,” she said with a sigh. “He is still so handsome, is he not? He and your mother made such a beautiful couple.”
“My mom dated Nathaniel?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, her expression igniting with her enthusiasm for torrid love stories. “For four years they were on and off, on and off. Tumultuous, I tell you. But I always knew how their relationship was going based on the way she played. She’d come in here one day and everything would sound sensuous and passionate. The next day she’d pound out her frustrations like thunder. It was all elation or misery, never in between, and never without passion. She was one of the most expressive pianists I’ve ever heard.”
Margo took the conversation back to the Liszt piece, but my mind was going wild with this new revelation. It made me see Nathaniel in an entirely different way. He had loved my mother, more than just as a friend. For a split second I wondered if she had been the girl that he’d told me about the night before. But I quickly decided it couldn’t be. He would have told me if it had been my own mother. Besides, Mom had never said anything about being married before Dad. I shook the thoughts from my head, trying to focus on what Margo was saying.
“You are the instrument,” she was saying. “The sounds that come from the piano do not originate from the strings, or the hammers, or even your fingers. They originate inside of you. It’s not about the notes on the page; it’s about making others feel what you feel, through the music. This piece is about the deepest yearnings of the soul. Now, I want you to close your eyes.”
I gave a reluctant sigh, then closed my eyes.
“I want you to reach deep into your heart, and find something, someone that means something to you. Something you desperately want but can’t have.”
There was really only one thing that I desperately wanted, and his face had appeared in my mind the instant I’d closed my eyes. I made a mental effort to reconnect my mind to my heart, like torn fibers weaving back together. I focused on a single memory, the tender look on Thomas’s face when I draped his scarf over his shoulders the morning we said good-bye. The love that emanated from his eyes, the tears that were proof that his heart was breaking just as much as mine. My heart ached with an unbearable pain at the memory.
“Now,” Margo said, “are you ready to make this piece mean something to you?”
“Yes,” I replied shakily, my heart suddenly pounding with terror of what I knew this allowance would cost me.
“Then open your eyes and play.”
I played again, the entire piece, focusing on what each note meant to me. My stubborn affection for Thomas surged from my heart like a swell of water from an opened floodgate. It spilled over as tears, rolling down my cheeks and into my lap.
“There now,” she said when I finished. “I saw your soul in that one, and it was beautiful. You can’t finagle or bluff anymore, Aria, because I know what you’re capable of.”
Margo was pleased with my effort, but I paid for it later, spending the rest of the day balled up in anguish beneath the blankets on my bed. The tears wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried to rein them in.
Nathaniel had told me that by coming to Juilliard alone, I would discover what a strong, talented, beautiful person I was. I didn’t feel like any of those things. If anything, I’d discovered how much I still had to learn, and just how fragile I was.
~
The next morning, I reorganized my forces. Dressing in a white sweater and jeans, I pulled my hair away from my face into a ponytail and looked in the mirror. My face was still splotchy from crying so much the night before, so I splashed some cold water on my skin and applied some makeup. I went to the cafeteria for breakfast and sat on an empty table by the east window, letting the sun warm my back, then opened my Counterpoint and Harmony book on the table in front of me. With a bagel in one hand and a highlighter in the other, I worked on filling my head with chromaticism and chord progressions, hoping to push out the remnants of the memories I’d allowed myself the day before.
“Good morning,” a cheerful voice said, and I looked up to see Devin smiling at me. I nodded at him, then went back to reading. To my chagrin, he sat across from me with his tray of scrambled eggs, toast, and bottle of cranberry juice.
“Reading ahead?”
“What?” I looked up at him, irritated at his interruption.
“You’re in chapter twenty-four. Edelstein only assigned us through nineteen.”
“I like to be prepared.”
He flashed his famous grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling with humor like he was amused with my proactive study habits. Beneath his usual black suit jacket, he wore a white T-shirt with a monochrome print of a severe-looking Beethoven and the quote, “To play without passion is inexcusable!” Beethoven’s eyes bore into me, as if seeing into my passionless soul. I dropped my eyes back to my book, if only to avoid Beethoven’s all-seeing glare.
“Hey,” Devin said after taking a few bites of his breakfast, “there’s a concert later on at Avery Fisher. You want to go with me?”
“No,” I said, taking a bite of my bagel and not lifting my eyes from my book.
“Don’t I get a reason? I know you’re done with your homework, seeing as how you’re reading ahead. So what is it? Scrubbing your bathroom floor? Hot date with a tuba player? Your Chia pet need watering?” He paused. “Did you know that Chia seeds are packed with omega-3s?”
I almost smiled, but took another bite of my bagel instead and pretended to keep reading.
“Okay, I’ve got it,” he continued. “You really, desperately want to go with me, but the word yes isn’t part of your vocabulary. There are other words, you know. Sure, okay, sounds good, love to, count me in.”
“Why do you even want to go out with me?” I said, putting my bagel down and glaring at him. “There are a hundred girls here who would kill to go out with you, so why pursue the only one who’s not interested?” A thought occurred to me. “Oh, I see. You just want what you can’t have. Is that it?”
“Good guess, but you’re way off.”
“Then why? Why me?”
He dropped his eyes and pursed his lips. “I don’t know.” His brow wrinkled, and he looked up at me, his eyes full of curiosity. “I guess because you intrigue me.”
“Why? Because I’m the only girl here who isn’t falling all over you?”
“No,” he said, his face more serious. “Because you sit alone in the lunchroom with a book open in front of you, reading five chapters ahead while everyone else is socializing. Because sometimes in class, you look like you’re listening intently to the professor like the rest of us, but then you suddenly wince and get this look on your face like your family pet was just run over.”
“You have to admit, some of the lectures are painful.”
“And then,” he continued, ignoring my attempt at humor, “you walk down the hall with your eyes on some point beyond the building, like you’re seeing something the rest of us can’t. I guess I just want to know why.”
An idea came to me, a plan to get Devin to stop bothering me. If I dumped all my baggage out on the table, maybe it would satisfy his curiosity and he would move on to the next girl. He might tell other people, but did it really matter what other people thought of me? They probably already thought I was weird, so it didn’t really matter. Spilling my guts was worth it if it meant repelling Devin.
I leaned forward and said, “Well, let me put an end to your intrigue.” Then I proceeded to lay it all out, blood, guts, and all. “My mom died when I was twelve because of the strain I put on her body when she was pregnant with me. I was raised by a father who forbade me to play the piano, even though it was the only thing that made me happy, and when he caught me playing, he would leave bruises on me. Then last year, I met this amazing guy, who saved me and healed me.”
I almost told him about the fire, but it felt like treading on sacred ground. “He left. He promised to come back for me, but instead he disappeared without a word. That’s why I stare off into space, and that’s why I sometimes look like I’m in pain. Because I am. Mystery solved. Now you can go on your way and find a cute, bubbly flute player to date.”
I was hoping he’d get up and run away, but he stayed, his face thoughtful, like I’d just told him my favorite dessert was crème brûlée. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice sincere. “And so now you don’t want to date because you’re afraid of getting hurt again?”
“Not exactly.” I tapped my fingers on the table, debating just how much deeper to plunge. I’d already dipped my feet in the water, and the temperature wasn’t bad, so I jumped in. “I don’t think it’s possible for me to be hurt by someone else,” I said, “because I’m still hurting from him. I don’t want to date because I don’t want to be reminded of him.”
I kept waiting for him to get up and leave, but he just sat there, his copper eyes fixed on me, engrossed by every word that came out of my mouth.
“This guy—he must have been a huge jerk to make you feel that way.”
“No. I feel that way because he was wonderful. I loved him.” It took almost every ounce of energy to say those last three words. “He had to leave for a few months, and he promised to come back for me, but he didn’t come. No phone call, no letter. I’ve tried to reach him with no luck.”
“How long has it been?”
I sighed. “Just over a year.”
“And you’re still waiting for him?”
“No . . . I don’t know. See, there are only two possibilities.”
“What possibilities?”
“Either he is dead . . . or he didn’t love me.”
He sat quietly, his brow creased in concentration as if deliberating what to say. After a couple minutes, he asked, “How old were you? Sixteen?”
“Seventeen.”
“Was this guy the same age?”
“He was eighteen.”
“Well . . . eighteen is so young. I don’t think people really understand what love is when they’re that young. And I doubt this guy was mature enough to understand what he was promising you. I hate to say it, but he probably found some other girl and forgot all about you. And you—you’ve been suffering all this time, and he probably hasn’t even thought about you.”
“Oh, and you understand what love is? You, who’s broken every girl’s heart in the whole school?”
His shoulders slumped and his face fell into a defeated expression, and I suddenly regretted my words. “No,” he said. “I don’t know much about love either. I guess that’s why I haven’t stayed with any girl for very long. I keep waiting to feel something—love, I guess—but I’ve never really been in love, so I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like.” He looked up at me with curiosity. “Mayb
e you can tell me. How does it feel?” The wistful tone in his voice caught me off guard, and his eyes were filled with such an earnest inquisitiveness that I couldn’t help but give him an honest answer.
“It feels . . .” I paused, turning the highlighter in my hand. “. . . like an awakening of senses you never knew you had, and once they’re awakened, you’re never the same. The way you see the world is altered. Instead of riding down a road on your bike and thinking how the wind feels good on your face, you think, ‘This is how it feels when he kisses my cheek.’ You play a piece on the piano, and instead of imagining a crowd applauding, you only see him, sitting in the chair next to the piano, smiling at you. You catch the scent of sage in the air and think, ‘This is how he smells.’ But it’s also kind of like being on a mousetrap ride. Exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time. You smile and laugh and feel a thrill inside of you, all the while wondering in the back of your mind if the car will come off the track at the next turn, or if your harness will come open and you will be tossed to the ground to your death.”
“And you wonder why I can’t stay away from you,” he said with a smile that made my heart flutter unexpectedly. “Any other girl would have said something like, ‘It feels . . .’ ”—he folded his hands under his chin and batted his eyelashes—“ ‘like walking on clouds.’ ” His hands dropped to the table, and his brows pulled together in contemplation. After a long pause, he smiled softly. “Thank you for describing it for me. Now when I find it, I’ll know.” He leaned forward and added, “And I hope you find it again someday.”
With that he got up and left, dumping his tray of half-eaten food in the garbage on his way out of the cafeteria. I sat there feeling completely flustered. I didn’t like Devin. But for the last few minutes, I’d seen a part of him that I’d never seen before. A side he kept hidden, a caring, vulnerable side. Maybe he wasn’t a jerk. Maybe he was just searching for happiness like everyone else. And even though I was only trying to repel him by sharing everything, I had to admit it was nice to talk to someone. He would probably keep his distance from me now, but I felt my burden lighten slightly after sharing it with him.
