Farewell to the Piano

At times like this the words of my late mentor drown the applause of my audience.

‘Don’t make them wait but don’t come back too quick. Savour their pleasure.’

Gone now are those heady days of festivals, competitions and recitals. The days when the piano and I started taking each other seriously – the days of nerves and butterflies. Quite how I managed to perform, I’ll never know. Like any courtship, the highs and lows were extreme.

Now, I peek out between the curtains, not coming back too quick. Many of my audience are standing and clapping high.

‘They stand to be polite. When they clap high, you’ve really gottem.’ My mentor demonstrated, his hands at head-height.

I take deep breaths, leave the shelter of the heavy curtains and squeeze between the violins, remembering a time when I could easily weave between them whilst acknowledging the audience. The applause grows louder and I hear shouts of ‘Bravo’ and ‘Encore’ above the din.

During the honeymoon period, when nerves faded and butterflies left, my self-confidence grew but my ego grew faster. Emotions burned and tempers flared. Together we performed until we were the only ones left, still not tiring but going for more, wrapped in our own company, oblivious to others. How I wasted all those years.

Now that the house lights have been raised, I can see the faces of my audience. Bared teeth, bulging eyes and flushed cheeks contrasting with tight collars and tuxedoes, dresses and gowns.

‘Encore!’ they are shouting now. ‘Encore! Encore!’

I don’t want to play anymore. I want to go home.

I stand by the piano, my hand on her hip, and I take a deep bow, conscious of my bald patch.

Dino, his baton discarded, is gesturing towards the piano stool. His movements are exaggerated, in tune with the audience, and more for him than anyone else, I sit back down at the piano. ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll play. I’ll play.’

I rattle off an impromptu and leave.

My little legs carry me outside to the cobbled square. The clock, half hidden by mist, strikes the hour; its plaintive note resonates with my heart. The applause still sounds. People will soon file out, filling the square, but for now it’s quiet.

My face sneers down from above the main doors of the concert hall. THE GREAT BLONDELL PLAYS SCHUBERT. They have put a sparkle in my eye which has long since faded and, looking younger than I really am, I appear awkward as they like to force my hands into the picture. I think they are intrigued by my pudgy fingers.

When I saw my first poster, I boasted and preened, strutted and swanked, phoned all my friends and asked them what they thought. I craved the attention and, looking back, I am filled with shame. I feel my life has been one of disingenuity. The word ‘great’ applies to Schubert and I am merely a tool at the great composer’s disposal. Everyone will remember Schubert. No one will remember me – no matter how big they make the posters.

The square is starting to fill with people – my audience. I walk through them with my head held high – unnoticed. They recognise me on the stage with the piano – a marvellous couple, a perfect marriage – but they don’t recognise me when I’m on my own.

It’s good not standing out. I want to be like them. I want to live in a little house on a street with neighbours. I want to have a car that sometimes won’t start. I want rotten window frames that need repairing.

This tour is nearly over. One more performance – London. Home again soon.

It’s funny how I now regard London as my home. Maybe I’ll return to Budapest one day. I shudder at the thought.

‘Practice, practice, practice,’ shouted papa, his belt chasing my bruised knuckles around the keyboard. ‘Again. Again. Again.’

‘Come. Come play for the guests.’ Before I could even stretch an octave, mama was pushing me forward. I ran scales and arpeggios, threes on fours and alternating rhythms. Bach Blues, Rachmaninov Ragtime and Mozart Metal. The guests sighed and clapped wanting more. Uncle Flavio, his huge moustache emphasising his grin, would raise his hands above his head and clap, leading the call for more. That was so long ago. Why does it seem like just yesterday?

In a daze, I pass back under my poster, cross the great foyer and retreat behind the scenes. Dino comes to greet me, arms outstretched in his exuberant style. Men in brown coats, preparing to move the piano off stage, stand aside politely and I run my hand around her waist and pat her shoulder. She was good tonight – not the vibrant excitement of earlier years but the solid maturity of experience. Our performance now is a sure thing. No risk. It looks good from the outside but it’s stifling from within. No fire. How can I tell her?

Dino rarely speaks. He doesn’t need to; his expressions say far more than words can manage. I’m supposed to be celebrating with the orchestra. A champagne cork pops, members of the orchestra salute and I sip the bubbly drink I’ve never liked.

~

I once had a fling with a clarinet. A compulsive act but I felt that fire again. We played in basement clubs where people, lured by the music, came in off the street. The unpredictability and spontaneity renewed my passion and I felt alive. Movement, chatter and the chink of glasses replaced the spotlight and I loved it. I was anonymous. Together, Clarinet and I spent long hours exploring each other. We played through evenings of emotional release, confiding in one another in a language we made for ourselves.

Other players would turn up with their instruments and join in. Novice or accomplished, all were accepted. Trombones and saxophones would slide up onto the crowded stage, the double bass pressing back towards the drums to make room. There was no score, no programme, no theme. The mood was whatever it was.

Pieces would end and guests would clap. They’d never clap high. Occasionally, while playing, a hush would descend over them. Time stood still, drinks poised, conversations held, heads turned. Then we knew – we’d really gottem.

I never admitted this secret life to Piano, but she knew something was up. During practice I’d get bored and throw together some rising chord sequences. The chords would sustain guiltily until I slid my foot off the pedal. I didn’t practise so much and our performances were losing their edge. My audiences weren’t clapping high.

One evening I was invited to a different club – not a basement and the ceilings were high. Chandeliers glittered down over dinner jackets and evening gowns waited on by men with napkins. The atmosphere was similar, I decided, as I warmed up Clarinet, gently stroking her reed with my tongue.

We played and it was good.

I went outside during a break and, on returning, the mood had changed. Wheeled out onto the stage was Piano.

She had pushed her way into our midst and we all had to move for her. No one sat on her stool. No one played her keys. She was just there, watching me.

Clarinet was nervous and flat.

A man jumped up onto the stage and everybody cheered. We sidled off as he plonked himself down at Piano. He played and everyone listened attentively. He was good, but he couldn’t make Piano sing.

I was unable to stay and, as I left, Piano called after me in a hoarse and stress laden voice.

Things between Clarinet and me were different after that. She was all excitement, driving me on with ardent enthusiasm. People in the basement clubs turned their heads and sat in silence as we played – a silence that lingered long after we’d stop – a silence that demanded we start again. It was like sprinting, flat out, no rest. Clarinet drove me on and I couldn’t satisfy her. She demanded more but I couldn’t deliver. People began to expect and I didn’t need another audience.

I soon came crawling to Piano. She was strange at first but I was gentle with her and she took me back.

~

This evening’s concert awaits. Piano knows, from our stony silence, that something’s in the air. There’s a nasty atmosphere between us and we should talk. But we don’t. I know I should tell her how I feel but I can’t. I don’t want to hurt her but there is nothing I can do. Or is it that I don’t want to do anything? I feel like a coward.

We go back a long way together and I know Piano as well as she knows me. I stroke her, she purrs. I massage her, she sighs. I tickle her, she laughs. But something has been lost. Like two ageing ballroom dancers, our smiles are fixed and unfelt. We’re simply going through the motions. Another night. Another performance. One last dance.

Dino sets the orchestra going and I await my entry, absorbing the music and immersing myself in the mood. The audience is lost to me as I focus my concentration on the complex technicalities of the Chopin concerto.

Dino brings me in and my arms are moving freely. My hands are gliding and my fingers are sure. The voices of the orchestra and the motion of Dino’s baton are all I see and hear. This is good.

But the end of the first movement is upon me and I remember nothing. Dino seems unconcerned. Piano’s keyboard is stretching away beyond my reach. My hands seem remote. My position feels wrong. I start adjusting the stool but can’t get comfortable. Dino waits politely. Unhappily, I nod and the second movement begins.

Never before have I lost my way in a performance.

During the fourth stanza I feel an uneasiness from the violins and the violas stop, bows raised. The cellos have looked up, not at Dino, but at me. Dino’s baton beats time, nothing more. The orchestra falls in line, treading water. I look down questioningly at Piano. She doesn’t answer. We’ve drifted into an alien key and I can’t see a way back. Restlessness spreads across the audience.

I stop and lift my hands. They are steady and I am calm. I lower them to my lap and a sense of relief pervades me.

Dino’s baton beats metronomically. One by one, the orchestra’s voices stop, instruments lowering. I sense there’s no surprise. Eventually, the only audible voice is the soundless beat of Dino’s baton.

Piano’s angry.

A murmur of discontent ripples around the auditorium and someone calls out. Hands clap, picking up the beat of Dino’s baton. The lights stay dim. A slow-hand-clap swells.

Piano’s brooding.

Enough. I raise my hands. The crowd, for it can no longer be considered an audience, quietens.

I play a gentle sequence of chords, an entry for the orchestra, and Dino, a concoction of relief and exasperation, collects them together and the larghetto continues.

The concerto’s finale brings a standing ovation – quite why, I’ve no idea. I’d played with the commitment of someone who no longer cares. But the applause won’t stop. Is Piano talking to me – talking through this – this crowd?

I go to her and run the back of my fingers over her keys. The crowd hushes – expectant. I close my eyes. It’s time.

I sit and the crowd follows. All qualms are gone. I know exactly what to say.

As the crowd relaxes into their seats, I start a short piece of Beethoven. Major key. Easy tempo. A simple melody with relaxing harmonies. Subtle key changes give a seriousness that seems undeserved. The audience has caught the melancholic mood. The piece migrates into a harsh discordant theme, notes arguing, but an underlying current holds them together, brings back the original tune and I’m heading for the rising but controlled ending. The people are sitting forward, a look of disbelief on their faces as the final notes drip like tears.

~

Outside, I lean on the rail and, across the river, Big Ben booms out so everyone can see.

Dino appears beside me. A barge looms into view briefly before disappearing ghostlike under Westminster Bridge.

‘Beethoven’s Farewell to the Piano,’ he says. ‘A decree absolute?’

Flickering stars glitter volumes in return for my silence.

‘That audience.’ He shook his head. ‘After you left they didn’t move. For a full two or three minutes, they didn’t make a single sound. You really gottem. Then some rose, not really knowing whether they should or not. Others followed. Others stayed. It was quite comical really.’

I was smiling, self-satisfied and smug. My old mentor was wrong. Why did I have to break with Piano to discover that?

‘So, this is it,’ Dino says.

The moistness in his eyes betrays that he is choked with emotion. I turn away and look down into the inky water. I shiver but it’s not the cold which drives my hands deeper into my pockets.

Dino walks away. I don’t turn around and I’m sure he doesn’t look back.

I walk slowly along to Waterloo Bridge and hail a cab. A few words to the cabbie and I’m being carried north towards basement clubs. I close my eyes and imagine Piano as, with lid down and keyboard closed, covers are pulled over her and she’s wheeled away into the wings by men in brown coats.