Porcelain Keys (22 page)

His acute perception and acknowledgment of my struggles brought an unwanted wave of emotion. I swallowed back the rising tears and spread my napkin over my lap, trying to get control of myself before I ruined my mascara. I took a few deep breaths, and when I felt in control, I looked up at Nathaniel. “I try not to think about him, about Thomas,” I admitted, “but he always seems to creep in, especially when I’m playing. I have to shut him out. And I can’t do that without shutting everything out. My playing suffers. Sometimes it sounds as flat and dead as I feel.”

“So stop shutting him out.”

I shook my head slowly. “Shutting him out is the only thing that keeps me sane. If you can consider me sane.”

He reached forward and squeezed my hand with paternal affection. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. You can do this, Aria. You can take all that grief and sorrow inside you and do something useful with it. It won’t kill you. It’ll be hard at first, but it’ll make you stronger.” He let go of my hand and leaned back in his chair. “And it definitely wouldn’t hurt to take a break from studying and make some friends. It’s impossible to get through the pressures of Juilliard without a friend to talk to now and then.”

We sat there quietly, him leaning back in his chair staring at me with concern, me watching customers come and go, until our food came. I prodded my lasagna with my fork, trying to think of a way to change the subject to more pleasant things.

Nathaniel leaned forward again after taking a few bites of his pasta. “Listen. There’s nothing wrong with working hard. In fact, it’s one of your greatest virtues. But don’t let it become everything in your life. Ultimately, the only thing that brings true happiness is your relationships with other people. Yes, sometimes relationships fail. When they do, you shouldn’t give up. Just try another.”

He was talking like I could just put up a
For Sale
sign over my heart and find myself a new owner. “Have you ever been in love?” I asked a little too harshly, thinking he couldn’t possibly know how I felt.

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation. “But it didn’t work out. And guess what? I became a better musician because of it. It was hard—sort of like having my heart scraped out bit by bit with a dull spoon. But I gathered up the pieces and moved on, and chose not to pathetically wallow in misery for the rest of my life.”

His words sounded more severe than he probably intended, and his expression softened, as did his voice. “I just want you to be happy. This—Juilliard—it’s what you wanted. It’s what Karina always wanted for you. I’m sure she is happy for you, wherever she is. And so you should be happy too.”

“I want to be happy, and I’m trying to be. I just don’t know how to deal with all the grief I still feel.”

“You can’t deal with it unless you first acknowledge it. And once you acknowledge it, force yourself to move forward. Your grief will walk beside you for a while, but you will get stronger, and the grief will start to lag. But you have to keep moving, living, feeling. Take in what’s around you, and you will find new things to love, to enjoy. The pain may not ever entirely go away”—he grimaced slightly
as he said this—“but it will be far enough away that it won’t hurt so much.”

“Nathaniel, who was the girl? I mean, the one who got away?”

He waved his hand as if to brush off the subject. “It was a long time ago.”

I gazed at him curiously, hoping if I was quiet long enough, he would open up.

He finished chewing a bite of pasta, then set down his fork and sighed. “She was my wife.”

My mouth dropped open. “Your wife? I didn’t know—”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“What happened to her?”

He smiled humorlessly. “I said I don’t like to talk about it.”

I took a bite of lasagna and stared at him again, perfectly content to wait all night if needed.

Absentmindedly, he began running the prongs of his fork over the red sauce on his plate, making little parallel lines, then crossing them out with new ones. “We got married young, and we thought that love would somehow heal our differences.” His fork switched directions, and now he made a row of loops. “She was a musician. But she wanted a life I couldn’t give her.”

“What kind of life?”

He set down his fork. “A small, quiet life where we didn’t have to drag kids all over the world for our performances. She wanted to settle down somewhere and teach, and she wanted me to do the same. But I wanted to be on the stage, to see the world and meet new people. I wanted each day to be different than the last, to bathe in the sound of thunderous applause every night. In the end, we just couldn’t reconcile our differences. So she moved on.”

“Do you regret not giving her the life she wanted?”

He took a sip of water and paused, gazing past me into some long-forgotten place and time. “After spending years traveling and performing, I grew tired of the brutality of a concert career. I came to the sad realization that even though I woke up in a different place every morning, each day was the same as the last. Wake up in an empty hotel room, go to the airport to fly to a new city, practice all day by myself, perform for a thousand strangers, go back to an empty hotel room.” He pushed a piece of bow tie pasta around on his almost-empty plate. “Yes—I regret not giving her the life she wanted. Every day of my life. I would give up every performance I ever gave to be able to go back and spend a lifetime with her.”

“I’m so sorry, Nathaniel.”

“It’s okay,” he said with a little smile, though the pain in his eyes suggested otherwise. “I made my choice, and now I have to live with the consequence.”

The waiter showed up and asked if we wanted dessert.

“Which dessert has the highest calorie content?” Nathaniel asked the waiter.

“I’m not sure . . . probably the chocolate cheesecake.”

“Great. She’ll have a slice,” he ordered, gesturing to me.

I arched an eyebrow.

“You’ve gotten too thin.”

The waiter turned, but Nathaniel called him back. “Oh, and could you put a candle in it?”

“Why the candle?” I asked after the waiter nodded and walked away.

“For your birthday. It’s this month, right?”

“Um, actually, my birthday is in August.”

He was about to take a sip of his water, but he froze and
looked at me over his glass. “Your birthday is in August?” It was a question, but it sounded more like a statement. He stared at me with wide eyes, seeming stunned by this news. Then slowly, a strange, almost imperceptible pain eased into his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me last summer?”

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t feel like celebrating. But why did you think my birthday was in February?”

“I could have sworn . . . ,” he mumbled mostly to himself. “Huh. Never mind. Lousy memory.” He pointed to his head. He suddenly seemed distracted, drumming his fingers on the table, his eyes darting about like he was solving some complex mathematical equation. His face went pale, and little beads of sweat formed on his brow.

“Nathaniel, are you all right?”

He stood abruptly. “Excuse me. I’m just going to run to the men’s room.”

I watched him dash off to the men’s room, and soon I was surrounded by a handful of Italian waiters. One of them slid a slice of cheesecake with a burning candle in front of me and they all started singing, “
Tanti auguri a te.
” I smiled and blew out the candle, all the while wondering what was wrong with Nathaniel.

When he came back ten minutes later, he looked worse than when he left. The rims of his eyes were red, his face still pale and clammy. He didn’t bother sitting down. “I’m sorry, Aria. I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll go back to my hotel room.” He pulled the tickets for the symphony out of his suit jacket and handed them to me. “You’re welcome to go still. Maybe you can ask a roommate to go with you.”

I nodded and took the tickets, though I couldn’t think of anyone I wanted to go with.

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.

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.