Sonata No. 15 in D Minor "The Pianist"

            by Adam Poole

 

FIRST MOVEMENT

            A business man with a hat and coat over his suit walked briskly as the chill wind buffeted him. He turned onto 11th street and saw his warm office building at the end of the block. As he passed the gold-lettered doors of Chez Louis, his favorite restaurant, he stopped and peered in, despite his desire to get out of the weather. From behind the glass doors came an enchanting piano melody, so striking in its emotion that for a brief moment he stood captivated, the wind whistling through his coat.

 

            Schroeder saw the man standing at the door, staring at him as he played the piano, but he paid him no attention. He looked instead around the room. The walls were a creamy white, dotted by paintings in ornate frames. The tables were all round with white tablecloths and unlit candles in the center. A waitress weaved her way through them, setting the places for the evening meal. A salad plate with a navy blue napkin folded on top, a spoon and knife on the right and two forks on the left, size increasing closer to the plate. A chair had been pulled away from the table closest to him and in it sat a heavy man in a well-pressed tuxedo. Schroeder brought his attention back to the keys in front of him, his nimble fingers dancing across the black and white stripes. He knew the music by heart, but he looked at the papers nonetheless, watching the final notes as he played them. Silence flooded the room upon his finish, marred only by the clink of silverware.

            “And which was that again?” Asked the fat man, his elegant demeanor diminished by his slightly open mouth.

            “Chopin’s second étude in A minor, opus number ten.”

            “Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” he said, pausing in between each word.  “You’re hired.” Schroeder sat still and the fat man shifted in his chair. He picked up a stack of papers off the table, shuffling through them.

            “I see here that you worked previously at the Hotel Ignacio on 15th street.” He looked at Schroeder but quickly returned his gaze to the paper upon meeting the hollow eyes of the pianist. “The repertoire is up to you. Just keep it calm. You’re still background music.” Schroeder said nothing. At a clash of metal in the kitchen the fat man jumped from his seat, dropping the papers.

            “I’d better, um, go see what that was.” He got up hastily and turned his back to Schroeder, waddling briskly away to the kitchen doors. “You might as well stay here. We open in less than an hour,” he called back.

            Schroeder put his hands on the keyboard, pausing before launching into his next piece. He swayed ever so sightly with the music, his stiff upright torso pivoting back and forth.

            The waitress who had been setting the tables stopped and looked at the pianist. She held herself, fork and spoon in hand, poised over a half-finished place setting. The music filled the otherwise quiet room. She stared at the pianist. The music changed tone quite suddenly. She dropped the spoon and with a thud it landed on the red carpet. Schroeder looked over at her. The two locked eyes for a moment but the young waitress turned her head away sharply and bent to pick up the spoon. As she crouched she peered up at the pianist, whose fingers were playing the keys with renewed vigor. He wore recently shined shoes and an infallibly black suit. His tie was black and clipped. His mildly young face held a look of relaxed concentration, his eyes open but not focused on anything in particular. His short brown hair was neatly combed, the bangs swept off to the side of his brow.

            The waitress inhaled sharply, set the dirtied spoon in her pocket, and approached the pianist. Her feet moved to the slow beat of the new piece. She read across the top of the sheet music on the piano “Mozart: Fantasia in D Minor.” Schroeder turned his head and again his hollow eyes locked with those of the waitress. The young girl’s heart jumped to her throat as she beheld the moaning melody reflect in the musician’s face.  

            “Who are you?” she asked softly.

            “A pianist,” replied Schroeder, still staring at her.

            “You play beautifully,” she stuttered. “I love…” Schroeder’s heart skipped a beat and and his finger slipped. “Your music,” the waitress continued. Schroeder cast his eyes down at the keyboard and pursed his lips. The song ended.

            “So do I,” he said in a voice so distant she thought it had come from somewhere else. “So do I,” he repeated after a moment, this time with an intensely melancholy tone.

            The fat man emerged from the swinging kitchen doors. The two looked up at him, the waitress wearing a startled look with a drop of fear, and Schroeder, his eyes blank.

            “Lucy, they need you in the kitchen.” The waitress hurried off, glancing once back at Schroeder before pushing through the swinging doors. The fat man stood in front of the pianist, his gaze shifting around the room to avoid eye contact.

            “You, um, might want to get some dinner before we open. I have to, uh, see to the front desk,” he said, walking past Schroeder who, after a moment, rose gracefully from the piano. He glanced at it in hesitation, then turned away and headed for the kitchen.

                SECOND MOVEMENT

            Schroeder peered through the circular windows on the swinging doors before entering. Inside he saw a bustle of activity, chefs in white rushing from pot to pan and waiters in black dashing along the aisles balancing plates and bowls. Schroeder backed away quickly as one such waiter rushed his way. The door flew open, just missing the startled pianist, and the waiter walked out, glancing at Schroeder in passing. The door had settled back in its place before Schroeder went up to it again. This time he gave it a small push and slipped into the kitchen. It was a large room whose many stainless steel counters reflected the glaring light for an unbearably bright effect. The noise was a stark difference to the quiet of the dining room; fans whirred on the ceiling, boiling soups gurgled intensely, and the grill hissed and spat in the corner. Schroeder approached one of the soups; it was green with floating vegetables. He looked around for a chef, but they were all very busy. He took a bowl from the stack on the counter and ladled some of the soup into it. Picking a spoon from a pile he slowly brought the steaming liquid to his lips and blew to cool it off. Before he could put it in his mouth, he was interrupted by the voice of a woman.

            “Don’t try that one! It’s revolting.” Schroeder looked up to see the waitress Lucy smiling at him. He remained motionless, the spoon poised at his lips. He became distinctly aware of his heartbeat. He cast his eyes away from the waitress, his sedated manner dissipating. She laughed, he blushed, and she said, “Here, this one’s my favorite,” grasping his arm and leading him further into the kitchen. He was still quite frightened, however, and resisted the movement. The soup went flying out of his hands onto her white shirt. The bowl crashed to the tiled floor and shattered. The two stared at each other a minute, Schroeder’s normally blank face cringing with shock and trepidation. Lucy grinned at him.

            “I did that on my first day too.” She picked up a napkin and tried to wipe the green liquid off her clothes. Schroeder stood frozen, his eyes wide but relieved. A faint smile played across his lips.

            “I’m sorry,” he stuttered, casting his eyes away from the mess. “How I wish I had brought Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet Overture,” he said in an undertone and his fingers began to twitch. Lucy didn’t hear him.

            “Oh my! I have to change, we open soon!” she muttered and began to take off the shirt, but stopped abruptly and looked up at Schroeder as he shifted his legs. Lucy rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and pushed past the pianist to go through the doors.

            He watched the waitress as she hurried out the front and he felt the cold air blow in. He shivered and looked around. The cooks and waiters didn’t seem to have noticed that anything had happened. They scurried about, getting ready to open. Schroeder looked down at the mess on the floor. When he raised his face it was stricken with newfound fear.

            “It, um, needs, uh … can someone …” the pianist’s faint voice trailed off and he glanced nervously about before dashing through the doors, letting them swing widely behind him. He ran for the front entrance, trying to remember which way Lucy went, but as he passed the piano he made a quick swerve and planted himself on the cushioned bench. He sat, slightly hunched and tried to slow his breath.

            “Third movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, number fourteen in C-sharp minor.” He closed his eyes.

            “I’m not paying you to sit around,” came the voice of the fat man as he walked by the piano to the kitchen. Schroeder watched him with trepidation as he pushed open the kitchen doors.

            “Somebody clean up this mess, you lazy pigs,” said the fat man’s voice from inside. Schroeder sighed and looked up at his music. He shuffled through the Beethoven sonatas and picked out number 8, “Pathétique” in C minor. His body shuttered with the first chord and he began to calm as he went on.

                THIRD MOVEMENT

            At the start of the third movement a group of three businessmen walked in the door. They carried briefcases and wore black suits. Their subdued and serious chatter suggested that they were on business. The receptionist led them to a table on the far wall, but one of the businessmen pointed to the pianist and asked to be seated closer to him. She nodded and sat the three men at a table behind Schroeder. One of them opened his briefcase and showed the other men a paper with colorful graphs and large numbers. The receptionist looked around nervously, and at that moment a waitress, Lucy, came in the front door. She hurried to the table with the three men, maintaining the elegant air whose presence is critical to such establishments.

            The pianist glanced at the waitress as she bent over the table to distribute menus. His previously statuesque torso shifted on the seat. He quickly ended the piece and she left to the kitchen.

            “May I make a request?” asked one of the businessmen, the one who had pointed to him earlier. The pianist began to turn on his seat, but thought better of it and simply craned his neck around. He stared at the man a moment.

            “Yes.”

            “Do you know ‘Music of the Night’ from ‘The Phantom of the Opera’?”

            “As you like,” replied Schroeder. He faced the piano and began to play. The businessman turned back to his partners and recommenced discussing the papers. The waitress Lucy pushed through the swinging kitchen doors with a tray of water glasses. Schroeder watched her as she made her way to the table behind him.

            “Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation,” he whispered along with the lyrics, surprising himself. The waitress walked slowly, eyeing the new group of diners that had just entered. He sat more upright. “Silently the senses abandon their defenses,” he sang to himself, deciding it would be okay this once. She disappeared behind his line of sight, and he tried to return his focus to the piano in front of him. Alas, he could see her reflection in the polished black paint. He found that he was breathing heavily and attempted to calm himself. He concentrated on the lyrics instead.

            “Hearing is believing, music is deceiving,” he sang quietly.

            “Would any of you like to see the wine list?” asked Lucy from behind him.

            “Yes, that would be wonderful, thank you.” 

            “Dare you trust the music of the night,” came the soft voice of the pianist. One of the men looked over at him with a questioning face.

            “Excuse me, did you say something?” he asked. Schroeder inhaled deeply but kept silent and stared forward, his fingers moving with an uncanny intensity. Lucy turned and locked eyes with the back of his head.

            I’ll be right back with the list,” she said, not breaking her gaze. She abruptly turned and left. The men went back to talking.

            “Close your eyes for your eyes will only tell the truth, and the truth isn’t what you want to see,” whispered the pianist. He obediently closed his eyes and let his head fall back, feeling out the keys on the piano. He listened a moment to the noise of the room, letting the music carry him. He identified the chatter of the businessmen and the other patrons, the clink of silverware and plates, and the steps of a woman coming closer to him. He opened his eyes and quite suddenly bent closer to the keyboard. He watched his fingers and then let his eyes drift up to the reflection of the waitress on the piano.

            “Softly, deftly, music shall caress you…”

            “I suggest you look at the regional wines, this year’s vintage is particularly good.”

            “Hear it, feel it, secretly posses you.”

            “Thank you ma’am, we will.”

            “I’ll be back in a minute.” The waitress walked off to the kitchen. The pianist could see her now and he watched her every move. He was completely absorbed in the moment.

            “Close your eyes and let music set you free,” he continued in his whispered song.  “Only then, can you belong to me.” She disappeared behind the doors. He sighed heavily and noticed that some of the diners were staring at him. He turned his head back to the piano and paid them no attention. Though she was not there, Schroeder could see the waitress in the piano, where she had been before. He looked longingly at the imagined reflection.

            “Is that man alright?” asked one of the businessmen in a hushed voice. “He’s not even looking at the keys.”

            “Yes, he is amazing. He plays so emotionally,” replied another.

            “By God, look at him now!” The three men stared at the pianist whose head followed Lucy as she carried water glasses to another table. They could perceive a slight rythmic motion in his whole body, though it was not to the beat of the music. She looked up at him, sensing that she was being watched. She peered curiously at his face, then her eyes opened wide in horror. The music was climaxing and as she watched, the pianist began to sing along in a loud, strong voice;

            “You alone can make my song take flight! Help me make the music of the night!”

            The chatter of the room halted instantly and the elegance shattered. Not a single clatter of well-polished silver spoons or ding of meticulously shined wine glasses broke the pianist’s note. The face above every tie and pearled necklace looked at him aghast as his voice gave way to an overpowering spasm. The fat man burst into the room from the front, beheld the situation, and nearly ran to the pianist, his face red. Schroeder looked around, fear seeping back into his previous pleasantly contented face. He got up quickly and looked back at the fat man. His exit was blocked. He ran to the kitchen, shoving open the swinging doors. He paused inside, looking frantically around the room. He stammered nonsense at a bewildered cook and slumped against the counter. Lucy came rushing in the doors, but Schroeder could not look at her. The fat man came in too but before he could say anything, the pianist crumpled on the floor, overtaken by powerful convulsions.

            “Mozart’s … Requiem,” he stuttered, his eyes rolling wildly.

            After a moment, the cook began to stir his soup, shaking a bit of salt into it. A waiter stuck his head in the door inquisitively and the slightly elevated chatter of the diners floated into the kitchen. The fat man scowled at the convulsing pianist and calmly walked back away. Lucy slowly shook her head before grabbing some more water glasses. She pushed her way through the swinging doors with the tray, glancing, as she wove through the tables, at the empty seat at the piano.