December 26, 1995 – San Francisco
This evening something rather unexpected happened... I had been exchanging gifts at the largest department store in San Francisco (you'd think Lars would know that I wear a medium shirt by now), and dragged home, fairly tired, on the subway. My regular train didn't come, so I took one which puts me out of my way about five blocks; during the walk, along a quiet residential street with a few streetlights, I passed a Victorian house with two men sitting on the front steps, drinking what looked like eggnog. One of them hailed me – "Hello, how are you," or something similar – and I paused for just a second; then he said, "Do you play the piano?" I was surprised, but said, Yes... and he said, "My friend Carl, used to be a piano teacher, he's pretty sick, and he'd like it if you'd play something for him."
Here I felt somewhat caught out – I'm not much of a pianist (let's face it, I was a singer who banged out a few things on the piano, at the very best). But I could hardly refuse... so he led me into a rather strange drawing room (bourgeois and fairly well off, but with odd hand–made decorations with lots of glittering things, and various religious symbols scattered around), and I put my jacket and shopping bag on a chair and sat down to an electric piano... I said, well, maybe I can play one thing, but I probably won't remember anything else. He told me, that's fine, Carl's in the next room, and he was a teacher; so it doesn't have to be perfect, he just wants to know that the piano is being played.
I was feeling somewhat trapped – not by him, he was perfectly nice, but by my own limitations at the instrument... anyway, I banged my way through Couperin's Les baricades misterieuses, and most of one of Chopin's Nouvelles études (the one with the 2–against–3 stuff), which are practically the only pieces I can get through without the music anymore. The situation felt safe, but odd, as though I had fallen into an O. Henry story – and my own rather frantic self–criticism was the biggest concern of all. (Electric pianos seem so different – was my left hand really that heavy? And why do the pedals seem rather strange?) I stopped and looked over the controls for the volume, etc.; the man asked me if I had been brought up Christian, which I answered rather evasively (I always do).
Then someone – Carl, of course – began moaning in pain in the next room. ("Pretty sick," in my neighborhood, usually means: dying of AIDS; the "pretty" is a modifier indicating extremely sick, in pain, close to the end.) The man rose rather calmly and said, I should go be with him now; feel free to keep playing, if you don't mind; if you have to go, I've left something on your jacket for you. I couldn't think of anything else from memory, but fortunately the Bach French Suites were on the piano, so I hacked my way through several of the slower minuets. Then I thought, well, I guess it's time to go. When I picked up my jacket it had a rather unusual handmade cross on it, fashioned of Mexican coins nailed to wood, with a large rhinestone in the center... I put it down on the chair; I didn't want to be ungracious in not accepting the gift, but I really don't care much for decorative objects, and I tend to be rather allergic to Christian symbolism – so I thought he wouldn't mind too much if I left it behind.
And walked out and home, thinking: music really matters, sometimes...
That's a really beautiful vignette. Very moving.
Posted by: Lars | January 15, 2007 at 06:37 PM