The Piano (the end)

Previously on “The Piano”. Carlos, a concert pianist finds a work piano in a music store. The store and the owner are odd. The shop-owner tells Carlos the Piano belonged to a famous and ill-fated musician of the XIXth century. The Piano seems to have a life of its own. Carlos and his friend Maria, another musician, try to unravel the mystery of The Piano and the ‘Unfinished Concerto’ written by The Piano’s original owner.

For Charlotte and George

5

They arrived at Carlos’ apartment around six. It was night already. The Piano looked like any other piano. Maria looked at it and would even play a few notes.

“I don’t like your piano. It has an air of…”

“Melancholy? Sadness?” said Carlos.

“Yes. No. Worse. It’s… it’s giving me the chills. Hey, how did Schopenhauser die?” Maria asked.

“I don’t know exactly. I think they found him dead at his home. Near the Piano maybe. I don’t remember very well. There aren’t many details about him. At that time, he was a total unknown. I know he died very young, 22, give or take.”

“I don’t like it. Your piano scares me.”

“I’ll cover it with a bedsheet. Is that better?”

“Yes.” said Maria. She moved away from the Piano:

“Aren’t you going to offer me anything?”

“Yes, of course. Would you like some wine?”

Ten minutes later, they had completely forgotten about The Piano. They spent two hours in another world, enjoying each other’s presence. Carlos looked at her, trying to discover what was behind those ever-changing eyes. He watched her move around the apartment, committing her moves to memory. He thought of the many times they’d played music together, the rehearsals, the concerts. He knew it could be a long road. Her divorce had left her on edge. Carlos wasn’t even sure the papers were signed.

Maria stood up.

“I have to go.”

“Can you do me a favour tomorrow?” said Carlos.

“In the morning? Yes. Of course. I don’t have rehearsals” Maria answered.

“Can you go to the instrument store?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“While I’m in London, I want you to ask the old man everything he knows about The Piano, about Schopenhauser. Here’s the address: 29 bis Boulevard Beaumarchais.”

“Will do. First thing in the morning.”

“You sure you don’t want to come to London?”

“Sure. I’m not going. But I’ll leave you a memory.” Maria kissed him lightly on the lips. She looked into his eyes then ran down the stairs.

6

That night was worse for Carlos. He dreamt of Schopenhauser, of Maria, of London, of the music store, of The Piano.

The rain beating on the glass roof woke him up. He’d gotten up in his sleep. He was sitting on the bench, in front of the Piano. He had a pen in his hand. In front of him, five more sheets filled with the same musical theme he had started the day before.

7

London, Thursday…

Maria dear,

I missed the return flight. Or rather, it was full. Same thing. I don’t know why I’m writing this if I’ll see you in Paris tomorrow. Perhaps it’s a way of noting down what happened before I go mad.

I arrived in London without a glitch, at least until Heathrow. Then, as usual, it took me longer to get from the airport to the centre than from Paris to London. When I finally reached the Royal Academy of music, I asked the librarian (your typical English lady, with rosy cheeks and perfectly coiffed white hair, who practically invited me to tea and scones) whether I could make a copy of Schopenhauser’s manuscript.

“How extraordinary!” she said. “Someone asked for it yesterday. It should be in this drawer.” She opened the drawer of music manuscripts and books to be filed. Not there.

“Ah!” she said. “Now I remember. The gentleman who consulted it told me he’d left it on the day’s documents table. We don’t file them until the next day. It should still be there.”

Obviously, it wasn’t on the table. I asked the increasingly concerned librarian, if she could look up Schopenhauser in the Encyclopedia of authors-composers, musicians, whatever. She found the Encyclopedia, and almost fainted: someone had cut out a page: the one for SCH.

I was shaking. The librarian was in shock. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. She dug up the card of the gentleman who’d consulted the manuscript. Name was indecipherable, with an old-fashioned handwriting. But the address was perfectly clear: Boulevard Beaumarchais 29 bis, Paris. The music store’s address.

I remembered you were going there in the morning. I panicked. I ran out of the archives room, looking for a telephone to warn you off the store. I called the Symphony, you weren’t there. I called your home. Spoke to your son. He told me you’d come home for lunch quite angry, ranting about wild goose chases, but he knew better than ask why. At least you were fine. In a way.

Again, I don’t know why I’m writing all this. Or maybe, I know why. How scared I was that something might have happened to you. This Piano thing is getting out of hand.

Bye (Wish you’d’ve come to London. Such a great place…)

Carlos

8

When Carlos arrived in Paris on Friday, under intense rain, Maria wasn’t at the Symphonie. She’d left him a note:

My dear scoundrel,

First, I was p….d off. Now I’m beginning to think your story’s a joke.

Can’t tell you more now. I have a rehearsal at one.

See you here in the afternoon.

Ciao,

Maria

Carlos left his letter for Maria at the reception of the Maison de Radio-France, promising the doorman that he would cut him into little pieces if he didn’t hand it to Maria, and please, to tell her to wait for him. The doorman laughed and promised that he would not only deliver the letter but would also tie Maria up in the reception until Carlos returned.

Carlos managed to get a taxi, under the unending rain. He got his flat after crossing a near-flooded Paris. The Piano seemed to be waiting for him, almost sarcastic, in the twilight of the painter’s studio.

Carlos rummaged in a closet looking for his student papers. In the very last box he found what he was after: an ancient Xerox copy of Schopenhauser’s biography. Reading it after so many years gave him goosebumps.

Schopenhauser was born in Berlin, in a bourgeois family. He’d studied music from a very young age. Gave his first concert at 10. Had all the promise of a unique career, when he apparently committed suicide at the age of 22, throwing himself out the window of the fourth floor. Neighbours later reported hearing tremendous dissonance on The Piano.

Carlos was dumbfounded. How could he have forgotten that? He now remembered the analysis of the Unfinished Concerto they’d done in class. The teacher had commented that there was ‘something wrong, even abnormal’ in the structure of the concerto. No-one had actually been able to premiere the work. It was practically impossible to play.

Carlos looked at his watch. Five o’clock. Maria! The Symphonie.

9

The rain stopped when Carlos arrived at the Maison de Radio-France. Maria was waiting for him. He could see it in her eyes that she’d read his letter. They looked at each other for a few seconds. Hugged. Carlos couldn’t let go of her. He stroked her hair. To make sure she was all right. Maria ran her hand over his face, his hair, his neck.

“Carlos,” she said, “are you okay? You have to get rid of The Piano. Something is very wrong. The store…”

“You went to the store?”

“Carlos, there is no store! I don’t know who gave you this, this… God-forsaken piano, because the store doesn’t exist!”

“No way! I was there…”

“There is no store, Carlos! There is no number 29 bis on Boulevard Beaumarchais! Number 29 is a dry cleaner. Number 31 is a bakery. The other side of the street are even numbers. As in all Paris streets. There are no shops on the ground floor. They’re apartment buildings. You got a piano out of nowhere! Let me say it again: there is no music store. I even thought you’d sent me on a wild goose chase. Pissed me off until I read your letter…”

They stayed another hour at a café around the block, analysing everything, trying to understand. There was a Piano. There was no store. Rain was threatening again. Maria wouldn’t let go of Carlos’ hand. She tried to convince him not to return to the apartment. Carlos said:

“Nothing’s gonna happen today. I’ll call someone tomorrow to take The Piano away. Emmaüs. A second-hand dealer. Anybody.”

They stood up. Carlos hugged Maria and said:

“Leave me another memory.”

Their second kiss felt as if it would be the last. As Carlos ran down the stairs of the Métro, to get out of the rain, Carlos remembered that the ‘Unfinished Concerto’ was originally called ‘Rains of March’…

10

The door to Carlos’ apartment wasn’t locked. The concierge had a key, she must have brought up something for Carlos and forgotten to lock the door.

There was a large-size, brown envelope on top of the Piano. Carlos opened it with shaking hands. He knew what was inside. He tore the envelope open. Yellowed music sheets fell to the floor.  Schopenhauser’s manuscript.

11

Maria returned to her empty apartment: her son was with her ex. She called Carlos. The answering machine picked up, which could be good, because Carlos never left the answering machine on when he was home. Maybe he’d gone to a friend’s.

12

Carlos stared at the manuscript. Didn’t dare touch it. The Piano was waiting for him. He picked up the sheets on the floor. Began to read the music. After two pages, he stopped, the colour drained from his face. Where was what he’d written those past days? He didn’t need much of a confirmation. He knew that the theme he had written and the theme of “Rains of March” were the same.

Carlos was finishing Schopenhauser’s concerto. The Piano was conducting.

13

The lightning woke Maria in the middle of a nightmare. She’d been dreaming of Carlos. All she remembered from the dream was Carlos in a large room, sitting in front of the Piano, writing. There were several sheets of music paper scattered on the floor.

Maria got up, dressed, and went out to get her car.

14

Carlos could no longer control his hands. His left hand ran across the keyboard. Playing. His right hand wrote note after note on the empty staves at the end of Schopenhauser’s manuscript. The rain was getting worse. Would the glass roof hold? The rain was pouring inside the flat from an open window. He got up to close the window.

15

Maria arrived at Carlos’ building at two in the morning. She had to wake the concierge up to open the front door. Ran up the six floors up to Carlos’ apartment. No lift. She banged on the door. No answer though she could hear the Piano playing a theme she’d never heard, a theme that howled with the wind and rain battering the building.

She ran down the stairs, tore the apartment key from the concierge’s hand, climbed up again to Carlos’ apartment. Opened the door.

The painter’s studio was filled with wild, savage music, The Piano at the centre of a musical storm. Carlos wasn’t playing. He’d finished writing Schopenhauser’s ‘Unfinished Concerto’. The Piano alone was playing.

Maria screamed: “Carlos! No!”

Carlos was about to jump through the open window. Maria understood in a second that she would never be able to reach him on time. She had to stop The Piano.

16

Maria saw a vase on a low table. She grabbed it and threw it with all her strength on the keyboard. The vase shattered, breaking into pieces, destroying several keys.

The music stopped. Carlos turned around. Saw Maria. As if waking from a nightmare, he stepped down from the window, towards Maria.

“You saved my life. I was going to throw myself out the window. Like Schopenhauser. The Piano was pushing me outside.”

“Yes. For a second, I saw you dead.”

They held each other tight. Carlos couldn’t let go of Maria. Maria couldn’t let go of Carlos. Eyes closed. Breathing in unison. Then, much later, they looked at each other.

“And now?” Carlos asked.

“Now what?” Maria asked.

“Let’s go to London?”

“Let’s.”

THE END

This is a work of fiction, the exclusive product of the author’s bonkers imagination. Any resemblance with actual situations, events, people dead or alive, would be a mere coincidence.

This story is for Charlotte, a very talented singer and her husband George, a very talented pianist. (Even though I suspect they were barely born when I wrote the original Spanish version…) See Charlotte’s wonderful blog here:

https://charlottehoatherblog.com/

(c) Martin-Onraët & Equinoxio; The Steinway name and logo (c) Steinway & sons.