Music Man

by Teresa Tipping

Today was the worst day Nicholas had experienced.  Worse even than the 1987 riots in Brasov, which had been terrifying yet exciting, when he had accompanied his father and brother to join the crowds protesting over the exportation of Romania’s food to fund Ceausescu’s projects.  Today, seeing his father raise his hand to their dear mother would haunt him for the rest of his life.

            A shy, reflective boy, 12 year old Nicholas was tall and spindly, lacking the fine muscle tone of his more athletic, elder brother, Anton, but they got on well enough.  Both had unruly ginger hair and a drizzle of freckles.  Together with their little sisters, the brothers stood in the far corner watching the drama unfold.

            Beneath the window, Nicholas’s beloved companion, the walnut piano gracing the room with its grandeur was at the core of the family quarrel. Their father, Miklos, a veritable giant, gripped its sides with large, rough hands to lift it.  Her impassioned pleas ignored, their mother lunged at Miklos, clawing his arm.  Never had their parents quarrelled like this.

            “No, Miklos, not the piano,” she screamed.  “Not my piano.  It is all I have left from Father and what of Nicholas?  Such talent wasted?”

            “Anna, there is never enough food these days.  If I do not sell the piano, who knows what will happen to the children.”

            “Even if you get a good price, where can you but this food all of a sudden?  There is little enough in the shops.”

            “I have been promised a steady supply in return for this piano by a man from the Ministry.  The piano is for his daughter.”

            “How can you trust this man?”

            “I have no choice.”

            As their father pushed the piano towards the door, their mother clung desperately to its glowing walnut veneer.  Nicholas watched silently with clenched fists wanting to help his mother but he dared not.

            “You cannot take it,” she begged.

            The blow was sudden, ferocious, catching her unawares.  Anna toppled across the wooden floor, her head narrowly missing the iron scuttle in the hearth.  Nicholas cried out as she lay inert while Miklos stood frozen and the girls sobbed.  With a sudden rush of adrenalin, Anton yelled and the brothers tumbled together to reach their mother’s side.

            “How dare he raise his hand to you,” Anton said as together they lifted her into the sturdy oak chair by the fire.

            “Shut your mouth.  I will deal with you later,” Miklos growled.  “See to your mother.”

            Nicholas bathed her temple with a cool, wet cloth as the girls clung to her skirt.

            “He had no choice,” she said, her head tilted back against the chair, eyes closed.  “I was selfish and hysterical.  Now fetch me a drink please Anton.”

            “I will kill him for this,” Anton whispered as their father continued pushing, heaving until he managed to get the piano outside and onto the truck.

            Anna lifted her head.  “No,” she said, her eyes glazed.  “Your father is a good man.  He wants to do what is right for us.”

            When Miklos returned, the deed done, he brought home a basket heaving with food – coffee, bread, fresh eggs, butter, honey, cheese and some fine mutton.

            They sat in silence eating the biggest meal they could remember for a long time but for Nicholas, his appetite had deserted him.  Later, in bed as Nicholas curled up against Anton’s strong back, they heard their father cry;  a feral call from his soul.

            Next morning, Miklos summoned Nicholas to the table alone.  In front of him, lay a flat brown cloth.  “How important is music to you, Nicholas?” he asked.

            “You know it means everything to me,” Nicholas said, trying to stay calm.

            “All is not lost, my boy.”  Miklos unwrapped the cloth to reveal a sheet of long paper on which were drawn the keys of a piano.

            “The man from the Ministry gave me this paper some days ago so that I could copy a template of the piano keys.  I have spent many hours ensuring I copied it exactly.  If you practise on this each day, you will not lose your skill.”

            “But it is just a piece of paper, father.”

            “No, Nicholas, it is a perfect copy, even down to the black notes.”

            Miklos gripped his son’s shoulder.  “It is true you will not make music that you can hear but you will feel it in your heart if it is true to you.  One day, you may once again play a real piano.”

            He relaxed his grip on Nicholas.  “If you do not think it is a good idea, I can give the paper to your sisters to cut up for clothes for their dolls.”

            “I will do as you suggest,” Nicholas said quickly.

            “Every morning before breakfast and every evening after dinner, we will keep the table free from clutter for you and you will practise.  Agreed?”

            As Nicholas nodded, his smile lit the room.  It was a mad idea, but sometimes, there was a profound truth in the maddest of ideas.

            Every day, except Sundays, when father insisted they attend Church, Nicholas practised on the paper piano.  At first, it seemed incredibly futile, his fingers wandering aimlessly over the paper notes and he had to bit his lip to stop tears of frustration but after a few days, if he visualised music flowing through his nimble fingers on to each paper key, he felt the music vibrate through his heart.

            Anton taunted him relentlessly.  “You are wasting your time.  You will never be able to play even if you did by some miracle acquire another piano.  You’d be better off playing football.”

            “I don’t care for football and one day I will play again,” Nicholas protested but as months passed, he wondered if he would ever make music again.  It was hard to imagine ever owning a piano again while Romanian people were suffering so.  Still, with determination, he practiced, lovingly wrapping the paper piano in its brown cloth each night.

            Temptations were many.  On cold wet days, he longed to stay snuggled up in bed a little longer.  On hot sunny days, he longed to roam in the cool shade of the woods seeking out the company of birds and rabbits but music meant everything and he continued practising.

            “Look what I found in my family chest,” his mother said, presenting him with a leather bound music book.  When Nicholas opened the delicate pages carefully and moved his fingers as the notes dictated, he could almost imagine himself dressed in a fine suit with his fingers moving easily over the keys of a grand piano playing a popular concerto in front of an appreciative audience.  One day his dream would come true.

            Many months had passed when his father came home with a strange request.

            “Nicholas, I need you to chop some wood and undertake other errands for an old Roma lady.”

            “A gypsy!  Why would I do that?”

            “Because she is old and needs help.”

            “Why can’t Anton?”

            “Anton’s leaving for Brasov soon to find work.”

            Nicholas sighed.  Was his father in trouble?  Was it money again?  When Anton left there would be no one else to help them.

            “Do I have to Father, there is enough to do here and when will I find the time to practise on my paper piano?”

            Miklos shrugged.  “Put on your jacket.  We’ll go and discuss what she needs.”

            A large lady with stringy grey hair and dark eyes stood in the doorway of the dilapidated apartment block.  The Roma was not as frail as Nicholas had imagined.  She opened a tin and pushed a little snuff into her nostrils as they approached.

            Miklos pushed Nicholas towards her.  “My son, Nicholas,” he said to the woman.

            Eyeing Nicholas up and down, she nodded.  “I have trouble with my joints;  I can’t do for myself anymore.”

            Nicholas looked at her swollen, twisted knuckles. He must help her, poor old lady.  His father was right.

            “How much are you paying?” he blurted, knowing his father would expect him to ask.

            The Roma sniffed.  “Look at me.  I have nothing.  Come, take a look.”

            Nicholas was surprised at the barren neatness of her home – a chair, a table, some little trinkets lovingly placed on the window ledge.  Then his eyes honed in on a small cherry wood piano.

            He strode across and lifted its lid, his fingers itching to touch the coolness of the black and white keys.

            The Roma shuffled forward.  Quickly, he closed the lid, and apologised for his insolence.

            She grinned.  “Well, music man, in return for some help, you may come once, maybe twice a week to practise on that old fellow.  Do we have a deal?”

            “A deal,” Nicholas said, shaking her hand.

            Ecstatically, he ran home feeling whole again, cherishing the bliss of the moment.  For now, it would be enough and maybe, after all, he had a future.

© 2008 Teresa Tipping