|
her lesson, can see him just outside
the door. He has been talking to someone. Now the door
bursts open, making her jump, and he strides into
the room, trailing smoke. "Tell him he’s a
fool," he barks over his shoulder. "Tell
him I said so."
"Oh, certainly, Cornelius," says a
woman’s voice, sweetly sarcastic—Miss Haupt?
Perhaps—the two of them are great friends,
anyway, in spite of Toft’s long-established
reputation as a misogynist. Miss Haupt is old,
though not nearly as old as Toft, and she is also
a piano teacher at the conservatory. The story is
that she often cooks for him. They are both
ex-Berliners; Sylvia has heard that Miss Haupt
studied briefly with Toft before either of them
left Germany. She must be very brave, Sylvia
thinks, to tease him that way.
Toft, muttering, marches to the window without
glancing at her. She waits at the bench, flushing
hot and cold. Whenever she is in his presence, all
of Peter’s lessons about courage evaporate. Why?
she wonders. How can Toft do this to me—make me
into nothing just by walking into a room? She is
ashamed at his power over her—but she has to
admit that her father has the same kind of power,
though in a different way; together, they
determine what she thinks of herself. It’s not
me deciding how good I am, or even if I am
good—it’s them. It’s always the two of them,
Ross and Toft, her father’s tense and handsome
face, her teacher’s glowering looks.
She risks a peek at Toft; he is standing
beneath the tall mahogany window frame, one hand
cupping the opposite elbow, finishing his
cigarette. She is the farthest thing from his
mind, and she knows it, though this gives her
little comfort; all she has to do is blink and he
could turn on her, crackling and spitting into
blazing life. She cannot relax for a moment.
Schubert’s Little Sonata in A Major drifts
through the room—Brandon? Colette?—and Toft
listens, cocking his head, then shaking it as he
tosses his burning cigarette to the street five
stories below. Clearly, he is not pleased. Her
stomach tightens.
"So," he says, turning. "And
what is the news from the clouds?"
Sylvia swallows, touching a key with her
finger. What is it about her that disgusts him so?
The way she cringes, maybe? Peter, though he would
never say it directly, has implied as much. She
thinks of herself on the windowsill, clinging to
the frame. She cannot even do that the way
Peter does it; she is too careful, too afraid of
being hurt.
Of course she cannot play Opus 111. What
has she been thinking of, with all her Beethoven
books, her research? Who is she kidding? The first
movement especially, with its enormous, crashing
chords, was meant for Toft, not her—it is pure
power, pure will.
But he’s the one who’s making me
play it, she thinks. And he’s never even told me
why, and besides that, he isn’t helping me a bit—isn’t
this his responsibility too?
The words, however, sound weakly ineffectual
and she knows she will never say them out loud
even if she is right. Cornelius Toft is an
institution, as her father reminds her in his
intense way. The very best, Sylvia. The best that
money can buy.
Instead of feeling grateful, she dreams of Toft
at night, his querulous nasty voice with the power
to freeze her cold, and then she listens one more
time to his magnificent recording of Opus 111 and
is flooded with disbelief. I am his student, she
thinks. Me, Sylvia. Impossible.
"Are you in love with some longlegs, or
what is the story, miss?"
Here it comes. She forces herself to lift her
head until she is looking directly into his eyes.
There is no point in answering questions like
these; she can only wait him out. Her palms are
slick with sweat. Peter, she thinks, Toft is your
teacher too—how do you handle him? But she can’t
compare herself to Peter. He’s too good—he’s
in a class by himself.
Toft’s eyes are very dark and round and he
can make them as hard as marbles when he holds a
stare. In spite of her fear of him, she has
noticed that there is something monkeyish about
the puckered old mouth, those quick eyes in their
nest of wrinkles, the blue-veined hoods he can
raise and lower at will.
"Ah well, " he says, shaking his
head. "Come. Let’s get on with it. We are
already behind schedule."
"What"—her voice breaks—"do
you want first?"
He crosses the room to his chair, ignoring her,
and she crosses her fingers, hoping that he will
ask for Schumann or Ravel or even the Scarlatti
sonatas—anything but Beethoven first. If he did
not frighten her so, she would find him amazing.
In spite of the military bearing, his spine is
beginning to cave in; he has to tuck his chin to
stand up straight. But his shoulders are broad and
he still has the muscular forearms of a pianist.
He settles himself, fussing a little with the
angle of the chair, then once again bores into her
eyes with his.
"Scarlatti."
She swallows. None of the little sonatas are
ready yet, though she has been working very hard.
"Which one?" she asks
"Three fifty-six."
She turns back to the keyboard, looking down as
though it’s the first time she’s every played.
Eighty-eight keys, the long sweep from bass to
treble. In spite of Toft, she has never stopped
loving this big black monster, loving the battle
between her small hand and the cold ivory.
|
