Gonzalo Adolfo
Like a Puppy In a Kennel
from No Rush For Gold:
The rising sun gradually lights the small apartment and the musician clicks on a lamp until it can do the job by itself. He takes a moment to stretch then makes his bed and folds the clothes he left out last night and straightens whatever else needs straightening. Finished, he is stretching again when he hears a whistle so he goes to the kitchen and turns off the kettle and pours a cup of tea and while it steeps he spreads butter onto some bread. Usually he waits until the hunger pangs in his stomach hint at a starvation before he eats but today he wants to abuse food, today his day will begin with a meal. And he takes his bread and tea to the table and sits.
On the table there is a stack of borrowed books and he takes the first one and flips it open. He cannot focus his mind this morning so he skims and looks at photos and their captions. Like this and one-by-one he works his way through the stack. He takes a bite, a sip, and a flip. Then another bite, a sip, and another flip. Eating and reading, bread and books are his meal.
The sun is up enough that it no longer needs help lighting any room that has windows so the musician gets up and clicks off the lamp. Then he takes the dishes to the sink and washes and dries them and straightens anything else that needs it. It does not take long because things are looking good so he stands and surveys. There is nothing else to be done. He has eaten, he has cleaned, he has straightened—it is time to move on. He finds the bag he packed last night and opens it and adds a few things. That should be everything…But, no! Elsa’s sculpture! I left it…On the piano! And he goes to the piano, puts one hand on the sculpture, and freezes…The piano…The piano…The piano…
*
—So…You’re in the market for a piano? Good, good…We’ve got lots of pianos…Come…We’ll start with what’s top of the line…See this, it’s the latest, straight from the factory, not a scratch, it’s a beautiful piece, but…You can’t just look at a piano, you have to hear this…Listen…Yeah, crystalline…You can’t find better…But, come…We’ll look at another…Here…Now see this one…It’s certainly not better but I wouldn’t say it’s worse either, people just like different things in a piano…It has a different look, and hear this…Yeah, it has a nice round tone…And you can see the body hasn’t a single mark…It’s new, in good shape…This item is a particular favorite of the folks who work here…You take this one home…You won’t be disappointed…But I can see you want to look around some more…We’ll see what else we have that might suit you…Over here we have the uprights…If you’re not looking to spend much or you have limited space in your home, it’s not a bad way to go…And I can find you one that sounds just as good as a grand, well…Not our top of the line grands, you understand…But we’ve got some that have a real nice sound…There…You hear that…Not bad, and it’s an upright…We’ll try again with the top open…It makes it more clear and full…There…Yeah…I myself have one like this at home…It’s quality and all you need depending on your intentions…But we’ve got more, lots more, oh…And that baby grand you see there in the corner…Well, I would practically give it away if someone would just be willing to take it…It came in on a trade…And now it’s just taking space—
The musician, standing amidst the showpieces, looked at the old and scratched and faded black piano and the piano looked at the musician like a puppy in a kennel. The musician stepped up to the piano and petted its body but not too closely because the wood was splintered in places. Then he lifted its top and looked inside.
—Yeah…Looks like the felt was worn right off the hammers…But there’s no danger a string will break…They’re so old, if nothing’s broken them yet…Nothing ever will…But, come…There’s plenty more pianos we can see—
The musician walked around the piano and to its front. Here he lifted the cover and ran his fingers over the keys without playing a note. He did this several times then stepped back and slid the bench out and sat. He just breathed and looked at the piano, from end to end, counting the keys, making sure they are all there and in the right order and taking it all in then he sat up taller and looked down to the keys and stroked his fingers over them. Then he dropped a note, spread to a chord, and began to play and the piano below him began to purr. Like on a walk, they pulled each other along testing every type and every inversion of every chord there is and they all sounded the way they ought to sound so he stopped.
—Well…I can see you’re satisfied…I can’t say it’s the decision I would have made, but you’ll be doing me a favor…But, come…I just need a little information, we’ll get this done quickly…And that piano is yours…Yeah…You have yourself a piano—
*
…The piano…The piano…The piano…What is to be done with the piano…He unfreezes and lets go of Elsa’s sculpture and steps to the front of the piano and looks down to the keys—uncovered as they were left last night—and slides the bench out and sits. He looks at each one of the keys and thinks of all the times they were played and he thinks of how he used every chord and every scale to move from range to range to incorporate every one, leaving none on the sidelines unused to await their turn, and no matter where he was on the piano, he thinks of those few flattened notes that are his favorites. The times they had, the memories they played.
With his hands on the bench he pushes himself to sit up taller and looks into the piano. What is it thinking?—he thinks as he tries to read his mind through its mind. As his eyes close he takes a breath, deep and scented of old wood, and relaxes. He is ready to play.
His eyes open and he drops both hands towards the piano but stops short. He does not depress the keys, the hammers do not strike the strings—the piano is silent…But the musician hears his chord. And he drops another. Still the keys do not move, still the piano is silent…But the musician hears his chord. And he smiles. It sounds as it ought to sound. And he takes a breath of wood, holds it in—the scent takes him away—and releases his hands. Across the keys they dance, they are free. Every chord and every scale is tackled because behind every chord and every scale is every song and they are all being played at once. United in passion and lunacy the piano and the musician are one and the musician smiles the madness across his face…Music is a river. It is not willed or imagined, it is not an idea. And it flows and it floods…The musician pushes his eyes closed and pushes out a tear. It rains down his cheek, over his chin, and off into the air it drops onto a key. The musician, startled by the sound of its tap, stops abruptly. What have I done? And he gets up, takes the sculpture, and shoves it into the bag. The piano is left open.
Strange how things seem to change even when they have not. He lifts the bag and hangs it over his shoulder but at the door stops—one more thing to do—and he drops the bag and pulls out a journal and on the piano he sets it and writes a few words. He looks at it to make sure they are the right ones and they are—a smile comes to his face—and he tears out the sheet, puts the journal away, folds the paper in his hand. Then he again takes the bag and in the doorway again stops. He turns…looks…nothing, everything has changed…and again turns, goes and closes the door firmly and walks a short way, stops…thinks…it is time, yes yes, it is time…and slides the folded sheet under the neighbor’s door.
*
The musician has left, the piano is quiet. But the piano, silent as he played, understands. The chords, unheard today, were felt. For pianos and pianists are united, each exists because the other exists, and together, in rain and flood, they flow.