The Lovers

Prose 2 of The Lovers

When I played the piano, I heard all the possible interpretations of the phrasing, the tones, versus what I was able to produce from the sounding board. My inability to reproduce those interpretations no matter how well I did play accused me.

Lena told me that the revered Rabbi Akiva had twenty-four thousand disciples who studied his teachings and came up with twenty-four thousand interpretations. She found this comforting and would repeat it to counter my certainty when I would assert that I couldn’t play.

I hold the scores of music in my hands, listen to the sounds of the instruments, twenty-eight different ones in “The Firebird,” blending with one another, and I’m able to hear each one in its staff of music on the page. I don’t need to put a CD in my player.

Bassoons, oboes, flutes, clarinets and a czakan by ladyblackbird13 on deviantart.com

I don’t see the fabulous bird with its plumage of fire. I don’t see the ballerina who goes on point and is lifted in flight. I have heard of but not seen Chagall’s designs for the sets. I have never seen Balanchine’s choreography of this music. I have never been attracted to dance, only to music. In the quiet, the score in my hand, in “The Princesses’ Round: Khorovode,” I hear a lullaby, lean back to let the flutist know he should play his low notes, that the oboe’s haunting tones should enter.

Baton by enanram deviantart.com

I hear what I conduct.

She understood, knew it happened before I touched the keyboard—that moment before I began while I scanned through the pages of the piece. When I used to play, I played only for her—never in front of anyone else. In return for the gift of the scores—her hand outstretched to me—I didn’t play the piano. I didn’t read the scores in front of her. I didn’t let her see my hands fly through the air, the score in my lap held open by a slide rule.

And now their story—the only way I’ll find my way through.

I begin with a memory: Lena comes home late one evening, cooks a dinner for me from recipes Isaac’s wife Evan has given her. She tells me she’d been to the farm for a drink with Isaac and Evan. To the farm? I knew she liked Evan. I didn’t question this. Now I do.

Yes, this is my version. Call it imagination. Call it revenge. Call it what you like.

I call it discovery.

Forgive the interruptions. I won’t stay out of it.

***

Next: The Lovers, prose 3

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Love,