She entered the living room, her piano pocket touching her legs wrapped in winter stockings again and again, the weight of the textbook pressed against her other arm, and she stood still for a moment, listening to the movement from the piano room. A series of soft piano chords, and the sound of violin tuning. Then Mr. Bilderbach's rough throat voice shouted at her:
"Is that you, little bee?"
She shed her webbed gloves and saw that her fingers were still twitching with the fugues she had practiced in the morning. "Yes," she replied, "I am." ”
"It's me." The voice corrected, "Wait. ”
She could hear Mr. Ravkovich talking—his voice was a slippery, dragging but vague hum. It was almost like a woman's voice, compared to Monsieur Bildbach, she thought. A wave of nervousness struck her. She fumbled with the geometry textbook and Mr. Pei's Travels before putting them down on the table. She sat down on the couch and drew the sheet music out of her pocket. Her gaze met her own two hands again—the tendons twitching down her knuckles, the sore fingertips wrapped in dirty tape that had been rolled up. Seeing this, the fear that had begun to torment her for months became sharper.
She whispered a few words of encouragement to herself. Good class—good class—as before—heard Mr. Bilderbach's heavy footsteps coming from the other end of the piano room, and when the door opened, there was a "whoosh" sound, and she immediately tightened her mouth.
At that moment, she had a strange feeling, and for most of her fifteen years she had been in a silence that was only disturbed by the weak and indifferent plucking of the violin, staring at the face and both shoulders that popped out from behind the door. Mr. Bilderbach. Her piano teacher, Monsieur Bilderbach. The keen gaze behind the rims of the horned glasses; the thin, light-colored hair, a narrow face beneath; the lips were thick and slightly gaped, and the lower lip was pink and shiny from the bite of the teeth; the protruding green tendons of the bifurcated temples were clearly visible even from the other end of the room.
"Did you come a little early?" He asked, glancing at the wall clock on the fireplace, the hand of which had been stuck at twelve o'clock and less than five o'clock for a month. "Joseph is here. We were going through a little sonata written by someone he knew. ”
"Well," she said, grudgingly smiling, "then I'll listen." She seemed to see her fingers weakly caught in a chaotic set of keys. She felt tired—she thought that if he looked at her a little longer, her hands might tremble.
He stood in the doorway half-inside and half out, undecided. His upper teeth bit down his thick, rosy lips. "Hungry or not, little bee?" he asked.
"There's Anna's apple cake over there, and milk."
"When the class is over," she said, "thank you." ”
"Wait until you're done with a wonderful lesson—huh?" His laughter seemed to break in the corners of his mouth.
There was a noise in the piano room behind him, and Mr. Ravkovich pushed open the other half of the door and stood beside him.
"Frances?" He smiled and said, "How's it going?" ”
Mr. Ravkovich did not mean it, but he always made her feel a little clumsy, too tall and too big. He was so short, and when he didn't hold the violin in his hand, he looked listless. His two eyebrows hung high on a sallow Jewish face, as if asking a question, but his eyelids were absentmindedly hunched over. Today, he seems a little distracted. She watched him enter the room aimlessly, the top beaded bow pinched between his motionless fingers, a piece of rosin sliding slowly back and forth on the white horse's mane. His eyes were today two glowing slits, and the linen handkerchief hanging from the collar made the black shadow under his eyes darker.
"I guess you're practicing pretty well now." Mr. Ravkovich smiled slightly, but she had not yet answered his question.
She looked toward Monsieur Bilderbach. He turned his back. His thick shoulders pushed the door open, and the twilight sun shone through the window of the piano room into the room, casting a bouquet of dusk in the gray living room. Behind the teacher, she could see the long piano, the window, and the bust of Brahms.
"No," she said to Monsieur Bilderbach, "I've practiced badly. Her slender fingers rummaged through the sheet music, "I don't understand what's going on." She said, looking at Mr. Bilderbach's solid and squished back, which stood stiffly and listened.
Mr. Rafkovich smiled slightly. "Sometimes, I think, a man—"
A thick chord sounded from the piano. "Don't you think we should go on?" Mr. Bilderbach said.
"Here it comes." Mr. Rafkovich said, rubbing the rosin again on the bow, and then moved to the door of the piano room. She could see him pick up the violin from the piano. His eyes were on hers, and he put down the instrument again. "Have you seen a picture of black rice?"
Her fingers were tightly around the sharp corners of the sheet music pocket. "What photo?"
"There's a sheet of black rice in the Music Messenger on the table over there, and it's at the top of the inner cover."
The little sonata begins. Not very pleasant, but simple. Empty, but straight forward, but also has a merit. She reached over the magazine and opened it.
Sure enough, there was black rice – in the upper left corner. Holding his violin, his fingers hooked the strings down to pluck the strings. The legs of his dark fur-beeping lantern pants were neatly buttoned neatly under his knees, a sweater, turned over with lapels. It's a pretty badly shot. Although it was a silhouette, his eyes were tilted to look at the photographer, and his fingers seemed to pluck the strings wrong. He twisted his body to face the camera, as if he were very guilty. He's thinner—his belly isn't bulging this time—and besides, he hasn't changed much in six months.
Heimi Israelsky, a talented young violinist, is practicing in the teacher's piano room on Riverside Avenue. The young master Israel Ersky, who will soon be celebrating his fifteenth birthday, has been invited to play the Beethoven Concerto, with a series of —
That morning, from six o'clock to eight o'clock, her father told her to sit at the dinner table and have breakfast with the family. She hated breakfast because it made her feel bad after eating it. She preferred to wait a little longer, and then use her two cents for lunch to buy four bars of chocolate and eat them in class—breaking a small piece out of her pocket, hiding it with a handkerchief, and stopping it as soon as the silver paper rang. But this morning, her father had already put a fried egg on her plate, and she knew that if it broke—that is, the sticky yolk flowed onto the egg white—she would cry her nose. Sure enough, it happened. Now, she felt the same way again. She gently put the magazine back on the table, then closed her eyes.
The music in the piano room seemed to be burning, chasing something that shouldn't have been there. After a while, she withdrew her thoughts from the black rice, the concertos, and the photographs—and once again turned to piano lessons. She moved herself on the couch until she could fully see the piano room—the two men were playing. Eyes staring at the score on the piano, as if mesmerized, digging out all the charm in the music.
She could not forget the look on Mr. Bilderbach's face when he looked at her just now. Her two hands, still twitching uncontrollably with fugues, covered her skinny knees. Tired, she was tired. There was a feeling of spinning and sinking down, like those nights when she was over-practicing, before going to bed. Half-dreaming, buzzing sleepy snooze brought her into their rapidly swirling space.
Prodigy - prodigy - prodigy. Those syllables would roll out one by one in German, first in the ears, and then into whispers. There were also many faces that swirled, swelled, changed shape, and shrunk into clumps—Mr. Bildbach, Mrs. Bildbach, Heimi, Mr. Rafkovich. Turning and turning, turning in circles, turning into a rough throat "prodigy". In the whirlpool was a Mr. Bilderbach, his face anxious—all the other faces revolving around him.
The music is playing like a crazy tug-of-war. The notes she played were like a glass marble that rolled down the stairs, bouncing and rolling together. Bach, Debussy, Prokofiev, Brahms—playing to odd beats in response to the faint pulsations and whirring whirling of her tired body.
Sometimes —when she doesn't practice for more than three hours or stays at home and doesn't go to middle school—those dreams are less chaotic. The music would fly clearly in her mind, and the nimble and precise fragments of memories would come back to her mind—as clear as the pink-filled "Age of Innocence" painting that Heimi had given her after they had collaborated on a concerto on the same stage.
Prodigy - prodigy. That's what Monsieur Bilderbach called her, when she was twelve years old and had just begun to learn the piano from him. Students older than her followed suit.
But he didn't always call her that. "Little Bee—" (She has a common American name, and unless her fault is unforgivable, he is definitely not called her that way.) "Little bee," he would say, "I know it must be very uncomfortable." Flying around all day with a heavy head, poor little bee—"
Mr. Bilderbach's father was a Dutch violinist. His mother was from Prague. He was born in the United States and has been in Germany since his youth. How she wished she hadn't been born and raised in this Cincinnati. What do you say about cheese in German? Mr. Bilderbach, how can I say in Dutch that I don't understand what you mean?
The first time, she came to the piano room. She played the entire Hungarian Rhapsody Ii from memory. Twilight darkened the piano room. Gray darkened his face as he leaned toward the piano.
"Now, let's start from scratch," he said on the first day, "and this—playing the piano—is not just clever enough." If a twelve-year-old girl's fingers could pick up so many keys in a second—that's fine. ”
He slapped his broad chest and head with a thick, thick and short slap. "Here, and here. You're old enough to understand this. "He lit a cigarette and poured his first puff of smoke over her head." To work hard – to work – to work – we now begin with Bach's compositions and Schumann's sketches. "His hand moved again—this time pulling the wire of the lamp behind her, so that the light was pointed at the score." I'll tell you how I want you to practice. Listen well now. ”
She sat in front of the piano for almost three hours, very tired and tired. His thick voice was humming, as if she had been lost in her head for a long time. She wanted to reach out and touch his muscled, straight fingers, which were dotted with musical phrases, and touch the shiny gold wedding ring and the back of her furry hands.
Her piano lessons are on Tuesdays after school and on Saturday afternoons. After Saturday piano lessons, she often stayed for dinner, stayed overnight, and took a street car home the next morning. Mrs. Beardbach liked her too, but her liking was very peaceful, almost wooden. She was so different from her husband. She was quiet, chubby, and slow-moving. If she wasn't in the kitchen making the sumptuous dishes they both liked to eat, she seemed to lie on the bed in their upstairs room all day, flipping through magazines or smiling and squinting at the sky. When they married in Germany, she was an art song singer. She stopped singing (she said it was because of her voice). Sometimes, he called her out of the kitchen to listen to the students playing music, and she always smiled and said good, very good, very good with a thick European accent.
When Frances was thirteen, one day she suddenly realized that the Bildbachs had no children. It seems a little strange. Once, she was in the kitchen with Mrs. Bilderbach, and he rushed in from the piano room because a student made him angry. His wife stood where she was and continued to stir a pot of soup until he reached out a hand and put it on her shoulder. Only then did she turn around—still standing calmly—and he wrapped his arms around her, burying his pointed face in the veinless folds of white flesh around her neck. They just stood motionless. Then his face jerked upwards, and the fire was extinguished, becoming a peaceful indifference, so he went back to the piano room.
Since studying piano with Mr. Bilderbach, she has not had time to interact with her high school classmates, and Heimi has become the only friend of her age. He was a pupil of Mr. Rafkovich, and on her evenings at Monsieur Bilderbach's house he would come with Monsieur Bilderbach with Mr. Rafkovich. They listened to their teacher play together. They themselves often played chamber music together—Mozart's Sonata or Bloch's.
Prodigy - prodigy.
Heimi is a child prodigy. He and she were, then.
Kuromi began playing the violin at the age of four. He didn't need to go to school; Mr. Rafkovich's brother, a cripple, used to teach him geometry, European history, and French vocabulary every afternoon. By the time he was thirteen, his skills were comparable to any violinist in Cincinnati—everyone said so. However, playing the violin is certainly easier than playing the piano. Surely so, she knew.
Black rice always seemed to smell of corduroy pants, the food he ate, and rosin. Half the time, his knuckles were always dirty, and the cuffs of his shirt that protruded from his sweater sleeve tube were also dirty. When he played the piano, she always stared at his hand—those two hands, only thin at the knuckles, the cocoon flesh bulging around the short-cut nails, and the hand holding the bow pulled, and the wrist revealed a small doll-like flesh slit.
In her dreams, when she was awake, she only vaguely remembered the concert. It wasn't until a few months later that she realized that she hadn't been successful in that concert. Yes, the newspapers praised Heimi more than she did. Because he was much shorter than she was. The two of them stood together on the stage, and he only reached her shoulders. That, in the eyes of others, is different, she understands. Moreover, the sonatas they performed together are also related. Nabloch.
"No, no—I don't think that's appropriate," said Mr. Bilderbach when they suggested Bloch as the platform repertoire, "what about John Powell's stuff—the Virginia Sonata." ”
She didn't understand it then; she, like Hemy and Mr. Ravkovich, wanted Nabloch to press the table.
Mr. Bilderbach gave in. Later, music critics said that she lacked the temperament to interpret that kind of music, and said that her performance was thin and had no feelings, and she felt very wronged.
"That croaky thing," said Monsieur Bilderbach, tucking a piece of newspaper into her, "not for you, little bee." Leave it all to the blackmi, the Vickys, and the Skies. ”
prodigy. No matter what the newspapers said, he still called her that.
Why is Heimi so much better than her at the concert? Sometimes in class, she should have focused on a classmate solving a geometry problem on the blackboard, but the problem would twist her heart like a knife. When she sleeps, even sometimes when she should concentrate on practicing, she worries. Not just because of Bloch, not just because she's not Jewish — not exactly. Nor is it because Heimi doesn't need to go to school and starts learning the piano at a very young age. That's——?
At one point, she felt like she understood.
"Play fugues and fantasies." One evening a year ago, after Mr. Bildbach and Mr. Ravkovich had gone through a piece of music together, Mr. Bilderbach demanded.
Bach, when she played, she felt like she was playing in place. Out of the corner of her eye she could catch a glimpse of the calm, appreciative expression on Mr. Bilderbach's face; and when the high-peak phrase managed to flow through her fingertips, she could catch a glimpse of his hand rising from the arm of the chair and falling with satisfaction. When she was done, she got up from the piano and swallowed a mouthful of water, like loosening the rope that held her throat and chest. But --
"Frances—" Mr. Rafkovich opened his mouth suddenly, and he looked at her, his thin lips bent, his thin eyelids almost obscuring his gaze. "Do you know how many children Bach has?"
She turned to him, scratching her head. "A lot. More than twenty. ”
"Uh, then—" the end of his smile nodded like water on his white face, "then he couldn't have been so cold—uh." ”
Monsieur Bildbach was not too pleased; the word "child" was in his thick, shiny German vocabulary. Mr. Ravkovich raised an eyebrow. It was easy for her to see through his thoughts, but she still had a blank look of childishness on her face, not a pretense, but a request from Mr. Bilderbach.
However, things like that don't matter much. At least, it doesn't matter much, because she will grow up. This, Mr. Bilderbach knows; moreover, even if Mr. Rafkovich had said that, he would not have meant it.
In the center of the whirlpool of dreams, Mr. Bilderbach's face protruded and retracted. His lower lip slowly enlarged, and the green tendons on his temples bulged out.
But sometimes, before she falls asleep, some very clear memories will pop up. For example, when she pulls down the heel of her socks out of the hole, she wants to cover the hole with her shoes. "Little bee, little bee!" So Mrs. Bilderbach took the basket for the female red and taught her how to sew it up, instead of pulling it into a ball and prevaricating it.
Also, when she graduated from junior high school.
"What are you wearing?" At breakfast on Sunday morning, she told them about the graduates rehearsing to march into the auditorium, and Mrs. Bilderbach asked.
"My cousin wore an evening dress last year."
"Ah—little bees!" He said, the warm coffee cup swirling in two thick hands, looking up at her, smiling and squinting around the wrinkles around his eyes. "I bet I know what the little bee thinks—"
He insisted again and again. When she explained that she really didn't care, he didn't believe her.
"Like this, Anna." As he spoke, he pushed the napkin toward the table, his eyeballs flipping up behind the horn-framed glasses, wiggling his ass and walking to the other end of the room in small steps.
The next Saturday afternoon, after piano lessons, Mr. Bilderbach took her to the department store in the city center. His thick fingers caressed the material that the female clerk had pulled out of the cloth rolls, the mesh as thin as a cicada's wing, the taffeta that was crept and crept. He lifted different colors of cloth next to her face, turned his head to the side, tried the color effect, and selected pink. Shoes, he did not forget. He thought a pair of high-heeled, shallow white lambskin shoes were the most appropriate, she felt a little old-fashioned, like an old lady wearing, and the red cross logo in the belly of the shoes made people think of doing charity. However, it really doesn't matter at all. Mrs. Beardbach began to cut, pinning the pieces to her with a pin, and Mr. Beardbach would interrupt the piano lesson he was taking, stand aside, and suggest that pleated lace be sewn on the hips and neck, and a rose knot should be added to one shoulder. At that time, the piano was practiced very smoothly. Skirts, graduation ceremonies, nothing matters.
It doesn't matter much, as long as the charm of the music is popped up, as long as the inner talent of her is popped out, practice and practice, practice and practice, play until the anxious look on Mr. Bilderbach's face relaxes. Take Myra Hess, Yehudi Menuhin – even Heimi! Something, kneaded into her own piano.
What started happening to her four months ago? The notes that popped out of her fingers began to take on a superficial, wooden tone. It was puberty, she thought. Some children play the piano and start to have great hope - practice and practice, practice and practice, until one day, like her, the little things of sesame will make them cry, they want to tell others their hearts - what they yearn for in their hearts - but they have exhausted their strength, and strange things have begun to happen - but not her! She was the same as Heimi. She had to be like him. She --
The talent was there, for sure. And you can't just let it go like that. prodigy...... prodigy...... He said that about her, rolling out the word in German in a thick, confident throaty voice. In her dream, the throat sound was thicker and more confident. His face looked down at her, and the phrases he had always wanted to play well and didn't play well also joined the buzzing noise, a circle of turns, turns, turns, turns—prodigies. prodigy......
This afternoon, Mr. Bilderbach did not send Mr. Ravkovich to the front door as usual. He sat down at the piano and pressed down on a single note. Listen. Frances watched as the violinist wrapped a scarf around his pale neck.
"The picture of heimi is good," she said, holding up her score, "and I received a letter from him a few months ago—about him listening to Schnabel and Huberman, about Carnegie Hall, and about what you can eat in a Russian tea room." ”
In order to drag on for an extra minute without entering the piano room, she waited for Mr. Ravkovich to make preparations for the door, and then, standing behind him, standing by the open door. The bitter wind outside the house cut into the house like a cold knife. It was late twilight, and the air seeped into the bleak twilight of winter dusk. As the door leaf creaked shut on the door shaft, the house seemed darker and quieter, darker and quieter than ever she knew.
She entered the piano room, and Mr. Bilderbach got up from the piano stool and watched without a word as she sat down at the keyboard.
"So, little bee," he said, "this afternoon we'll start all over again." From the ground up. Forget about the previous months. ”
He looked like he was trying to play a role in the movie. He shook his solid body back and forth, rubbed his hands, and even had the proud smile on his face like in the movie. But suddenly, he recklessly threw away that kind of style. His thick shoulders collapsed, and he began to flip through the scores she had brought. "Bach—no, no, not yet," he muttered, "Beethoven?" yes. Variations Sonata, Op. 26. ”
The keys—stiff, white, rigid—were densely packed, trapping her in it.
"Wait." He said. He stood in the arc of the grand piano, elbow propped on the piano, and looked at her, "Today I want you to pop something up." Now, play this sonata – it's the first Beethoven sonata you've ever practiced. Every note you can grasp — technically — you have nothing else to deal with, except music. Only music. All you have to think about is music. ”
He jerked her score until he reached the piece. Then he dragged the teacher's chair into the piano room, turned around, straddled the back of the chair with his legs, and sat on the chair with his back to him.
For some reason, anyway, she knew that this way he sat would make her play the piano better. But today, she realized she was glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, and realized his irritability. His back was stiff, and his legs looked tight. The big thick book score in front of him was dangerously propped up on the back of the chair. "Now, let's get started." He glanced over to her and said.
Her hands wandered over the keys, then sank into the keys. The first few notes were too loud, followed by the rest of the musical phrases.
He raised a hand from the sheet music to remind. "Wait! Think about what you're playing. What are the markers for the beginning of the music? ”
"Row board."
"Okay. Then don't drag it slow. Touch the keys deeply. Don't be that shallow and float on top. It's an elegant, deep row—"
She tried again. Her fingers seemed to be disconnected from the music in her head.
"Listen," he interrupted, "which variation dominates the whole piece?" ”
"Elegy." She answered.
"Then prepare for the elegy." It's a line—not the kind of salon stuff you just popped up. Start with a light, weak tone, and gradually grow stronger before the arpeggio arrives. Play warmly, play with passion. Go down – sing the polyphonic melody in the place marked 'softly'. You know all this. All those dealings, we've all been through before. Okay, now let's play. It feels like it was when Beethoven composed the music. It felt that sadness and depression. ”
She couldn't control herself from looking at his two hands. They seemed to be resting only temporarily on the score, ready at all times, and as soon as she bounced off, they immediately jumped up and gave a stop signal, and the ring flashed golden light, making her stop. "Mr. Bilderbach — maybe if I — if you let me play the whole first variation in a row, don't interrupt, I'll play better."
"I won't interrupt you." He said.
Her pale face was close to the keyboard. She finished the first part, he nodded, and she obediently began the second part. She didn't make any mistakes that made her worry, but the phrases, before she could give them the meaning she felt, had already come out from under her fingertips.
After she finished playing, he raised his eyes from the sheet music and began to speak in a blunt tone: "I can hardly hear the harmonious additions of the right hand part." Also, incidentally, this part should begin to show strength, digging out the connotation of foreshadowing inherited from the first part. However, follow up with the next paragraph. ”
She wanted to start with a repressed grudge and gradually develop into a deep, overflowing sorrow. Her heart told her so. But her hand was glued to the keys, like a soft ball of macaroni, and she couldn't imagine the charm of the piece.
When the last note stopped trembling in the air, he closed the score and calmly got up from his chair. He moved his chin from left to right—from between his open lips she could see a healthy pink passage to his throat and his solid, smoked yellow teeth. He pressed Beethoven carefully against the rest of her sheet music, once again propped both elbows on the smooth black lid. "No." He looked at her and just said.
Her mouth began to tremble. "I can't. I—"
Suddenly, he forced his lips to curl a smile. "Listen to me, little bee," he said in a strange, contrived voice, "you're still playing Happy Blacksmith, aren't you?" That song, I told you not to let go of your reserved tracks. ”
"Yes," she said, "I play a lot. ”
He spoke to a child. "That was one of the first pieces we practiced when we started taking piano lessons together — remember. You bounced vigorously—like a real blacksmith girl. You see, little bee, I know you so well—you seem to be my own girlfriend. I know what kind of endowment you have —I've heard you play so many tunes very beautifully. You used to—"
He stopped talking, not knowing what to say for a moment, and took another sip from the chewed cigarette butt. Smoke trickled between his pink lips, gathering into a gray mist between her long soft hair and childish forehead.
"Play it happily and innocently." He said, turning on the lamp behind her, and took a few steps back from the piano.
For a moment, he stood in the circle of light illuminated by the lamp. Then he squat recklessly into the ground. "Work hard." He said.
She couldn't help but look at him, his whole body propped on one foot, bending the other leg in front of him for balance, his strong thigh muscles tightening in his trouser legs, his back up, elbows struggling to hold his knees. "Now, don't think about anything," he gestured again with a fat slap, "just a blacksmith—working in the sun all day." Easy work and no worries. ”
She couldn't look down at the piano. The light illuminated the hairs on the back of his outstretched hands, illuminating the lenses of his glasses brightly.
"I just want that," he urged, "play it." She felt her spine collapse and the blood in her body dried up. All afternoon, her heart had been pounding in her chest, but now it suddenly stopped. She saw it gray, paralyzed, crumbling from the edges, like an oyster.
His face seemed to pulsate in the space in front of her, and the green tendons on the temples jumped, and his face was an inch closer to her. To avoid it, she looked down at the piano. Her lips trembled, like jelly; a silent stream of tears welled up, and the white keys blurred into a mist of water. "I can't play," she said softly, "I don't know what's going on, but I just can't play—I can't play anymore." ”
His tense body relaxed, and he put one hand on his waist and barely stood up. She picked up her score and hurried around him.
Her coat. Duck webbed gloves and snow boots. Textbooks and sheet music he gave her on her birthday. Everything that belonged to her in the dead room. Hurry up—before he opens his mouth.
As she ran out of the hall, she couldn't help but look at one of his hands again—reaching out from his slumped, dazed body leaning against the door of the piano room. The door was closed. Holding the books and sheet music in her pocket, she staggered down the stone steps, turned in the wrong direction, and hurried down along the noise of the street, bicycles, and other children playing games.
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