Swansong

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Love and Music
Chapter One
Christmas Eve, 1932. In the central plaza of Goodrich’s Department Store on Seventh Avenue is an enormous Steinway grand piano, a powerful architecture of gleaming black ebony and satin ivory. Bought in some inexplicable moment of extravagance by the founders of Goodrich’s, it is the only one of its caliber north of 32nd street, and should be a marvel of design and engineering to anyone who passes by. But on Christmas Eve, it would take nothing short of an Act of God to catch the attention of stressed shoppers and put-upon shop assistants, and so hundreds of people shove straight past the magnificent creature without a pause or a glance, indifferent to the beauty of its lines and craftsmanship, deaf to the crystalline music that pours from the propped-up lid, and blind to the unassuming man coaxing a melody from the keys.
He is content to remain invisible; it is a blessing to him. He enjoys this seeing without being seen, this hiding in plain view, this way of touching strangers in a small, unobtrusive way, through his music. Nobody pays him much mind, but he makes a habit of glancing up at the happenings outside the cocoon of his performance.
Which is why when someone actually stops to listen, he is quick to clock them. He doesn’t mind it, per se, but being watched always makes him slightly uncomfortable – a regrettable trait in a performer. But, as a performer, he has down to a science the trick of appearing absolutely unruffled, no matter what was transpiring around him.
So when he glances up in the course of a sonata to find a beautiful woman staring at him, he does not appear outwardly moved. Had she been standing closer she might have glimpsed the momentary tensing of his jaw, and a resigned sort of twitch of his eyebrow, but she stands at attention at a distance, across the atrium of the department store. But he performs his usual acknowledgment, a quiet smile and polite nod, before self-consciously returning his attention to the keyboard. She’ll be gone after a song or two. Nobody ever really lets music keep them from the business of life for very long. But it’s nice to think that something in his music has snagged her for a moment from the crowd. There is some reason, after all, that he came out here to do this, when there is a perfectly good baby grand waiting for him in his studio. Or maybe because it is Christmas Eve, and being out and amongst strangers is preferable to being in and by himself. The piano is the anonymous extension of himself, and if it can follow someone home through the streets on the snatch of a hummed melody or the trill of a whistle, then perhaps a small part of him has had somewhere to go as well.
It is after three or four more pieces that he realises the woman has not moved. He might not have noticed her except that her stance is so peculiar: she is standing stock still in the middle of the pedestrian thoroughfare, an island of stillness and focus in an otherwise mad sea of rushing humanity. A glance shows she is still standing there, unmoving, not so much watching as staring, and in a stroke the peaceful benevolence of the mood he’s created evaporates. Annoyance and the old self-consciousness creep in to replace it. It’s not unfamiliar, this feeling of being stared-at, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant, and his posture unconsciously takes a defensive cant, even while his face remains placid and his playing as fluid as ever. Some things never really get easier.
Finally the crowds begin to thin and the great clock above the door shows five minutes to six; Goodrich’s is about to close. After a few more pieces and a medley of O Tannenbaum and Silent Night of his own arrangement – he isn’t above enjoying
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Christmas music – he finishes with a sigh and draws the lid down over the keys. He sits for just a moment longer, sparing a glance for the woman who, incredibly, is still standing just there. She’s a distance away, but he can tell that she’s attractive, and his annoyance increases. He’s avoiding getting up, because sitting gently masks those things about his appearance he wishes were not so noticeable, and the woman, the pretty woman, is still inexplicably watching him.
The process of getting up is awkward and clumsy, and always leaves him looking as if he’s only half-finished doing it. He shrugs into a greatcoat and grabs his hat, then reaches for the cane that hangs over the lip of the piano. It’s a plain thing, unremarkable, and utterly undistinguishable from ten thousand others just like it, except that the varnish around the handle is dark with use, and the patterns of wear correspond to the roughened pads of his left hand. It doesn’t take away the limp, but it helps a bit. Even so, the twist in his torso and the curve of his back puts his whole body out of kilter, and it is utterly impossible for him to walk in any way that is not cumbersome and halting.
He has to walk past her to get to the door. There are really only two options. He can ignore her completely – the coward’s way out – or he can do what he has forced himself to do day in and day out for most of his life, a discipline which has likely given him every advantage he’s ever yet received.
He can be uniformly polite and friendly. He pastes a bland expression on, and steels himself to walk past her, only to see as he draws even with her, that she still does not move. In fact, she wasn’t staring at him, as he’d assumed, but her gaze is fixed unblinkingly on a point that might have been far distant, or might be just inside herself. Until now, from across the hall, he’d been able to tell only that she was attractive in a general sort of way. But he feels whatever self- assurance he had waver as he draws nearer and the details of her face come into focus. Her features, until now just a smudge in the evening lights, are a combination of elegance and delicacy: a petite face, with a small nose only just upturnt, and a compact mouth turned slightly down at the corners. Her face is a lovely oval, defined by a clear jawline sweeping down into a slender neck, and framed by a halo of dark blonde – or perhaps a very light brown – hair that sweeps back in waves too generous to be called fashionable. Along one cheek, a thin red scratch was the only blemish. She looks as though she belongs to some past time. But it is the eyes that make any face, and although he can’t tell their colour from this distance, he can see that they hold a soft light that seems predisposed to warmth but, he thinks, not quite to laughter. The air of melancholy about her is so perfectly concordant, so harmonious that the idea fixes in his mind that she is the human incarnation of a gentle minor chord, struck softly into existence.
He knows this to be a ridiculous instance of sentimentality on his part, until he gets close enough to see that there are tear tracks running down her face.
He is quite close to her now, but still she has not noticed him, lost in a sort of sad trance. He looks around at the shoppers still rushing about. How many hundreds of people have passed right by her without pausing, without even noticing? He loves this city, loves its inspiration and its mad, invigorating power. But sometimes that same power frightens and disgusts him. He feels his annoyance and some of his self- consciousness evaporate. Though he doesn’t really know as much, he has something of a weakness for things in pain.
“I’m afraid that’s all for today.” His words have the desired effect of gently breaking her reverie. She starts, and looks at him in mild surprise.
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Her eyes are green. “Oh,” is all she says. If she’s come back to the here and now, she seems not quite certain of it, seeming mildly surprised by finding herself there. He should get on with his night; there are more troubled souls in this city than could ever be helped. He doesn’t know her trouble; probably there’s nothing he can do, and he should just go. But somehow he just... can’t quite.
“Are you alright - ” He makes a quick judgment call. “ – miss?” “I’m sorry, I... I must have been dreaming.” “Yes, I could see. ‘Away with the faeries,’ as they say.” He expects that to draw a smile, but it does not. She remains solemn.
“The music was so very beautiful I just... got lost.” Her voice is low and smooth, with almost a hint of natural melodiousness.
“Well, I’m pleased you enjoyed it.” He fits his hat to his head and prepares to wish her a good night, perhaps even a merry Christmas, but she speaks again.
“But it was... I didn’t recognize the composer...?” It is a question. He smiles. “I’m afraid that’s because he’s not terribly famous; most of those were mine.” “Yours?” She looks at him curiously, but again without the usual pleasantries; she is too serious for polite smiles and bland compliments. In fact, she almost looks about to cry.
It is such a strange reaction, he can think of nothing say but, “Yes.” “And you come here to play them?” “If only so that they get to be heard by someone other than myself, yes.” “To have such a gift,” she muses. “And to be able to share it with people. To contribute something so beautiful to the world. You are so very lucky.”
He stares at her. She stares back with perfect sincerity, her eyes wide and candid. Of all the things he has ever been called, “Lucky” certainly has never been one of them. Quite the opposite. If she is joking at his expense, she gives nothing away. Her eyes keep his while he considers the beauty of what she’s just expressed.
“Yes,” he says finally, rather quietly. “You’re quite right, I am very fortunate.” She nods, as if satisfied that he’s echoed her, and her mouth gives the weakest twitch upward, as if she is trying to smile, but can’t quite manage it.
It seems the end of the conversation, but everything in him protests against walking away without so much as a name, a telephone number – without any sort of closure. Before him is an extraordinary and singular creature, and he craves more – more knowledge, more insight, even just to prolong his chance to admire her beauty, and he opens his mouth to ask – what? Would she like to have dinner? Can he walk her somewhere? Does she need a ride?
And he closes it again almost immediately. That doubting, cynical voice reminds him that wooing this woman, or even knowing her better, is not a privilege he can claim. The whole idea is absurdly out of bounds.
“Good evening,” he says, as warmly as he can manage, taking one last chance to drink in the expression of her eyes, gazing sadly but earnestly at him.
“Good evening,” she replies softly, and he firmly but politely strides – or limps as purposefully as he is able – to the door, which opens onto a snowy Bryant Park Square.
Afterward, he never tormented himself with what might have been; there was no doubt in his mind that he’d done the right thing in walking away. But the encounter left him with a charmed feeling, an impression that something slightly magical had briefly