“You too.”
I try to figure out how to get her talking — about anything really, but above all about whether it was as hard for her as it was for me. Is she naturally better than me? But she’s already moving toward the books and out of the room.
I keep on moving through Paul’s list until I’m too hungry to stay. The boy has left. I meander a little on my way out, peeking through the small lit windows of the practice rooms on the floor below. A tuba puffs out a bass line. Someone somewhere claps their hands in a quick, exacting rhythm. A cellist faces away from her door, her slow bow quivering, the frizzy bits of her hair catching gold. I think of what Paul said. It seemed like everyone was praying here when they played. Maybe I’ve found my own church.
Usually I have all of Saturday to play, but by the time I’ve gotten home, given Dean his belly rubs, picked out some videos of my playing, and e-mailed them to Paul — he wanted to hear what I had for competition applications — it’s already five. I’m anxious to practice.
The piece isn’t impossible, but it almost is, with its death-defying, blind leaps of the left hand down the piano, notes toppling on top of each other like dominoes — no time to think before your fingers move. Just earnest, passionate, clear abandonment of safety in the pursuit of love.
I play the right hand through to the end of the first theme, and then the left, trying to make each part full, as if it were the music in its entirety — half a choir sings through the fingers on one hand, then the other half. Breaking down the music this way is like tracing the piece with a pencil before you fill in the color. I burn the music into the tendons of my wrists, the shapes my fingers make into a memory, until it almost feels automatic.
Eventually I put both hands together. If I don’t stop to think about it too hard, my hands will play it as naturally as aiming a spoon into my mouth — it just happens — though every time, I’m sort of amazed at the way every finger stretches to the notes they’re supposed to, the way flowers stretch to open in time-lapse movies. Every voice goes in its direction, or tries to. It’s easy to single out one voice over the others, to make it sing, but four voices at once, each one singing its own heart out — it’s why concert pianists are brilliant.
The richer, the fuller I can make each voice, the more it feels as if the composer’s thoughts are appearing in my mind. Their anxieties, their way of looking at the world. I get so deep into that world, I can lose my own for a while.
But at this point, I can only get glimpses. A small but growing list of issues is being written on an imaginary notepad in my head. There are always questions about expression. How should a song be sung? How loud should a voice be? I try different fingerings, make decisions I don’t feel sure about.
I jump at my mother’s approach. “You have to eat. There’s chicken adobo.”
“Oh, right.”
I’m not hungry, not really, until the smell of garlic and soy sharpened with vinegar hits my nostrils.
“Did you go the whole day without eating?” She tsks. “Did you feed the dog?”
“No.”
“I’ll feed him.”
I take the plate and sit on the floor, checking my texts, my Instagram account. Then I brush my teeth and crawl into bed. I feel like I have been soaked in music. It’s ten thirty. There’s moonlight. I was lost in music the whole day, and it felt like the best, smooth kind of day. A day without loneliness. A day with just myself and music to keep me company.
A month later at Paul’s, he wants me to play the ballade, the whole thing in one go. My instinct is to tell him it’s not ready, but there’s no way I can say no to him.
My heart is going rickety-tickety as I sink into the beginning, rise up on the swell of the first opening notes, and realize that once I begin, the notes wipe out my thoughts. They just come down like rain until it’s over, and I’m relieved when I lift my hands from the piano.
“This isn’t done,” he says.
“I know it, though. The notes. I know how it should feel.”
“It’s not the notes. But . . . the expression? Every tiny little thing has to be considered.” He gestures with his hands, lightly, as if he’s conducting his own words, and gives me a knowing, amused look.
I have been considering every tiny little thing. I’ve been considering them over and over.
“Also, allow yourself to move with the music, to be . . . Your body is so tight over the piano. You’re hunched like Schroeder. You need to move to the music.”
I put my chin in my hands, lean my elbow on the piano, a thing I know I’m not supposed to do, but right now I can’t help not caring.
He gives me a look like he knows he’s gotten me in a huff. “Yes. Be more confident. Stop being so timid in front of me. How can you make Chopin sound vulnerable if you don’t take the risk of being vulnerable? Sometimes I think — a lot of my Asian students seem to live so . . . stiffly.”
I will myself not to cry. No tears. He studies me for a moment. A look like fear crosses his face, and then it closes. “It’s important to take risks. On the stage. In life. Have some fun!” He pats my shoulder, but it doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, it makes me feel worse. “What are you doing this weekend? Anything exciting planned?”
“Nope,” I manage to say. “Just a competition.”
“Oh. Oh, that’s right. Well, good luck. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
Our conversation turns back to the piece and I do my best to listen, but I can’t. He continues to talk as I blink back tears until the music comes back into focus. I manage to make it through the rest of the lesson, but afterward I barrel down the hill toward the train.
I am taking risks. I am being vulnerable. I take a risk every time I leave home for the city, every time I leave class to practice. And it’s not my fault if I don’t seem like a ballsy, fun-loving teen. If I were, I wouldn’t be playing so well in the first place, wouldn’t be ready for lessons. I’d be like Tash, skating the A-minus/B-plus rail.
And I don’t even feel that Asian, whatever that means. I eat spaghetti sauce that comes in a jar. I know every brand of microwave pizza. We listen to sixties pop in the car. I don’t even speak Tagalog. My parents did try to teach me a little, even after my teacher at school said they should stop because she thought I was getting confused. Then my dad got sick, and Tagalog got swept to the wayside, along with vacations, trips to the Philippines, going to the movies, summer camp, circuses, Fourth of July barbecues, swimming lessons, Brownies. All the fun stuff. All the fun American childhood stuff.
Instead, all I’ve worried about since then is piano and school. Not that my mother browbeats me about grades. I just do well, so she doesn’t have to worry.
It wouldn’t be like this if Dad were here. We’d have more fun, I bet.
I’m not surprised when I lose at the competition the next day.
The fingers on my left hand keep sliding off — just a hair — from where they’re meant to go. Notes that should be sharp and clear begin to get muddled, at first just a little, but then a lot, and then finally, I just can’t stand myself. My fingers freeze. Right in front of me. I look at them, thinking, Timid.