But Who Was Chopin? by Patrick Sean Lee (best feel good books txt) 📕

“There! At the third bar. Did you hear the note? How it MUST linger. You raced right by it.” He stopped and looked up at me from his seat. “Slowly…sustain the notes so that they melt into the chords. Sit down. Try it again,” he demanded.

I took a step back toward the piano, but then stopped.

“I don’t want to. If you don’t mind, I’d like…”

“Then you are not a musician.”

At that, he rose quickly, making some further dismissive comment under breath. He turned on his heel, and then walked away.

“I know this movement,” I shouted after him when the shock ebbed. “I was NOT playing it too fast! I know what Sost…”

Without looking back he raised his hand into the air, and cut me off. “You know nothing.”

And then he disappeared into the wing. I stood statue-like. Dead in spirit when only moments ago I had been soaring through a lovely river in the clouds. But I swore I would not give up.

                                                        *

I attended my music theory class, unaware of what the teacher had been lecturing about. Unaware of the twenty or so students sitting quietly beside me scribbling notes. I left when the clattering motion of their rising awakened me, still wondering who the man was who had burst my bubble earlier that morning. Sammi gave me a blank look when I described him and asked who he was.

“Ooh, I think he was saying something other than what you heard,” she laughed.

“That would make two comments by men in one day that I didn’t get, then,” I returned. “Wonder who he was?”

“Maybe a ghost. The spirit of one of your ancestors!” Sammi said with a smile.

“Oh sure. Sammi, do me a favor. Would you check the faculty listings for a new teacher, please?”

She shrugged, spun her chair around to the desk behind her, and then opened up the faculty list on the computer.

“Boy, he sure has you all…oh wait. Here we go. ‘Piano Composition’—Julian Ming. New this semester. Hmm…Juilliard, concert appearances with nearly every major symphony the world over. New York Philharmonic, London Symphony, Vienna Philharmonic, Chicago Symphony…this is a who’s-who of the best orchestras in the world. He conducts, too.”

“I wonder why he’d sign on to someplace like this?” I wondered out loud.

Sammi continued to read silently, but finally answered. “Maybe getting back to his Asian roots? Maybe he heard about young Anne Wa!”

“Maybe,” I said. “Where does he live?”

“Oh come on, Anne, you know I can’t give that information out.”

“Yes you can—if no one knows you did it.” I winked at Sammi, and I could see her resistance begin to melt. She no doubt was thinking about the trouble she could face if the department head even suspected.

“I have to go to the Ladies Room. Please stick around until I get back…I’ll only be a minute. Answer the phone if it rings, and don’t look at anything you shouldn’t. Promise?” She stood up and bit her lower lip mischievously, looking me in the eye.

“Promise.”

“Okay. Be right back.”

She left. I quickly walked around the counter and grabbed a pad and pencil, and then sat down in front of the computer screen. Within five seconds I had his name, address, and even his cell phone number. Aside from the fact that he’d played with every major orchestra across the world, there was no other pertinent information. Was he the founder of the Rip Young Pianists Society? No information, but judging from his acid tongue, a good possibility. Had he played with the San Francisco Symphony? Probably not, otherwise I would have heard of him. The faculty information screen didn’t specify just what else he would be doing here, other than Piano Composition. Piano Composition what? I intended to find out.

“Any calls while I was away, Anne?”

Sammi bounced back. She’d been gone two whole minutes, tops. I didn’t ask her any details.

“None, Sammi. Quiet as can be—and I didn’t peek at the screen or look for M&Ms in your desk drawer.” I tore the piece of paper from the pad and jammed it into my purse, and then got up. As I walked around the desk to the hall, I thanked her.

“I owe you one,” I said.

“You do? What in heaven’s name for?”

“Thanks, kiddo.” And out the door with me.

I decided this; formulated a plan:

143 Jersey Street. That’s where he lived, or was staying while in San Francisco. It wasn’t that far away—over to Market, catch the bus, transfer and then go south on Delores to Jersey. Actually, it was on my route home anyway. But I wouldn’t be getting in until late tonight.

I was going to stalk Julian Ming.

Catty-corner to his residence stood a small restaurant. I’d even been there once, but I couldn’t recall its name. Italian, I think. But from there I could grab a roll, a slice of pizza…or egg roll—whatever they served—and coffee, a chair near the corner window, and wait until he came home. Just what I intended to do after that I hadn’t a clear idea yet, but I’d think of something. Maybe after he arrived I’d march up the steps, knock on his door, and when he answered hold up my hands with The Rachmaninov Fingers.

“See? These can reach from one end of the keyboard to the other…and they can easily wrap around your pathetic neck! How dare you…” Or probably I would just ask him to explain just why he thought I…what was it he said?

“You know nothing!”

“Do you know what Sostenuto means?”

“You are not a musician.”

I DO know many things, sir!

I know Sostenuto very well, thank you!

I AM a musician, if not by choice, then by fate, you arrogant twit!

If fate had its way, Mr. Ming was probably going to be my instructor this term, and not simply a major talent on sabbatical at an out-of-the-way music center. That was likely. If I insulted him, he would certainly fail me, or in the very least refuse to show me the finer techniques of playing—as he attempted.

Sigh. I decided to knock on his door, introduce myself, and then apologize for being such a lousy pianist. After that I would beg him to instruct me.

                                                                                   *

“We close in five minutes, miss.”

My eyes were tired. My brain was tired. I’d nursed a single slice of pizza for hours. Drunk a single cup of coffee sip by sip until the last of it was cold. Scribbled notes haphazardly in my Composition notebook. I’d kept one eye glued to the house across the intersection, watched twenty or thirty cars drive up and down the street. A couple walking their dog. A crow landing in the middle of the street to inspect a piece of food tossed away. The dusk turn to darkness, and the streetlights come to life.

More cars. And more, but none that pulled into Mr. Ming’s drive. I’d conceived another useless notion, it hit me. Had he come home he probably wouldn’t have even answered his door, had I gathered up the courage to ring the bell.

“Waiting for someone?” the manager asked in a knowing, sympathetic tone.

I woke from my trance of thoughts at the sound of his soft voice. “Umm…yes. He didn’t show. He…I…thank you for letting me wait.”

The manager, a young guy with a pleasant face, answered as he walked to the door, keys in his hand.  “I’m sorry, miss. I would have shown up. I would have. But…well, goodnight then.”

I walked the few miles home in a state of fog that mimicked the cold blanket of salt air whirling down the hills and empty streets. Father was probably worried. I hadn’t called him. It would be like him to be waiting for me, book in hand, sitting quietly in his armchair, a single lamp glowing on the table beside it. The house at last emerged in the wet air like a pale-orange apparition, the only illumination—the porch bulb glowing more brightly with every step I took. The windows were dark, though, and I’d supposed he’d gone to bed, after all it was 10:15.

To Be Continued…

Text: (c) Patrick Sean Lee, 2013
Editing: Patrick Sean Lee, Sereni
Publication Date: 05-11-2013

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