Arpello is on the john and breaking into a sweat. He taps his cigarette and stares ahead of him trying to figure out how to get through the day. The door is suddenly thrown open.

“Daddy?”

“Out!”

He closes the door.

There is a low rumble from the subway, the ash falls off his cigarette, he can feel the water underneath him sloshing around on his behind.

They live above the 6 train in a 3-room apartment. An ugly household. Sometimes Marie would walk around all day with a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoe. She had very wide feet. So did his daughter. Still, he loved Marie. He loved her with full knowledge of all her shortcomings, whereas she probably loved him despite her disappointment in him, for not proving to be as romantic or charismatic as his music. He should not have married and having a child was the second mistake. Marie obviously thought so too. The kid tired her out.  She always seemed to be around, insomnia or something at the age of six. She invaded every aspect of their lives. Often in the middle of making love on the convertible that served as their bed there would be the tell-tale squeak of her door, and they’d have to separate like guilty children, moderate their breathing and get her whatever it was she wanted. Or walk her through the dark kitchen to the bathroom and walk her back again.

Today there was going to be a birthday party for her with about ten of her chubby friends, one of those parties with the kids running their sticky greasy fingers over his piano keys. He would be spending the time in his studio, his usual Saturday, making sure he didn’t leave until the last of them were gone.

“Darling? Karen says she must get in there.”

“Tell her to wait.”

Then one minute later: “Daddy I have to go to the bathroom; I really have to.”

Bad enough it is the only place in the apartment where he is allowed to smoke. He puts his cigarette out. No use trying to make the morning last. It is over now and there is a whole day of lessons ahead.

“Daddy!”

He opens the door. She is standing in front of him, squeezing her legs together.

“All yours’.” She closes the door behind her. That was her one good trait: She didn’t insist on sharing her biological functions with him.

He gets on the 6 train to 59^th, then the Brooklyn bound Q train which drops him at 55^th and 7^th. From there it is a short walk to his studio. When he arrives, he is an hour ahead of the first arrival.

Overall, he anticipates a bad day. He has Francois at 3pm and he senses another disappointment coming on. Francois had more musicality and better articulation at the piano than all his other students combined but technically he was quickly losing pace. His last shot at immortality was having been the teacher of a brilliant pianist and it is not to be his after all. Chances are he will never again have a student of Francois’ gifts. Oh, there would be many who would be more ambitious, who would put in all the hours and all the toil, who would sacrifice their social lives, becoming slaves to the metronome, and they would come up with not even a tenth of what Francois could have had, if he wasn’t such a coward.

He wanted to be a filmmaker. Arpello is sure he is too much of a wimp for that as well.

He lights another cigarette and opens the paper. 11:00 am. Soon they’ll start drifting in and how he dreaded seeing them! All the untalented little pipsqueaks, the rich boys and girls, goaded into lessons by culturally insecure parents with tin ears, their hair slicked back like dwarf mobsters. They didn’t want to be here anymore than he wanted them. If it weren’t for the money, he wouldn’t be here either.

“Trapped like a rat. I hate children.” But at this point that isn’t even the hardest thing. The hardest thing is to look back at his own truncated potential. Stupid, miserable reasons, but fake talent was not one of them. He should have trained himself to do something else. He always hated performing. He should have seen that it wasn’t going to work out. So, he ended up doing the worst thing that anyone with genuine talent can do: Try to teach it to someone else.

4pm comes sooner than he’d have liked. He opens a window: His last student had bad breath. He puts another pot of coffee on and opens the door for Francois. At least he is always punctual, for what that was worth.

“May I have some coffee?”

“Milk, Yes, sugar no, correct?”

“Yes.”

He serves Francois coffee several times a month, but he feels he shouldn’t care enough to memorize it.

“Francois, you’ve had a good week so far? A lot of time to practice?”

“No. I’ve not had any time. I had a job, editing. I am helping a friend put together his thesis and he’s paying me. I couldn’t pass it up. I’m quite broke.”

“Then I guess we’ll be back at scratch with the Scarlatti.”

“Probably worse than that”, the boy is blushing. “I can’t retain anything in this head of mine. Last week’s lesson just seemed to wing away from me. I’m sorry.”

Wing away from you?  Arpello frowns in his coffee. He looks up and notices that Francois is holding his hand around his cup instead of using the ring. He had no fear of injuring his hands.

“François when you have finished your coffee, we’ll start with the Chopin-Waltz F# minor. I think it’ll limber you up. We’ll leave the Scarlatti for last.”

“I agree. I need something to get me into the mood today. I’m afraid I’m tired out from editing and exams. I’m not really a natural student.”

Arpello observes that the boy is looking paler and thinner than usual, apparently failing to blossom under the auspices of the film program.

A couple of minutes later Francois is holding his hands over the piano. As usual he looks afraid to begin, suspended over the keyboard with no place to land. Arpello leans next to him, and he begins.

It is tentative but at least unlike his other students he does not begin with a crash. Francois has no idea how much his hands love the keys, that they are made for this very thing. But it is too late: He is nineteen. It won’t happen now. Arpello must break himself from this habit of looking at Francois’ hands with hope.

The boy is blushing, sweat forming on his brow.

He probably thinks it is me, leaning so close, Arpello thinks and puts his cigarette out. He wanders over to the window. But this has not helped the performance. In fact, it has suddenly become stiff and self-conscious.

“Francois begin again” he says with his back turned.

For several seconds there is no sound behind him. When he turns around, he sees that Francois is facing him on the bench.

“I’m sorry. I found it distracting.”

“What?”

“You walked away.”

“Don’t be silly Francois. Begin again.”

The boy turns toward the keys. Arpello lights another cigarette.

“May I have a drag?” Francois asks. He is drying his nervous fingers on his pants.

Arpello hands him the cigarette. What is the matter with the boy? He is more of a wreck than usual.

“Are you not feeling well Francois?”

He is taking a long time with the cigarette.

“No, just spring fever.” He hands the cigarette back to Arpello, who resists an impulse to put it out. “There is a lot going on. I guess I can’t concentrate.”

Arpello goes to the window and opens it wide. “There: Cold air. That should clear your brain.” He takes the opportunity to toss his cigarette out. He turns back. Francois is staring at his shoes.

“Francois. Let’s begin again. The Chopin from the beginning. There is a lot of noise coming from outside, so you’ve got no choice but to concentrate on the music and only the music. Begin.” He stands by the piano. The boy looks at the keys and starts to bite his nails.

This is even worse than last week!

“Francois! Start the piece.”

The boy reaches his right hand to the keys, then immediately retracts it.

“Here” Arpello says, sitting next to him. “Move over a little Francois.” He takes Francois’ hands, taking the one farthest from him by placing an arm around the boy’s back. He looks at the wet fingertips squeamishly and places them on the keys. “That’s the configuration.” He holds the boy by the wrists. “You are in the correct position. Begin.”

The boy flushes furiously.

“Francois think about the piece, not about me or anything else. Just the piece.”

Francois’ arms make a little jerk, and he begins. Arpello holds lightly onto the boy’s wrists but still he is playing like a mechanical soldier. Arpello lets him go. He shows no improvement.

“Francois, I think we should go back to the Bach.” Arpello gets up and reaches for another cigarette. “Staccato may be better for your mood today.”

“I haven’t brought that piece with me.”

“You haven’t memorized it yet?”

“I did but that was over a month ago.”

“And you haven’t practiced it since?”

Francois silently shakes his head.

Arpello begins to pace. In some weird, universal logic, François is his penance, for lying to his wife, for disliking his daughter, for never going to church, for not believing in anything except bad luck. Why does the boy continue to take lessons?

“We’ll do the Scarlatti. Have you brought it with you?”

The boy goes to his satchel. His hands are trembling.

“Of course, I have it here.” He pulls out some folded sheets.

“Good you may begin.”

Francois makes a vain attempt to smooth the sheets against the desk, but they refuse to stand upright above the keyboard. Arpello walks quickly over and leaning over Francois’ shoulders, holds the sheets in place.

Francois’ eyes swim over the notes. He holds his hands up, but they are shaking so much he can’t aim them at the correct keys.

“Francois begin!”

Francois seems to be looking at Arpello’s wrist, which is close to his face. Arpello lets go of the sheet music and taking Francois’ hands places them in the opening configuration. The boy lets himself be manipulated but his hands are so wet that Arpello must dry his own hand before replacing it on the sheets.

“Take a deep breath Francois. Forget about yourself. Think about the music, you are forgetting how to approach the piece.”

His hands shift suddenly as if broken by a spasm.

“Put them back into position Francois.”

The boy obeys. He is as much of a wreck as any of Arpello’s untalented geeks. This session can be chalked up to a total loss.

“Francois!”

The boy puts his hands down. “I’m blocked.”

“By what?”

The wretched boy stares at his lap.

“Very well then stand up. I’ll begin it for you.” Francois stands up slowly. Arpello puts his cigarette out and sits down.

“I’ll hold the music for you.”

“No need.”

It is one of about 100 pieces that Arpello knows by heart. It was even in his repertoire when he had a repertoire.

“Listen Francois and watch my hands”.

Arpello is aware of his own pleasure in the notes.

“This is where you had some trouble last week: Pianissimo here, lightly accent, a slight trill. This is where you got a little clumsy. Listen. Follow the music. You should see the notes, begin to see them in your mind. Here, it is softer, allegro. This technique you have, you are very good at this part. Give the music the whole range of emotion, of light and shade. I don’t have to get all the sound out of the notes. You are already very good at that François, and you also know when to suggest. There.”

Arpello stops suddenly.

“That’s enough for me.” He moves over on the bench. “Sit down.”

The boy sits down next to him. Arpello can feel the tremors in his legs. He holds the music, “All right Francois. Form the opening configuration and begin.”

Francois begins the piece, sounding like an old, tired player piano.

“Less stiff Francois.”

His fingers look like they could break. The boy seems to be aware of it. His face is a study in grief. Arpello watches him for a few minutes and then, unable to take anymore, puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“O.K. Francois. I think you should stop.”

The boy nods and tucks his hands under his arms.

“You are much too tense to work on this now. Do you want to take a walk around the block?”

“You would walk with me?”

“No, I meant you, alone.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I’m in the wrong frame of mind.”

Arpello is not interested in what frame he is in. He wants the boy to go. Fast. And not return until he can more successfully impersonate his past self.

“Do you want me to go?”

“This is wasting our time Francois.”

“I know.”

“You do not prepare between lessons and then you are unable to work. With better preparation you would have a good technique to deal with your nerves.”

Arpello considers that a good technique never saved him from his nerves. There was that time in Amsterdam when he nearly fainted on stage.

“I am not a performer at heart.”

“That’s nonsense Francois. I’ve heard you play brilliantly at the student recitals, in front of fifty people. It’s only in the past few months that you haven’t been able to get anywhere with your music and that’s in direct ratio to the declining amount of time you are practicing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s ridiculous to apologize. This is your money, or your parents’ money. You are the one who must benefit from being here, not me or anyone else. You are so passive, it’s as if I am holding you here at gunpoint.”

“I’m in a bad period.”

“Well, if you don’t see yourself getting out of it you may wish to suspend your lessons.”

The boy puts his head down: “I was going to suggest that.”

Arpello feels suddenly furious. All this time has the boy been leading him to this?

“Well then I suggest you do that.”

“Yes” the boy says faintly.

“You can consider this your final lesson.”

The boy stands up.

Arpello goes to the window. His last chance. The boy will never come back. He lights a cigarette, waiting for the sound of the door to close behind him.

“May I have a drag?”

Francois, satchel over his shoulder, is putting his hand toward Arpello. With a frown, Arpello hands him the cigarette. The boy smokes and watches him and hands it back.

“Keep it.” |

The boy drops his eyes but not before Arpello has noted a strange joining of their light and the sun’s. If one didn’t know better, it would seem as if a tear had formed.

“Francois, I hope you will think about eventually coming back and applying yourself with the seriousness that your talent deserves.”

“You want me to return?”

“No Francois. Not unless you are willing to work.”

The boy nods and throws the cigarette out the window. He gives Arpello a thin white hand. Arpello shakes it and the boy does not let go. The strength in that hand is lonesome: Arpello feels like hitting the boy. And why is he staring into his eyes?

“Good-bye Francois.”

The boy drops his hand.

When the door is fully closed behind him, Arpelo throws the pack of cigarettes at it.

Three hours later Arpello is walking home. For certain his daughter’s birthday party is over by now.  Karen opens the door. You’d think she hadn’t seen him in years. 

“Daddy, I got a Lego house from Aunt Alice. And mommy gave me Pooh.” She is holding the stuffed animal in her arms. “I had a lot of cake, but I saved you a piece because I had the ice cream too.”

“Not now. Daddy just got home. After dinner. I was waiting for you before I started it. Chicken, ok?”

“Fine.”

The child holds the huge Pooh to her body and jumps up on the sofa, so her short frilly dress flounces about her chubby legs.

Marie looks tired and the apartment smells like kitty litter. He opens a window.

“Mrs. Johnson and Ilsa brought her the most beautiful doll. She walks and talks. It must have cost about $300.”

“I don’t like her.”

“Oh, you better like her Karen. For that much money. And you’re going to write a thank you note to Ilsa.”

“I don’t like Ilsa. I want to give it back.”

“You’ll do no such thing, and you won’t say anything like that to Ilsa, do you hear me?”

Karen shrugs.

“Karen if you tell Ilsa you don’t like the gift, Daddy and I will take Pooh back.”

“Oh, leave me out of this”. Arpello throws his coat on a chair and goes into the kitchen.

There is nothing to do in the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator. Some ginger ale left, about a half cup. He stares out the window into the air shaft. In a minute he’ll go into the bathroom. That’ll kill about twenty minutes.

“Darling, there’s something that Karen wants you to hear.”

The airshaft makes it look darker than it is, possessing a nautical gloom that suits his mood.

He hears his wife cranking up the piano stool for Karen.

On his way to the bathroom, he stops,  caught by the sounds coming from the living room.

“Darling please come in here.”

He puts his cigarettes back in his breast pocket and returns to the living room. Karen is at the piano and Marie is sitting across the room on the couch.

“Isn’t she marvelous?”  

Karen is playing The Owl’s Question, the most advanced piece in the 5^th volume of his exercise books, the sort of thing someone plays about the third year of study. She is playing perfectly and stranger still, with a kind of delicate feeling that deepens the piece and gives it fullness and poignancy.

“I’m playing it twice Daddy because it’s short.”

He leans against the wall and watches the small form at the piano. He would not have guessed that her hands could even span the chords in the piece. She had memorized it and hadn’t hit a wrong note yet.

When she is finished, she swings around in the stool and wipes her hands on the front of her dress.

“When did she learn this?”

“She’s been practicing every day for weeks before you come home. She wouldn’t even let me help her with it.”

The little girl is looking up at him and her eyes are shining. He realizes that she is waiting for a hug but for the moment, the most honest thing he can do is look at her. She appears to him as some sort of new entity, perhaps a being with a soul. He had tried to teach Karen the scales a couple of times, giving her the rudiments but her physical perspicacity had unsettled him. She would twirl in the seat, she would try to hold his hand, she would sit with her mouth open and her tongue hanging out as if she had run a great length and he had finally given up.

When was that?

“Can you play anything else for me Karen?”

“It’s the only one I know by heart.”

He turns the little girl around in her seat, so she is facing the keys and takes an exercise book from the top of the piano. “Here. Find something in here to play.”

“Oh, daddy I’m finished with that book.”

“All right, you pick something.”

Karen stands on the stool as he adds a steady hand to her body. She pulls out a thin book from the heap and squats back down on the stool.

“Clemente?”

“Here Daddy. I can play the second one in the book if I look at it.”

He holds the book open for her and looks at Marie who is beaming from the couch.

Karen puts her finger in her mouth for a moment. She is perspiring on her upper lip. Then she begins the piece. He looks at her pudgy fingers on the keys. And the sound that follows is clear in tone and unmistakable.

She is gifted.

Arpello’s future opens out like a bright road in front of him.

And for once he can’t wait to see what is ahead.

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