Tchaikovsky’s Offspring
It was nearly midnight, and he had had enough silence. Music, real music, he didn’t care from where, or from whom, was what he required at that hour. The dance tunes from the convention, mild enough for the woozy middle-aged doctors to imagine they could dance to, had sufficed for as long as they had tripped lazily into the grand lobby from the more modern conference rooms. But the doctors, prodded by their spouses, weary from too many Power Point lectures and mimosa-fueled brunches, had collapsed in the rooms on the floors above his head. The fine jazz trio that lounged unobtrusively behind the arrangement of settees and coffee tables only played those evenings with heavier foot traffic. The establishment which employed him, five evenings and mornings a week, to man the vast, polished reception desk, was far too venerable and sophisticated to drip muzak into public spaces during any lulls. The stupendouslylustrous Steinway, stage center, was left neglected, that beautiful woman in the room nobody dared approach. And so it was music, music he desired most.
It was only natural. He was a musician himself, or rather, he took in music, filtered it out of the air as a fish would oxygen from water, yet he was too timid to give back the little he had learned himself. The air in the posh lobby now was warm, slightly stale. The Leatherstocking winter had provided attractively sculpted snow drifts for the tourists to admire, but more acclimated locals like him could feel only the sterile chill. He noticed a man, and a woman, nestled in the nooks of couches across the vast throw rugs, the woman with needles and yarn, the man with a novel. He couldn’t tell which was more asleep. No other guests arrived from the circular drive, no fellow employees traversed the lobby from hall to hall, and thus he was resigning himself to a frustratingly quiet evening when he first noticed her.
It was the elegance she exuded that made him feel, even while standing still, as if he was lurching towards her, long before he had traced her glide towards the Steinway. She moved like a dancer, not an insomnia-stricken guest, a ballet dancer who had grown far above the proper height for that profession long ago. Her natural grace was accented by her attire as well, all black, flowing yet form-fitting, decorated with copious silver jewelry. As she lowered herself, with a professional weight, upon the grand piano’s bench, he felt his heart leap into a faster tempo. Thankful now there were no late guests to put through the rigmarole of boarding, the night clerk gravitated towards the figure at the head of the instrument as if that pairing formed a magnetic sculpture towards which he was inexorably attracted.
She certainly seemed more a sculpture, a fixture of the hotel, than any guest. She sat unmoving, apparently unmoved, at the bench, staring down the grid of piano wire strung under the partially raised lid as if the score for a sonata or concerto lay at the opposite end of the instrument. Her hands selected ten keys, a smattering of white and black, to float over, as if each finger were awaiting the moment they would be allowed to weigh into the keyboard. The fingers themselves were long and conspicuously jointed, the arms, partly bare, held themselves with a feminine strength. As she sensed, peripherally, his awkward arrival, her head pivoted slightly, noticed his uniform of suit-vest and stiffly creased pants, then returned, more slowly, to the keys. For the thinness of her frame, the face he glimpsed was especially round, pale and owl-like. It was a rather Eastern-European face, he thought, she and her parent’s parent’s would have been comfortable in climates not unlike that of his own northern New York.
The introductory chords of the first scene of Swan Lake shivered forth with the piano’s approximation of a tremolo string choir. She moved on through the reduction, and when the famous theme first appeared, dark and noble, the original solo oboe was lifted into a cantabile melody in the right hand. As the composition progressed - its texture thickened and dynamics expanded - she continued to visit another world away from the piano, a world towards the rear of the lobby where the great windows framed the sweep of wintry lawn and lake. Wherever she was, it seemed it wasn’t the luscious music that was transporting her there. Her hands moved on through the ballet score, capturing every nuance correctly as if they had nothing better to do with the notes, as trained and automatic as those of a priest dispensing communion.
His heart continued to accelerate – what were his odds tonight of meeting such a musician? He felt compelled to interject as she performed, and felt ashamed for his forwardness, yet nervous also she would play on, indifferent to his presence, or else leave. He decided not to implore her name – he would be embarrassed if it was unfamiliar to him, and intimidated by what surely were foreign words to navigate with his American tongue. His own name lay typeset in a badge over his breast, undistinguished, superseded by the curlicue moniker of the hotel, that single, stylish noun. As a new melody sprang again from the material of its predecessor, he remarked, with what he wished were confidence,
“I love the second phrase of that theme …”
Having now been engaged to a conversation, she reluctantly inclined her head towards him, while continuing to play.
“Oh? Are you a musician?” The Slavic accent rolled out to him from across the Caucasus.
“I try,” was accompanied by a sheepish smile and shrug of his shoulders.
“Ah.” She was silent again, apart from the music singing through her fingers.
He pressed on, too intrigued to heed her inaudible dismissal.
“Do you accompany dancers?”
“I conduct. The New York Ballet.”
Impressed with both the name-dropping and the fact that she had not ignored him entirely, he quickly breathed,
“Oh, of course. Wow. I’d love to see that.”
“Are you fond of Tchaikovsky?”
The long-since-deceased composers’ romance in motion swooned on.
“Fond? He’s the best – I probably have half-a-dozen recordings of each of his pieces – the piano and violin concertos, the symphonies, especially the sixth, Eugene Onegin …”
“I prefer not to study Tchaikovsky.”
“Really?” He was incredulous.
“I don’t comprehend it. Why do you listen?”
“Oh,” he smiled, “I guess I don’t have much of a choice – when my mother was pregnant she would play Tchaikovsky to me. My parents thought you should be exposed to good music early.”
“What did they play?”
“Tapes. And LP’s. My parents weren’t musicians. They just loved music.”
“My parents …” She interrupted herself and she almost – almost – repeated a phrase.
“My parents found me an instructor and a piano when I was four. In Russia. I played the First Concerto there, when I was twelve. I conducted it at conservatory here in New York, ten years later.”
“You didn’t want to do the Tchaikovsky, not even then?”
“No.”
“What did you want to do?”
She said nothing in reply. A symphony could have been performed in that pause, yet no music could have sounded more loudly than that silence which was held in the air like an indefinite fermata. With no acknowledgment of his presence, she stood up and vacated the piano, ascending the staircase to the floors of hotel rooms above. She moved across a proud silence, as if grace were all she had retained from life. As he watched her retreat, one or the other of the sleeping patrons awoke. From their view, he mused, he must appear dejected, as if he had been deserted by his accompanist mid-rehearsal. Standing as he was near the inward curve of the Steinway, he suddenly felt diminutive, engulfed by its mass. He returned to his desk, where he safely remained for the rest of the still, silent night.
The following evening was busier, as guests arrived to fulfill their reservations at later and later hours. Yet despite the bustle, the night clerks’ thoughts were elsewhere. In an interlude between the registering of incoming parties, he searched the Internet on his below-counter monitor. He found the article, an after-concert music review, he was searching for, and perhaps more, “The New York Ballet tonight, under the musical direction of Mme. ____, presented Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s classic “Swan Lake”. Mme. ____ and her orchestra performed with utmost professionalism and skill, however, what was lacking was …”
His thoughts ceased to be elsewhere. He left his station, and moved freely towards his piano. After seating himself and looking briefly about, he pressed the warm flesh of his fingertips to the cool ivory and commenced easing out that melody, Tchaikovsky’s melody. He couldn’t tell if the guests were aware, yet he, at least, saw below a handsome prince leading a marvelous swan across the frozen lake. He played on, from that lonely castle, a monument to the fiercely romantic Russian winter.
It was only natural. He was a musician himself, or rather, he took in music, filtered it out of the air as a fish would oxygen from water, yet he was too timid to give back the little he had learned himself. The air in the posh lobby now was warm, slightly stale. The Leatherstocking winter had provided attractively sculpted snow drifts for the tourists to admire, but more acclimated locals like him could feel only the sterile chill. He noticed a man, and a woman, nestled in the nooks of couches across the vast throw rugs, the woman with needles and yarn, the man with a novel. He couldn’t tell which was more asleep. No other guests arrived from the circular drive, no fellow employees traversed the lobby from hall to hall, and thus he was resigning himself to a frustratingly quiet evening when he first noticed her.
It was the elegance she exuded that made him feel, even while standing still, as if he was lurching towards her, long before he had traced her glide towards the Steinway. She moved like a dancer, not an insomnia-stricken guest, a ballet dancer who had grown far above the proper height for that profession long ago. Her natural grace was accented by her attire as well, all black, flowing yet form-fitting, decorated with copious silver jewelry. As she lowered herself, with a professional weight, upon the grand piano’s bench, he felt his heart leap into a faster tempo. Thankful now there were no late guests to put through the rigmarole of boarding, the night clerk gravitated towards the figure at the head of the instrument as if that pairing formed a magnetic sculpture towards which he was inexorably attracted.
She certainly seemed more a sculpture, a fixture of the hotel, than any guest. She sat unmoving, apparently unmoved, at the bench, staring down the grid of piano wire strung under the partially raised lid as if the score for a sonata or concerto lay at the opposite end of the instrument. Her hands selected ten keys, a smattering of white and black, to float over, as if each finger were awaiting the moment they would be allowed to weigh into the keyboard. The fingers themselves were long and conspicuously jointed, the arms, partly bare, held themselves with a feminine strength. As she sensed, peripherally, his awkward arrival, her head pivoted slightly, noticed his uniform of suit-vest and stiffly creased pants, then returned, more slowly, to the keys. For the thinness of her frame, the face he glimpsed was especially round, pale and owl-like. It was a rather Eastern-European face, he thought, she and her parent’s parent’s would have been comfortable in climates not unlike that of his own northern New York.
The introductory chords of the first scene of Swan Lake shivered forth with the piano’s approximation of a tremolo string choir. She moved on through the reduction, and when the famous theme first appeared, dark and noble, the original solo oboe was lifted into a cantabile melody in the right hand. As the composition progressed - its texture thickened and dynamics expanded - she continued to visit another world away from the piano, a world towards the rear of the lobby where the great windows framed the sweep of wintry lawn and lake. Wherever she was, it seemed it wasn’t the luscious music that was transporting her there. Her hands moved on through the ballet score, capturing every nuance correctly as if they had nothing better to do with the notes, as trained and automatic as those of a priest dispensing communion.
His heart continued to accelerate – what were his odds tonight of meeting such a musician? He felt compelled to interject as she performed, and felt ashamed for his forwardness, yet nervous also she would play on, indifferent to his presence, or else leave. He decided not to implore her name – he would be embarrassed if it was unfamiliar to him, and intimidated by what surely were foreign words to navigate with his American tongue. His own name lay typeset in a badge over his breast, undistinguished, superseded by the curlicue moniker of the hotel, that single, stylish noun. As a new melody sprang again from the material of its predecessor, he remarked, with what he wished were confidence,
“I love the second phrase of that theme …”
Having now been engaged to a conversation, she reluctantly inclined her head towards him, while continuing to play.
“Oh? Are you a musician?” The Slavic accent rolled out to him from across the Caucasus.
“I try,” was accompanied by a sheepish smile and shrug of his shoulders.
“Ah.” She was silent again, apart from the music singing through her fingers.
He pressed on, too intrigued to heed her inaudible dismissal.
“Do you accompany dancers?”
“I conduct. The New York Ballet.”
Impressed with both the name-dropping and the fact that she had not ignored him entirely, he quickly breathed,
“Oh, of course. Wow. I’d love to see that.”
“Are you fond of Tchaikovsky?”
The long-since-deceased composers’ romance in motion swooned on.
“Fond? He’s the best – I probably have half-a-dozen recordings of each of his pieces – the piano and violin concertos, the symphonies, especially the sixth, Eugene Onegin …”
“I prefer not to study Tchaikovsky.”
“Really?” He was incredulous.
“I don’t comprehend it. Why do you listen?”
“Oh,” he smiled, “I guess I don’t have much of a choice – when my mother was pregnant she would play Tchaikovsky to me. My parents thought you should be exposed to good music early.”
“What did they play?”
“Tapes. And LP’s. My parents weren’t musicians. They just loved music.”
“My parents …” She interrupted herself and she almost – almost – repeated a phrase.
“My parents found me an instructor and a piano when I was four. In Russia. I played the First Concerto there, when I was twelve. I conducted it at conservatory here in New York, ten years later.”
“You didn’t want to do the Tchaikovsky, not even then?”
“No.”
“What did you want to do?”
She said nothing in reply. A symphony could have been performed in that pause, yet no music could have sounded more loudly than that silence which was held in the air like an indefinite fermata. With no acknowledgment of his presence, she stood up and vacated the piano, ascending the staircase to the floors of hotel rooms above. She moved across a proud silence, as if grace were all she had retained from life. As he watched her retreat, one or the other of the sleeping patrons awoke. From their view, he mused, he must appear dejected, as if he had been deserted by his accompanist mid-rehearsal. Standing as he was near the inward curve of the Steinway, he suddenly felt diminutive, engulfed by its mass. He returned to his desk, where he safely remained for the rest of the still, silent night.
The following evening was busier, as guests arrived to fulfill their reservations at later and later hours. Yet despite the bustle, the night clerks’ thoughts were elsewhere. In an interlude between the registering of incoming parties, he searched the Internet on his below-counter monitor. He found the article, an after-concert music review, he was searching for, and perhaps more, “The New York Ballet tonight, under the musical direction of Mme. ____, presented Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s classic “Swan Lake”. Mme. ____ and her orchestra performed with utmost professionalism and skill, however, what was lacking was …”
His thoughts ceased to be elsewhere. He left his station, and moved freely towards his piano. After seating himself and looking briefly about, he pressed the warm flesh of his fingertips to the cool ivory and commenced easing out that melody, Tchaikovsky’s melody. He couldn’t tell if the guests were aware, yet he, at least, saw below a handsome prince leading a marvelous swan across the frozen lake. He played on, from that lonely castle, a monument to the fiercely romantic Russian winter.