I never usually got nervous before performing. Decades of entertaining crowds everywhere from the sweltering streets of South America to the ornate, over-embellished concert halls of Europe had developed unfaltering nerves of steel. When I stood in front of an audience, a regiment of musicians behind me, the conductor slipping in and out of my peripheral vision, the eye of a camera focussed keenly on my face - I was unstoppable. Yet here, in this small, dingy café tucked away in a forgotten corner of Soho, in front of an audience who doubtless couldn't tell their Bach from their Brahms; here, without a single critic in sight - somehow I was nervous.
I had never really wanted to perform tonight - the arrival of autumn meant the start of a new season and a jam-packed schedule. But an old teacher had asked me to pop into their parents' café, saying that they had finally scrimped together enough money to buy a piano. It would mean a lot to them if I could be the first to play it - not for long, just 15 minutes or so. Feeling that it would be petty to start making excuses, especially to someone who had contributed so much to my career, I found myself agreeing.
The café was, I suppose, charming in its own way. Steam from fragrant teapots clouded windows flanked by plum-coloured, velvety curtains. The walls were layered with an assortment of wallpapers from various time periods, patterns creeping into each other and overlapping in an odd disjointed harmony. The chairs were scratched and worn; any colour they had once had had long since peeled away, revealing the untreated wood beneath. Around each table sat pockets of people, many still in their business attire - they looked surprisingly normal against their bizarre backdrop. In the corner, a fire was crackling merrily, flames leaping and dancing in the air. And right at the front of the shop, unmissable to anyone who entered, stood the piano.
Trying desperately to ignore the alien, unrelenting sense of dread, I focussed my attention on the instrument. Smallish and upright, it was not unlike the one I grew up playing. Its gleaming, chestnut shell stood out in stark contrast to its scruffy surroundings, but like everything else in the shop, it somehow radiated an enchanted, beguiling warmth. The lid was down, so I was unable to inspect the keys, but the pedals, though well polished, were tinged with watery stains, indicating a former coat of rust. Of course, I had played on better; then again, I had also played on worse.
YOU ARE READING
Mateo's Coda
General Fiction'Music is the space between the notes.' - Claude Debussy Maria is an international pianist enjoying the height of her career. Successful and admired, she leads a busy and fulfilling life. Then one day in a coffee shop, a seemingly inconspicuous pian...
