The Piano Man (Iwaoi)

Chapter 9

        Did he like the present you bought for him?

        Yes, he liked it a lot! Thanks for the recommendation.

        I'm glad to hear it.

***

        Sorry about last night. I was stupid.

        I was, too.

        I think you're right. We shouldn't be alone anymore.

        Yeah.

        You're taking responsibility for me.

        Of course. I always have.

        I'm sorry for always making you do that.

        You do it for me sometimes, too.

***

        As Hajime walked out the door, Tooru suddenly remembered so clearly when he'd fainted after 30 hours at the piano.

        How old had he been? Ten years old, preparing for a recital. At dawn, when the sun was rising and covering him in orange, purple, pink hues through the expensive but thin curtains on the grand windows of his grand room, he woke up and stretched his arms over his head. His fingers were itching, his heart racing with its desire to create music. His parents were asleep, but they had grown used to sleeping through the piano. Early in the morning, late at night, when their son created magic and they slept through it because it wasn't really magic to them—since they'd seen the horrors of its birth, since they knew the secrets behind the tricks, it wasn't magic to them. Just parlor tricks. He jumped out of bed, the soles of his bare feet slamming against the tile, and he heard Mozart because he always heard Mozart when he woke up in the morning. Today it was Rondo alla Turca. He hummed along as he changed out of his pajamas, put on a pair of pants and a button-up shirt even though he wasn't going to leave the house. He went to the bathroom and brushed his hair, though he was so short he could hardly see his own face in the mirror without a stepping stool. But using it made him pouty.

        He scurried downstairs, clenching and unclenching his fists, preparation for his practice. He was going to practice a difficult suite today, but one that he'd insisted on adding to his repertoire. Suite Bergamasque, Debussy, four pieces total. He would start, of course, with the prelude. It would have been sacrilegious otherwise, his ten year-old mind insisted. Bunched up eyebrows and heels that hardly reached the golden pedal, he sat down at the bench. He pretended that he was wearing a tuxedo coattail, so he flipped it over the bench before he sat down. The sheet music was already there, waiting for him.

        Before he started practicing the actual piece, he did his chords, his scales, his arpeggios, to warm up his fingers. And then, once he was confident that they were warm and ready, he read the sheet music and he began to practice. The prelude was like a dream—he couldn't get enough of the first part, it made him wild with desire and fantasy. It reminded him of a bird taking flight, spreading her wings and turning in the air while those below her watched with eyes wide in awe. She was flying over an ocean.

        When he was in the middle of practicing the prelude, his mother woke up and came down and brought him a glass of water and a kiss to his cheek. He thanked her, smiled, said, "The water will be my reward for finishing this prelude, Mama."

        "Don't work yourself too hard, my love. You know your music is wonderful."

        That was just the problem, though. He didn't know. And, in fact, his music wasn't wonderful. Not unless he made it so. He had to make it so.