Part 3 (1/2)

”You were eavesdropping,” he said.

I blushed. ”Yeah, I guess I was.”

”I was thinking that I might enjoy some company just now,” Eliot said. ”How lucky for you to be on the other side of the door.” He motioned me into the room, apparently unfazed by my eavesdropping. He seemed taller than before, over six feet easily, but he moved with a grace that belied his ma.s.sive stature.

Eliot slid onto the piano bench and patted the wood next to him, inviting me closer.

”Come, sit. You can tell me what I'm doing wrong,” he said. He began to play the first part of the piece again. I had played the song before-a cla.s.sic, easy enough to learn but not easy to play well. Satie had written notes to sound dissonant before resolving into harmony, and I had always struggled to get the phrasing correct.

Not Eliot. His fingers glided across the keys effortlessly, and his hair hung forward, dark curls resting on his forehead, the scar running down the side of his cheek more visible now in the light. I sat beside him on the edge of the piano bench, afraid to let myself get too close. Afraid of my own desires. Without his wool coat and hat he looked like a different man than the one I had met sitting on the bench. His white b.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt and crisp pants gave him an air of authority, and as he played I let my gaze drift over his profile. He stopped on a difficult pa.s.sage in the second coda and turned to me, catching my eyes resting on his scar.

”It's from a car accident,” he said, a note of bitterness in his voice.

”I'm sorry,” I said. ”I just-”

”It's alright,” he said, although he sounded more defensive, on edge. His fingers reached out to the sheet music, marking the notes as he spoke. ”The accident was my fault. It's a good reminder.”

”A reminder?”

”To be careful,” he said, with a finality that ended that part of the conversation. He turned back to the music.

”This sounds wrong,” he said, his fingers running across the keys again in irritation. ”What is wrong? I am no musician.”

”The right hand is too heavy,” I said before I could stop myself. But he gave me his full attention.

”Too heavy?”

”Sorry, I shouldn't criticize. I can't even play it as well as you.” But I knew the song, and I knew that the melody should be lighter there.

”Try,” he said. ”I'll do the left, you do the right.”

I had played it that way before. He couldn't know, but that was how I had learned the Gymnopedies, all of them. I couldn't protest against his commanding tone, so I scooted over on the bench, and tentatively put my right hand on the keys.

”From the beginning, yes?” He breathed in expressively, his chest rising, and we fell down into the first notes together.

At first my fingers hesitated too much, then pressed down too sharply. The Bosendorfer startled me with the bright action of its keys, so unlike the practice pianos I was familiar with. The melody burst forth, too loud by a factor of ten. I started at the sound. Easy to have a heavy hand on this piano.

Eliot smiled gently over at me, but continued to play. I quickly collected myself and rejoined him, relaxing my finger muscles and applying a lighter touch to the melody. He moved from chord to chord and I moved with him, learning his rhythm as he learned mine.

By the last measure of the first page we played in tight synchrony, and I lost myself in the song. I wasn't in the midnight piano room any longer. I was young, seven years old, and I could hear my mother humming the melody in my ear as she played the bottom chords, the extended octaves too much of a reach for my small hands.

I joined him in the last chord softly, the sound trailing off into the m.u.f.fled walls of the room.

”Who taught you to play?”

”My mother.”

”Is she a musician? Professionally, I mean? You have a talent for it.”

”She's- she was a musician. She traveled around and played for special events. Weddings, conferences.” My eyes watered at the thought of her saying goodbye to me before leaving.

”She is gone now?”

”Yes,” I said. ”She died in Hungary when I was young.” A pang of sorrow shot through my heart as it always did when I spoke of her, but nothing else.

At these words Eliot raised his eyebrows.

”I'm sorry.” He put his hand on mine, and again I felt the inescapable thrill of desire run through me. When he withdrew his hand, I had to stop myself from reaching out. He looked back at the music sheets on the piano. He put his hand out and began to play the Satie again, with a lighter touch. The first chords struck at my heart now that I heard them clearly: so simple, so elegant.

”Hungary is my homeland,” he said, his voice distant.

”I thought so,” I nodded. ”You sound kind of like my grandmother. Your accent.”

”I have an accent?” He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, his fingers continuing into the first slow crescendo. ”Have you been to Hungary?”

”No,” I said. ”I'd like to. Her whole family was from there. She always told me it was beautiful.”

”And your father?” The first low dissonant notes came in from the bottom.

”He's in Hollywood with his new wife. They're very famous.” I couldn't help but frown, tensing as I thought about the other side of my family, and for a few moments Eliot was silent, letting the music flow from his hands. The softness of the notes relaxed me.

”Fame is not always nice,” he said finally, launching into the second part of the melody.

”It doesn't matter,” I said, although it did. ”I live with my grandmother. I'm n.o.body to him. Or to anyone.” The bitterness in my voice surprised even me.

Eliot stopped playing in the middle of a measure, and silence spilled across the distance between us. He took a deep breath before speaking, his words tracing a slow tempo in the air.

”You are a mathematician,” he said. ”And a musician.”

”I'm not anything,” I said. ”I'm just-” I'm just Brynn. I cut the words off quickly, frightened suddenly that I might slip and give away my real name. ”I'm normal. Not really great at music or math.”

Eliot laughed softly and began to play again. The chords sounded lighter this time around.

”You have years to become great,” he said, letting the s.p.a.ce draw out between notes. ”No need to rush. See how badly I play? And I'm even worse at math.” A sparkle of teasing glimmered in his eye, but I could not tell if he was teasing me or himself.

”Most people are bad at math,” I said.

”True. So perhaps we have a long way to go before we are satisfied. We have plenty of time.” His eyes caught mine, and the second meaning behind his words made my breath catch in my throat. I coughed and looked up at the piano score, pretending to follow along with the notes. He played the second coda perfectly, hitting the exact right balance between lightness and emotion. I closed my eyes for the final two chords, letting my heart swell as they resolved upward and faded into the air.

”Valentina.”

The brief pause before my look of recognition must have given me away, but he seemed not to notice. He was lost in himself.

”Yes?”

His eyes lowered, unwilling to meet mine, and his fingertips ran along the ivory keys slowly, tentatively.