At home, Mélancolie was harder than he expected. Some passages worked with the right hand alone. The second he added his left hand, everything fell apart. He repeated the same few measures.
At the recital, she had made the whole thing sound as if it simply moved forward on its own. His copy was covered with fingering numbers the teacher had written in pencil. He checked them and tried again. Stopped halfway through.
Started over. The next Wednesday, he reached the studio a little early. When he opened the door, she was standing with her bag. Her lesson had just ended.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
She started past him, then stopped.
“You’re working on Mélancolie now?”
“Yeah. It’s a really good piece.”
“Yeah.”
She smiled. He tried to think of something else to say. Nothing came.
“See you.”
“Yeah.”
She opened the door and left. He watched it close, then sat at the piano. The teacher opened his score.
“All right. From the beginning.”
He started playing. She stopped him after a few measures.
“Don’t rush there.”
“I’m rushing?”
“You are. You sound like you can’t wait to get to the next part.”
“I don’t feel like I’m rushing.”
“Most people don’t notice when they’re doing it.”
She sat beside him.
“Move over for a second.”
He shifted on the bench. She played the same passage. She played it slowly, but the music kept moving.
“The title is Mélancolie, right?”
“Right.”
“That doesn’t mean you play every note like you’re miserable.”
She played it again.
“Chaminade was a French composer. This piece is more than a hundred years old. That doesn’t mean you have to make it sound stiff.”
“Stiff?”
“You’re putting down each note like you’re afraid of getting it wrong.”
“You can tell?”
“Of course I can.”
“If all you’re thinking about is getting every note right, it stops sounding like music.”
Her fingers moved slowly over the keys.
“For me, this part feels like walking alone on a road with a little fog on it.”
“Fog?”
“Not so much you can’t see. You can see where you’re going. Just not perfectly.”
She played the passage again.
“So if you rush here, suddenly you’re a guy sprinting through the fog.”
“That sounds weird.”
“Exactly. So walk.”
She gave him the bench back.
“Try it.”
He put his hands on the keys and played more slowly.
“Better. Keep that.”
He went on to the next measure.
“And don’t bring out the left hand so much there. It’s getting in the way.”
He played it again.
“Yeah. Better.”
“It still sounds nothing like yours.”
“How long do you think I’ve been playing?”
“Have you played this piece for a long time?”
“Of course. But I haven’t played it the same way all these years.”
She pointed to the score.
“I’m sure I played it faster when I was younger. Pieces like this change as you get older.”
“But the piece doesn’t change.”
“You change.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You might someday.”
She marked a measure lightly in pencil.
“Again. From here.”
He started over. He stopped a few times, but made it farther than before. The teacher closed the score.
“That’s enough for today.”
“This is hard.”
“It is. Good piece, though.”
“Yeah.”
He started to put the book away, then opened it again.
“Do you think I’ll actually be able to play it?”
“If you practice.”
“How long?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“But—”
“If you rush, you’ll end up sprinting through the fog again.”
He put the music in his bag. Before leaving, he remembered what she had said when he came in. You’re working on Mélancolie now? He wished they had talked a little longer.
Next time he saw her, maybe he would.