Brenda stirs awake, throwing her leg across mine so that her backside is facing up. She starts caressing my beard and chest, and breathing against my neck.
‘So, will you follow me home today? My father is still eager to meet you,’ she says.
‘Next weekend.’
‘That’s what you said last week.’
‘Next weekend, I promise. I’ll visit on Saturday. By the way, I have a brief rehearsal in my department with my classmate in the next two hours. His name is Fred. Will you come with me?’
‘No.’
‘Pleeeeaaaaseee.’ She raises her head to search my face, holding my gaze for a few seconds, rests her head on my shoulder, and, with her finger, begins to draw circles on my chest.
The rehearsal rooms are almost filled by the time we arrive. I am dialing Fred’s number when we sight a cluster of guys cheering in room 002. We approach the room to see an ensemble of choreographers, three boys and three girls in black tank tops and white pants, dancing to ‘Man Down’. Fred sights me and quickly picks up his bag from the floor. I quickly introduce him and Brenda to each other, and we walk down to the piano room attached to the Igor Stravinsky Lecture hall; it is less likely to be occupied, on a Saturday evening. I sit at the grand piano and busy myself with scales and arpeggios while Fred rummages in his bag for scores. Fred’s second recital as a tenor is in four weeks, and I am his accompanist. He spreads the score of Mozart’s ‘Un’aura Amorosa’ and we begin. Afterwards, he sings ‘Nessun Dorma.’ All the while, Brenda is sitting cross-legged at the far end of the room, busy with her phone, and looking out the window. Fred brings out another score and starts arranging the pages when Brenda walks up to me, whispers, ‘I’m off to room 002,’ and leaves.
Saturday morning, I wake up with a slight migraine and severe hunger. Brenda is not in bed. I don’t see her shoes in the room. I check the time. It is 10:45am. We had returned last night from the Swagpad nightclub, too drunk to make love. Before then, we had argued the whole week about going to a night club. My reasons were simple: I can’t dance; I didn’t want to be tempted to get drunk outside my house; night clubs are too noisy and rowdy for me; a fight could break out regardless of the presence of bouncers and the police; and I need to practice for my recital.
Brenda took her time to argue why I needed to experience the Swagpad’s Friday night-clubbing which was, according to her, the best vibe in the world. I am learning to not argue with a lady, especially when there is romance in the equation. Even though I let Brenda win all the time, I had to strike a balance this time. I came up with a suggestion after she cursed and asked me to stop playing the music of dead men and learn to dance to real music. I said I would only go clubbing if she would go to Carnegie Hall with me for a concert. She hesitated. Then, she agreed.
It is 1:35 p.m. and I am on bus 553 heading to Atlantic City. I call Brenda to confirm that I’ll arrive at her address in the next twenty minutes. Ohio Avenue is a classy residential area, calm and cozy with lots of flowers. I arrive at no. 115 and press the bell. Brenda gets the door and while I follow her lead into the house, my eyes feed on the interior decor. As I gaze at the portraits displayed conspicuously on the wall, I turn to the far end of the large living room, and there it is: a baby grand piano. Steinway & Sons. I walk down to the instrument, open it, and touch the middle C.
‘Please, don’t play.’
I turn to Brenda standing behind me, her eyes distant.
‘That’s alright. I wasn’t going to play it though,’ I say as I close the piano. We hear footfalls of someone coming down the stairs.
‘My dad,’ she whispers, and takes my hand.
Her dad walks into the room. He is in his sixties, maybe, has small eyes, is bald, and his face is covered with a full beard and mustache so that his lips are nearly out of view. He offers his hand for a handshake, and as I stretch my right hand, I wonder how he eats without getting all that hair in the food.
‘Dad, meet Del. Del, my Dad,’ Brenda says.
‘She’s told me so much about you already,’ Brenda’s father says and motions to a sofa. ‘You’re welcome, young man.’
We sit.
‘Brenda says you have a long African name. I love Africa. I’ve been to Kenya for a conference. That was in 1994, shortly after Brenda’s birth. So how do you say your name?’
‘Delunebechukwu’
‘That’s a complex one.’
I nod.
‘I hear you play the piano. You see that grand over there? It used to keep this home alive until something happened.’ He begins to talk about his first son Alvin, who had died. Alvin had been three when he started learning to play. At first, he bought a used Baldwin upright piano, then sold it after the first four months and replaced it with Steinway & Sons. He got Alvin a piano teacher, an Italian immigrant who had lessons with him twice every week. The boy learnt very fast, and was getting set to give his first recital in the presence of guests during a Christmas dinner at their home when he passed on. It was December 19, 1996. Alvin had gone to bed and breathed his last. No one understood how a boy of seven would go to bed and die in his sleep. When Alvin’s father insisted on an autopsy, his mother had opposed the idea, willing him to bury Alvin and move on.
‘I’m glad he learned to play Beethoven before he left us,’ Brenda’s father says, and manages to smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
Silence grows between us until it gradually becomes disturbing. We are not sure of what to say. It is as though the story has become rain and we are awaiting its last drop before we can walk into the street’s gentle breeze.
‘Excuse me gentleman and lady,’ Brenda’s father says, and in slow calculated steps, walks back upstairs.
I turn to a teary-eyed Brenda. I don’t want to imagine what it feels like to lose an only brother to an unexplainable death, especially a few days to his first outing as a young pianist. Could this be why she loathes classical music? I gently pull her into an embrace, letting the tears flow freely.
I am at home all dressed-up when my phone rings. It is Brenda. Two hours prior, I had packed a weekend bag, confirmed a hotel reservation, and bought two tickets for the concert. In the next few hours, Brenda and I will sit in Carnegie Hall with thousands of other concertgoers, watching Daniel Barenboim on stage with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra as they perform Mendelssohn’s ‘Symphony No. 4 in A Major’. The concert will feature Chopin’s twenty-six preludes, a recital by Lang Lang which, according to the program, will come first. I take Brenda’s call and confirm that we will meet at Atlantic City Bus terminal in the next one hour to board a Greyhound Bus. I shut down my laptop, pick my bag, and leave the house.
1 Comment
Four pages of interesting story.