Duet Page 3

  The old man nods. “It would be a challenge even if he committed to practicing. But if he won’t play…” His voice trails off.

  Mrs. Jin sighs. “It would give him so many opportunities if he could excel in front of those judges. A different level of instruction, scholarships, music schools that might be interested in him. Not to mention the prize money, of course. Ten thousand dollars!” She is silent for a minute, lips pursed. “I played myself as a child, but I never had the talent Michael has. I couldn’t even dream of playing the way he does. It’s so hard to see him squander it.”

  Mr. Starek looks at her sympathetically. “The festival would open doors for him, there is no question. But I can’t force him to play, and there’s little point in you continuing to bring him if he refuses.” He pauses. “I had a thought: perhaps Emily would be willing to meet us here for his next lesson? She might have better luck changing his mind than you or I.”

  Mrs. Jin’s face brightens. “Oh, do you think she would? I’ll call her. It can’t hurt. I’ve tried everything else. He doesn’t care that I’m frustrated with him, he doesn’t care if I punish him. He’s so strong-willed.”

  The old man smiles. “A strong will is a beautiful thing when it’s put to a good purpose. Let’s help him find that purpose.”

  Mrs. Jin shakes her head. “You’re very patient, Mr. Starek. I hope we aren’t wasting your time.”

  “Not at all. It has become quite a puzzle, hasn’t it? I am eager to hear Michael play.”

  “Well, after this long wait, I hope you’ll find it worth it.” The boy’s mother opens the front door and calls, “Michael! Please get your things. It’s time to go.”

  So that is how I meet Emily. She comes to the very next lesson. From the moment she steps out of her car, I can’t take my eyes off her.

  She is as slight as the boy, though taller, with bright, sparkling brown eyes and fine, sharp features. She has reddish-brown hair that curls near her ears and at the back of her neck, like a ruffle of downy feathers. A leather backpack hangs over her shoulder, and she is dressed plainly in jeans and a T-shirt, but she moves so gracefully I am riveted. Oh, she is something. I hate to admit it, but even without hearing her play a note, I can see why the boy is so stuck on her.

  Michael is already in the house when she arrives, but he must be able to see her car in the driveway because he runs straight out, leaping down the steps and flinging himself at her. I’m afraid he’ll knock her over. But she laughs and catches him and spins around, even though she’s not that much bigger than he is. “Michael!”

  He wraps his arms around her so enthusiastically, it touches my heart. I haven’t seen him this excited about anything, certainly not the lessons.

  Mr. Starek comes to the door and watches the scene in the driveway, smiling. “Emily Goldberg,” he says. “It is wonderful to see you again.”

  She comes toward him, seeming a little shy. “You too, Mr. Starek. I think the last time was at the Berklee College of Music, wasn’t it? You played Rachmaninoff’s Fourth. You were AMAZING.”

  “Ah, I remember that concert. How are you? You’re finishing up at the conservatory?”

  “Yes, I’m a senior. Music history major.”

  “Really?” Mr. Starek sounds surprised. “Not piano?”

  “No…” Emily’s brow furrows. “I love it, but I ended up on the research end of things. I’m actually taking a summer course entirely on Chopin.” She hesitates, and her gaze drops shyly. “My senior essay is on Chopin and his muses.”

  Michael looks from one to the other. “What’s a muse?” he asks. I am wondering the same thing.

  “Something that inspires you,” Emily tells him. “For artists or musicians, the person or thing that helps them do their best work.”

  Well! Doesn’t that sound marvelous? I want a muse.

  “How fascinating.” Mr. Starek’s smile is warm. “You will have to tell me more about your essay. Please come in. I’m hoping you can have a word with Michael here and persuade him to play.”

  Michael frowns, looking away. He doesn’t say anything. Emily loops her arm lightly over his shoulder.

  “I hope so, too,” she says. “It sounds like he hasn’t really started his lessons with you yet.”

  Into the house they go, and I fly quickly to my pink silk tree. I’m about to hide in the blossoms on a high branch, where they can’t see me, but I’m dying to watch what’s going to happen. So I take a chance and perch on a lower limb—but not close to the window. It’s open a few inches, as usual, to let the fresh summer air flow through the screen.

  “Here we are,” the old man is saying, leading them into the music room. “You remember it, I’m sure, from your high school lessons.”

  “Oh, yes,” Emily says. “This Érard is so beautiful.” She rests one hand on the glossy top of the piano so gently she might be touching glass. She turns to Michael. “It’s one of Chopin’s pianos,” she tells him.

  Michael’s eyes widen. “It is? Really?” he asks, suddenly riveted. I am startled to see the grouchiness fall away from him as easily as molting feathers.

  Emily laughs. “Wait, I don’t mean his actual piano.”

  Mr. Starek is smiling, too. “Those are in museums! The ones that have been found, at least.”

  Michael looks curious, finally. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Were they lost?”

  I am bewildered by this, too. How do you lose a piano?

  But Emily is still talking about the Érard. “It’s not Chopin’s own piano. It’s just one of the two kinds he liked to play,” she continues. She turns to Mr. Starek. “Michael loves pianos, almost as much as he loves playing them.”

  The old man raises his eyebrows. “Do you, Michael? I wish you could have met my sister, Halina. She loved pianos, too. She was a great… collector of musical things.”

  We all wait for him to go on. I only know Halina through the old man’s sadness at her death. But he has been so sad for so long, I am sure that there was something very special about her. Feelings can be almost mathematical like that, don’t you think? When you lose something, your sadness is exactly equal to how much you cherished it.

  Mr. Starek’s expression clouds. “She was a collector of too many things.”

  Michael looks at the old man and I can see from his face that his obstinance is battling with interest.

  Emily is also surprised. “I didn’t know you had a sister,” she says. “Did she live in Poland?”

  “No, no,” Mr. Starek answers hurriedly, and it’s clear that he wants the conversation to end. “She lives… she lived a few miles from here, over the bridge. We had not spoken in many years.”

  “Oh.” Emily clearly doesn’t know what to say. The room is awkwardly quiet. I almost want to tap on the window myself to break the tension.

  “Please.” The old man gestures to Emily. “Let me hear you play.”

  Emily slips onto the bench, lifting the lid. Her long, pale fingers brush the keys for a moment, and then, abruptly, she begins.

  The air fills with the delicate chimes of some piece I’ve never heard before. I know instantly it must be Chopin. Oh, she plays so prettily! Her touch is quick and light, and she sways forward on the bench as her fingers dart over the keys. Her face tightens with concentration, her arms spread like wings. The notes trill and merge. I hop down the branch, straining to pick out each sparkling plink.

  But here’s what I hate to admit, because I want for it not to be true: the music is spectacular, but Emily’s playing is not.

  As beautiful and polished as it is, the way Emily plays reminds me of the second kind of student the old man has taught, the one who tries so hard. She has the technical ability—look how fast her fingers fly!—but what she lacks, in the end, is art.

  Part of me is crestfallen because I wanted so badly for her to be great. I did! I know you’re thinking, But you just met her—why would you care? I can’t explain it. I think I am a little in love with her already. There is something about her—the way she carries herself, her quick grace—that is very birdlike. I wanted her to have a bird’s ease with music. I wanted it to pour out naturally.

  I can tell that the old man feels the same way I do. Emily glances up at him when she finishes, her face flushed and full of hope.

  He smiles and says, “That was delightful.”

  She says “Thanks,” but I can see her shoulders slump. “I couldn’t really compete at the conservatory. That’s why I’m doing music history.” Then she brightens. “I mean, it’s good—I like my major. I love the research.”

  “Well, you’re still an excellent pianist,” Mr. Starek says warmly. “And that piece was a fine choice.” He turns to Michael. “Did you recognize it?”

  Michael doesn’t say anything.

  Ugh, the boy isn’t even polite. My mother would certainly not approve of the way he treats the old man. He’s a guest in Mr. Starek’s house, a pupil of this revered piano teacher, yet he acts like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  “You know it,” Emily tells him. “Chopin, the Polonaise in A major. Do you want to try?”

  Michael shakes his head again.

  “Oh, Michael, come on.” Emily sounds exasperated.

  The old man studies the two of them. “Please excuse me for a moment,” he says. “There’s something I need to attend to.”

  When he leaves, they are alone in the music room, the birdlike girl and the stubborn boy. I dig my claws into the branch of the silk tree and cock my head, listening for whatever comes next.

  “You need to play, Michael,” Emily says. “It’s been two weeks since our last lesson. You were so excited about the festival! What happened?”

  Michael shrugs and stomps over to the window. I’m afraid he’s going to see me
, so I duck quickly behind the blossoms, and then I freeze. He seems to be staring right at me, but he doesn’t bang on the window or utter a word.

  Emily stands. “I know you can play anything, but you still need to prepare. You’ll never be ready in time if you don’t start practicing.”

  Michael isn’t looking at her. He still seems to be looking at me.

  “Mr. Starek can take you to a whole new level,” Emily pleads. “Why won’t you play for him?”

  The boy glares through the window with his dark, angry eyes.

  “Listen to me.” Emily bends slightly, her face close to his. “Do you know what? It would take me months—years maybe—to learn these pieces you play perfectly.”

  Michael finally turns toward her, and I see his expression change.

  She continues, her voice low and fierce. “If I studied the piano for the rest of my life, if I played every single day, all day long, I would never be as good as you are right now.”

  This unsettles me so much that I rock the branch, and the pink flowers rustle. I hear the longing in her voice, and the certainty, and the sadness.

  For the first time, I wonder what it would be like to really, really love something that you knew you would never be great at.

  I think about how much I love to sing. Would I love it as much if I couldn’t sing well? I want to believe I would. But honestly, I don’t know.

  Is that why Emily’s a piano teacher? To find in somebody else the talent she lacks? It must be heartbreaking, to spend your days pressing hard against the wall of your own limits, everything you wish you could do, everything you wish you were.

  I think about the sheer luck of having a gift. The boy has a gift, apparently. Is he really so good? Will I ever find out? Right on the wings of that thought comes this other one: How do you truly know if you have a gift? I mean, it fills me with joy to sing, but what if the passion itself isn’t enough? Who’s to say what genius really is? Maybe it is something that you can never know about yourself, something that only other people can judge.

  It’s not as if there’s a flock of birds telling me my songs are more exquisite than any they’ve ever heard.

  Oh, but I want for them to be!

  I don’t like the way all of this is making me feel. There’s a sickening pit in my stomach, like the time I ate that gnat. I want to fly home to the holly tree. I’m on the verge of doing just that when Michael speaks.

  “I don’t want to play for him. I want to play for you.”

  Emily straightens and now she looks mad. “You shouldn’t be playing for him or for me! You should play for yourself.”

  Michael recoils. I can tell he’s not used to seeing her temper.

  But she touches his arm and leads him to the piano.

  “Just sit here with me,” she says, softening. “And I will tell you some interesting things about this piano.”

  Lost Pianos

  Michael slides onto the piano bench next to her. “What?”

  Emily strokes the keys lightly. “They’ve been making this type of piano since the early 1800s. Think how long ago that is! Chopin was very fussy about what kind of piano he played. He had two he liked, and the Érard was one of them. Do you want to hear what he had to say about it?”

  “Okay,” Michael says. He is staring at the piano.

  “Wait, I’ll read his exact words,” Emily says. “It’s in my notebook from class.” She leans over to grab her backpack and pulls out a blue spiral notebook.

  “What class? It’s summer,” Michael protests.

  “I’m taking a summer course on Chopin. Here, listen.” She thumbs through the thin pages, then reads, “‘When I am not in the mood, I play on the Érard piano, where I find the ready tone easily.’”

  Michael looks puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that even the greatest musicians sometimes don’t feel like playing,” Emily tells him. “But they still do it. And the Érard—this piano—is the perfect one to play when you’re not in the mood.”

  “Why?” Michael asks. “Why is it good for that?”

  “It has a beautiful tone. Listen.”

  She plays Chopin’s polonaise again, just a few bars, her fingers dancing. The room fills with the piano’s strong, clear, pure notes.

  She turns to Michael. “It sounds different from a regular piano, right?”

  Now, I have to confess, this is the only piano I’ve ever heard, because I’ve only ever heard piano music at Mr. Starek’s house. But Michael must agree with her, because he is nodding.

  “If this is what Chopin played when he wasn’t in the mood,” he asks slowly, “what kind of piano did he play when he was in the mood?”

  Good question, right? The boy is smart, I have to give him that.

  Emily smiles at him. “I knew you were going to ask that.” She opens her notebook again. “It’s part of the same quote.” She reads, “‘But when I am full of vigor and strong enough to find my very own tone—I need a Pleyel piano.’”

  Michael leans over her lap, reading along with her. “Play-el,” he pronounces carefully.

  “Yes,” Emily says. “It was Chopin’s absolute favorite kind of piano. He had many Pleyels during his life, because he was good friends with the guy who made them. He composed his most famous works on them. Seven of his Pleyels are in museums or private collections.”

  “Really? Pianos that Chopin actually played on?” Michael asks, his face eager, and I can see what Emily said is true: this boy loves pianos. “Where are they?”

  “There’s one in France,” Emily says. “And I think Poland and Sweden. And I know a Pleyel that belonged to Chopin was recently discovered in a house in Germany.” She shakes her head. “Can you imagine how those people felt, when they realized they owned a piano that was once played by Chopin?”

  We are all quiet, thinking about that: the amazing luck of it, the wonder.

  “That would be crazy,” Michael says reverently. “Playing a piano he actually played.” He pauses. “What about the others? You said there were more.”

  Emily nods. “About twenty, I think. Chopin’s lost pianos. The others have never been found.”

  Again, I think, A lost piano? Who ever heard of such a thing? A piano is too big to lose.

  “How did they get lost?” Michael asks. “Aren’t they worth a lot of money?”

  “Oh, sure,” Emily says. “They’d each be worth a fortune, millions, if anyone could find one and know for certain that it belonged to Chopin. You’d need proof that it was his.”

  What would that be? I wonder. Do people put their names on their pianos? I doubt it.

  “Why did he have so many?” Michael asks. “We only have one piano at my house.”

  “Because of his friend Camille Pleyel, who owned a piano-making company. He gave Chopin a new one every year, sometimes more often. Chopin taught piano lessons, like Mr. Starek does—like I do—and I guess Pleyels have such an unusual tone that once you play on one, you never want to play anything else. So Chopin’s piano students would often buy a Pleyel piano after learning to play on it. It was good advertising for the company to supply Chopin with new pianos.”

  Michael is mesmerized. “What makes Pleyels so different?”

  Emily pauses. “I’ve never played one. Mr. Starek could tell you.”

  Michael stares at the Érard. “And now nobody knows where they are? Chopin’s pianos?”

  “They ended up scattered all over the world,” Emily says. “They were sold to other musicians, passed down as family treasures. I remember reading that some of those French Pleyels even got shipped here, to America. But it’s hard to trace their owners over the course of two hundred years. My professor said there was a rumor that a Chopin piano had been discovered in Canada a while ago. It was so exciting! But it just turned out to be a Pleyel from the same time period, not one of his.”

  Emily rises from the piano bench and tucks her notebook into her bag.

  “Why don’t you try playing?” she suggests. “I know you don’t want to. But remember, Chopin played on a piano just like this one when he didn’t want to. And if Chopin could do it, so can you.”