Duet Page 4

  Michael looks at her, then back at the piano. “I wish it was a Pleyel.”

  “Me too! But you’ve never played on an Érard,” she coaxes. “It will be like traveling back in time. And over the ocean! To Paris in the 1800s.”

  Oh, this Emily is a dreamer, I can tell. I think she and I could be good friends, don’t you? The boy doesn’t say anything. Quit stalling, Michael, I long to shout at him. Don’t you want to travel back in time?

  When Michael still doesn’t answer, she says, “Come on, play something easy. What about the Minute Waltz? I’m going to talk to Mr. Starek.”

  She leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

  Duet

  So here we are again: the boy, the piano, and me.

  Michael stands near the piano, just looking at it. I can tell you, I am not expecting much. There have been too many days of him doing exactly this, nothing else.

  But then he walks to the door and listens for a minute. I listen, too. Distantly, I can hear Emily’s voice intertwining with Mr. Starek’s deeper one, but I can’t tell what they’re saying. Of course, I could fly around to the kitchen window and really hear their conversation, but I don’t want to leave the boy.

  I am watching him closely.

  Something changes.

  Michael sits down at the piano bench.

  Even his posture is different: his back straight, his head alert. He lifts his hands and positions them over the keys. I see his long fingers, the graceful curve of his wrists. He leans toward the piano, his face tense, his dark hair flopping over his forehead.

  Is he really going to play? After all this time?

  I hold my breath.

  When the music starts, it comes in a torrent, a rush of silvery notes cascading over one another. Instantly, three things are clear to me:

  I have never heard playing like this before.

  I don’t want it to ever end.

  And I have to—I just have to—SING.

  What pours out of me then is a stream of notes I don’t even recognize. They are as fast and bright and pure as the chiming of bells. It’s as if the song is singing me.

  I can feel my head open up like a door, and something I didn’t even know existed soars out, coursing through the air, leaping and spinning, dancing with the music the boy is making.

  And the boy hears!

  His eyes were closed but now he turns to the window. He doesn’t stop playing. He looks at me, and his whole face glows with awe.

  The singing and the music weave and braid, and they become something else entirely, a third thing filling the air between us.

  Michael laughs with joy, and he plays faster, fingers flying, cheeks flushed, bending over the keys, then turning to watch me sing.

  I couldn’t stop now if I tried.

  I sing and sing.

  Am I still made of bones and skin and feathers?

  No.

  I am only song.

  He plays, I sing, he plays, I sing, the singing and playing seem bound to last forever.

  But then, with a final tinkling rush, the Minute Waltz ends.

  The last piano notes ring through the air, and the strange magic that has possessed us fades away.

  Michael is just a boy at a piano. I am just a bird on a branch.

  The door to the music room swings open.

  Emily and Mr. Starek are gazing at Michael in astonishment.

  “What was that?” Emily cries.

  Mr. Starek’s face is as rapt and lit as if he has heard the music of angels. “Oh, my boy,” he says. “You can play.”

  The Secret

  So that’s how it begins. I have never sung this way in my entire life, this flurry of notes, in a melody that isn’t even mine. I am singing Chopin! It’s as if I have a tiny piano inside my head.

  And I can tell the boy has never played this way. He is as amazed by it as I am.

  As soon as Mr. Starek and Emily come into the room, I start to worry that they heard my singing through the closed door. What if they demand to know where that miraculous sound came from, that beautiful, impossible, piano-like voice? And if they do, can I resist taking the credit?

  Honestly, I don’t know, but I never get to find out, because it quickly becomes clear that they didn’t hear me at all. Now, as I told you, birds have much better ears than humans do, even though ours are hidden. Apparently, through the thick wooden door of the music room, all Mr. Starek and Emily heard was Michael, and his playing took their breath away.

  At first, I do wish they could appreciate my singing—I want an audience so badly!—but I realize that would create a whole bunch of problems. And besides, someone did appreciate it: Michael.

  At the end of the lesson, when Mrs. Jin arrives, and Mr. Starek and Emily go outside to tell her what’s happened, Michael and I are alone again for a minute. He comes to the window and looks right at me. His eyes are shining. He touches the screen and whispers, “That was awesome. It’s like you have a little piano inside you.”

  Yes! I want to shout. That’s what it feels like to me, too.

  “I’ve never played the Minute Waltz that fast before!” he says. “It was magic—I played it fast without even trying. You have to come back, bird. I want to do it again.”

  Of course I’ll come back! I want to do it again, too.

  When I fly into the holly tree late that afternoon, Mother can tell something’s up. “Why, Mirabelle,” she says. “What have you been doing? You are positively glowing.”

  Sebastian snorts. “She may be glowing but she’ll never be as bright a yellow as we are—right, Mother?”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Mother says, waiting for me to answer.

  For a second, I consider singing the new song I’ve learned, Chopin’s Minute Waltz. I know it would blow them away. Haha, blow them away—that’s a good one for birds. But I’m worried that Mother won’t like me singing with the boy. She’ll think it’s too dangerous, exposing myself that way to the human world.

  Of course, I’ve sung for Mr. Starek before, but only birdsong, not Chopin. Who would believe I could do this, sing note after note of the finest, most beautiful piano music ever heard? Nobody knows about my talent. Only the boy’s talent.

  And what talent! There is something about the way he plays that purely thrills me. The music feels alive, with its own beating heart.

  Mother is still looking at me expectantly, and I realize I haven’t answered her question. “Well, Mirabelle? What have you been doing that’s made you so happy today?”

  I say carefully, “That boy started to play the piano. And guess what, he’s really good. Actually, he’s amazing.”

  “Is he? Well, that must be nice for the old man, to finally have a pupil worthy of him.”

  “Yes,” I say, “he was very pleased.”

  This seems enough information to satisfy Mother. “Good,” she says. “He deserves some happiness after all the sadness he’s had lately, with his sister dying. And his worries about her house.”

  We don’t really understand the trouble with Halina’s house, except that the old man keeps having tense phone conversations in the kitchen with people from the bank. He’s sometimes so preoccupied, he forgets to fill the bird feeder. From what I can tell, his sister owed a lot of money to the bank, and the old man has to figure out a way to pay it. We birds don’t really understand human money, because we don’t have anything similar. We give each other gifts once in a while—crows especially love to give gifts—but we never pay anybody anything.

  “I think the boy’s playing will cheer him up,” I tell Mother.

  “I do hope so,” she says.

  I wait a second, then ask casually, “So is it okay for me to watch the music lessons?”

  This is a ploy my brothers and I use when there’s something we’d like to do that Mother might not approve of. We ask for permission to do a more ordinary thing, and then go a bit further on our own.

  “Are you being careful not to get too close to the window?” Mother asks.

  “Yes, Mother,” I say dutifully.

  “Then I suppose it’s all right. Listening to such fine music must be doing you good.”

  Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says to me. “There’s still time for Flight Club before it gets dark.”

  Flight Club is a game that Sebastian, Oliver, and I play where one of us is the leader and executes a series of daring dives and turns in midair, and the other two have to follow. If one of the followers is able to do all the maneuvers and fly ahead of the leader, then that bird becomes the leader. It is a fun game. But right now, all I can think about is singing Chopin.

  “I’m a little tired,” I say.

  “From what?” Ollie demands. “All you’ve done today is sit on a branch and watch a piano lesson.”

  Uh-oh, it’s enough trouble to keep Mother from getting suspicious. My brothers will be harder to fool.

  “Okay,” I relent. “Let’s play.”

  And so we play Flight Club until the sun sets, and Sebastian wins, as usual.

  I am so excited for Michael’s next lesson, and incredibly, I don’t have long to wait. The boy shows up the very next day. It is Emily who brings him, not his mother, which confuses me at first—though of course I am delighted to see Emily. Apparently, Mrs. Jin has decided that Emily was such a positive influence on the last lesson that she has hired her to drive Michael to Mr. Starek’s house in the afternoons—and it seems that Emily is very pleased with the arrangement.

  “I can do my homework while I’m here,” Emily says to Mr. Starek. “If it’s okay with you, I mean. And maybe I can watch Michael’s lessons sometimes. I love hearing him play, and I’d like to see how you teach him.”

  “Of course it’s okay,” Mr. Starek says. “You are more than welcome.”

  What a good idea, I think, since Emily teaches piano herself. I’m sure she can learn a lot from Mr. Starek, and I’m just happy I’ll get to see her more often.

  Michael rushes past her into the music room. “Where’s the yellow bird that’s always here?” he cries.

  “Ah, the pretty little goldfinch?” Mr. Starek asks, and I feel a swell of pride. The old man remembers me!

  But then I realize I have something else to worry about. Is Michael going to tell them about my singing?

  It occurred to me yesterday that he might tell them about me, might point to my perch and blurt it all out. But in their flurry of excitement and gush of compliments, Michael never once mentioned my singing. He did glance my way a couple of times—excited, secret looks—but he didn’t say anything about us making music together.

  Why not? Did he realize it would be unsafe to tell Mr. Starek and Emily?

  I know what my mother would say. She’s told me about birds who sing pretty songs for humans, and birds who learn human speech… canaries, nightingales, parrots. “Humans will catch you and put you in a cage! People love having birds perform for their entertainment. Is that the life you want?”

  No! No, it is not. The very thought terrifies me. A cage?! What if I could no longer soar over the fields or eat my nutty sunflower seeds? What if I couldn’t splash in the birdbath with Sebastian and Oliver? That would be an awful life for a goldfinch, trapped in a cage in somebody’s living room.

  So it has to stay a secret, my singing with the piano. That is very hard for me, because the music is so beautiful, all I want is for everyone to hear it… Mr. Starek and Emily, and most especially Mother. Why, Mother would love this! She would be so proud.

  But that can’t happen. And the boy must know it, too. He says nothing about my singing. Does he think that Mr. Starek or Emily would put me in a cage?

  They don’t seem like they would, but you never know. Humans will engage in all sorts of foolishness when they really want something. And I can certainly imagine they would want to hear more of my singing.

  Whatever his reasons, Michael doesn’t tell them, and I know better than to sing in front of them. So it remains our secret.

  He looks for me as soon as he enters the music room. I make sure I’m easy to see, perched on a branch by the window, but not too close. This time, I hang from the branch upside down. We goldfinches are good at that. We are tiny gymnasts. We can hold on to anything, from any angle.

  Is it going to happen again? Our duet? This is what I haven’t stopped thinking about for the last twenty-four hours. What if it was just that once, a fleeting miracle, and now the boy is going to practice the piano as usual, with Mr. Starek at his side?

  Oh, I can’t stand it! I want to sing with him again.

  So I am waiting, upside down, on the branch, with my heart in my throat. I really don’t know what will happen.

  The boy grins at me and turns to the old man, a little nervously. “Mr. Starek?” he asks, and he seems so different now: careful, polite. “Is it okay if I play by myself first? Just to warm up? It gets me ready to practice.”

  I feel a surge of joy.

  “Of course,” Mr. Starek says. “That kind of individual preparation is very important—and it’s clearly helping you achieve the ‘singing tone’ that Chopin aimed for at the piano. Truly, Michael, I’ve rarely heard it come through as beautifully as when you played yesterday.”

  A singing tone! Well, what do you think of that? No wonder this music seems made for me.

  “Emily.” Mr. Starek beckons to her. “Why don’t you join me in the kitchen for a few minutes?”

  Emily swings her backpack by the strap and says, “Sure. I can start my homework.”

  Then they leave, closing the door with a soft click.

  As soon as we’re alone, Michael sits at the piano and looks right at me.

  “Let’s try a polonaise,” he says.

  And just like that, we begin again. The music floats through the air, warbling and singing and wrapping around me, and my voice joins it, a river of gorgeous, shimmering notes.

  Names

  So this is what we do, lesson after lesson. And the music… oh, the music! Waltzes and polonaises, études and nocturnes. I like just the sound of the names. Each piece is more lovely than the last, delicate and frilly and complicated, like the lace of Mr. Starek’s dining room tablecloth. Mr. Starek calls Chopin “a poet of the piano,” and now that I am singing his music, I can see why. Each note seems so carefully chosen. Together, they create an ocean of feeling.

  As soon as the door to the music room closes and Michael and I are alone, I sing and sing. I never knew my voice could do this, the loops and twirls and pirouettes. It’s as if the music has been buried inside me all along, just waiting for this moment to rush into the world.

  Each time Michael arrives for a lesson, he looks out the window to find me. Even if it’s raining, I show up… because, you see, that is the first requirement for the true artist: you have to show up! To practice. To perform. To create.

  “Hi, bird,” Michael will say, with a big grin on his face. “What do you feel like today? That nocturne we tried last time? I’ve been working on it at home.”

  He talks to me like we’re partners. And then he puts the sheet music for Nocturne number twenty on the music rack, and begins to play.

  And I want to sing so badly I cannot contain myself. I feel the song welling inside me.

  Now, the nocturnes are hard for me, I’m not going to lie. They start out slowly, one note at a time, and birdsong is never slow! It is impossible for me to sing slowly. So for the nocturnes, I have two choices: I can either harmonize softly while Michael plays the slow part, or I can wait a bit and then join in when the rippling cascade of notes begins.

  Michael seems to understand this, because he never looks surprised when I don’t jump in immediately. But when my song bursts forth, I see a smile flash across his face and it seems that his fingers move even more quickly and lightly over the keys. And that, in turn, only makes the song rise up in me, with all its beautiful twists and turns, to weave and flow and dance with his playing.

  It’s like a competition between the two of us! Except that we’re both winning. And as the song and the music come together, the boy and I make something entirely new.

  One day near the end of the lesson, we hear the clang of the bell on the front porch, signaling the arrival of Mrs. Jin, and Mr. Starek says, “I need to discuss the festival program with your mother, Michael. It will just take a few minutes.” As he leaves to answer the door, Emily notices me.

  “Hey,” she says. “There’s that pretty bird.”

  Oops! I usually try to stay hidden behind the silk blossoms, but I had hopped down the branch to better hear what they were talking about. Well, at least she thinks I’m pretty. I mean, of course I am pretty, but it’s always nice when humans notice that. I preen a little, for her benefit, smoothing my feathers with my beak.

  “He’s always there,” Michael tells her. “He likes to watch me play.”

  Wait, what? HE?

  I feel a rising tide of panic. All this time, Michael has taken me for a boy bird! I am horrified. What if that’s why he likes me?

  But before I have much chance to ponder this, Emily interrupts him.

  “She. The female goldfinches aren’t as bright yellow as the males. That one is definitely a female.”

  Oh, thank heavens. Of course Emily knows about birds. Emily is wonderful.

  “Yeah?” Michael continues to look at me, tilting his head. I tilt my head to match his pose, and he grins.

  “I’m going to give her a name,” he says.

  Yikes. I don’t like where this conversation is going. First he thought I was a boy bird, and now he’s going to come up with a name for me that is not my name? And I’ll have to listen to him calling me that? I am starting to panic all over again.

  “What kind of bird did you say she is?” he asks Emily.

  “A goldfinch,” Emily says.

  “Okay, what about Goldie?” he asks.

  Is he serious? Come on, Michael, make a little effort. What would he call a bluebird… Blue?