The Same Song
The piano sat upright against the wall opposite the window, layered under a thick blanket of dust in the house evacuated because of the bombs. The man pulled out the padded bench in front of it and sat slowly, lifting the cover and running his hands along the keys. They shone like beetles in the dim light.
He liked pianos. They were usually old and musty, and they sounded better than people.
His fingers found their place on the left side and struck a resounding D. The sound rolled through the house. It was good. He reached further down and played an E, letting his fingers span an octave. The sound was rich and muddy, and it rumbled in the brown wood. On the right he touched the highest E and listened to its clear wooden plink. It sounded like raindrops on the roof of the house in which he grew up.
He sighed and let his back bend. It had been a long time since he had touched a piano.
He played the D again because he could not decide what else to play. Then he hit it again, hard enough to make the dust on the piano rattle and bring out the harsh twang of the strings until he could feel it in his chest. It was good. The wood of the piano was older than his ribs, but it carried the note just as well.
He would play an old song, he decided, trying to dust off his memory. There were so many pieces, but he played something by Beethoven. He couldn’t remember what its name was, but it was in C major and it was lively. It was a happy piece, and there was no reason not to play a happy piece.
It didn’t take long before the girl heard the noise and came to listen. She came and leaned against the wall next to the piano, letting her head sag against the wall. It was a long while before he was done and the last few notes faded.
“I like it,” the girl said.
“You don’t have any reason not to like it,” he said. “It’s happy.”
“Why should I like it just because it’s happy?”
“How the hell should I know?” He liked to think in concrete terms.
“People like happy things,” she said. “It’s what makes us human.”
“Love makes us human,” he said, running his fingers along the keys. “I thought we agreed on that.”
“I thought so, too.” The girl leaned her head against the wall again. “Play something else. Something happy and full of love.”
“If I can remember.” He put his fingers on the keys again and started playing. It had been so long since he had played a piano that he felt stiff and uncomfortable. His fingers didn’t behave the way they used to—back when they were loose and moved exactly the way he wanted. Now they were rigid and resisted his efforts. He stopped playing and rubbed his fingers to try to loosen them.
“That sounded nice,” the girl said. “Why did you stop?”
“My fingers are too old,” he said. “They won’t play right.”
“It sounded fine.”
“It didn’t feel fine.” He shook his head. “It’s only good if it feels right. If it feels right, then you don’t have to think about anything else. It’s just you and the music forever, and that is all. Have you ever felt like that?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned. “How would I know?”
“You would know,” he said. “It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world.”
“Even better than love?”
“Even better than love,” he admitted. “Love does not last. Music can be played over and over.”
“But playing the same song again won’t sound the same,” she said. “Will it?”
“No. But it has a greater chance of success than love.”
“You don’t have much liking for love,” she said.
“You have not been in love before,” he told her. “I have. It is a very different feeling each time.”
“Try playing something else,” she said uncomfortably. “Maybe your hands are just cold.”
“They are always cold,” he said. He turned back to the piano and tried to play something slower. It was a sweet song in the key of E, but he had forgotten the name. It was also sad. The rain began to fall outside as he played, and the sound of the rain mixed with the sound of the piano. Some water came in through the broken windows. The water would make the building humid, and the humidity would warp the wood of the piano and make it lose its tune. Then the piano would be useless.
He sighed deeply while he played and tried to make himself concentrate on the present. Then he chided himself for sighing. There was a roof over his head, and he had a piano to play for now. There were no bombs falling. There was food to be had, and they were together for now. But he was not as happy with the piano as he could have been.
He finished the song because it had to end. The sound went through the floor and out into the rain. Maybe someone would hear it outside.
“That was also nice,” the girl said.
“That used to cost you a dollar to hear,” he told her.
“For one song?”
“For the evening.”
“How much is that in pounds?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask so many questions?” He asked, letting his hands fall from the piano keys. He did not like not knowing. It made him feel weak and insufficient, and that was the second time that night she had asked something he did not know. It made him irritated.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said.
“It’s all right.” He tried to start over. “Let’s eat something.”
The girl took out the food and began to set it out while he spread the blanket. Then they sat on the blanket and ate while the rain fell outside. Sitting on the floor was colder than it had been at the piano, and he could not get warm all the way. He had felt like that a few times before. It came often during the war when the trenches would flood, but the feeling rarely returned afterwards. There was once when he was walking in a storm in Illinois, and once when he fell skiing, and one last time on a cold night in the woods of his childhood home in Minnesota. Now there was this evening with the rain and the piano.
“Would you like a child?” The girl asked, leaning back on his chest.
“I had a child,” he told her.
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
“It was a boy,” he said. “He lived with his mother and was struck by a car.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It’s still a pity.”
“I don’t like to talk about pity,” he said.
They sat silently and listened to the rain. He listened to it fall, and he could smell her hair from how close she was. Eventually he took the bread and cut two thick slices. Then he took the apple butter and spread it on them. He offered one to the girl, but she refused. He ate them both, carefully catching the crumbs in his hand so they would not make the blanket uncomfortable as they sat. He ate and he thought, but he was careful not to think too much, because thinking too much made the mind dangerous.
“We could have a boy that looked like you,” the girl said quickly.
“I’d rather not,” he said.
“Why not? There’s nothing wrong with your face.”
“No, there’s nothing wrong with my face.”
“Then why not?”
“Boys who look like their fathers have to be their fathers someday.”
“Are you too hard to live up to?”
“I’m too easy,”
She pursed her lips and frowned. “You’re depressing.”
“I am,” he said.
“Well, what if it’s a girl?”
“Girls don’t look like their fathers,” he told her. “No matter what anyone says.”
“Then we can have a girl.”
“It may not be the kind of world where you want to raise a girl,” he told her.
She looked sad and did not say anything in response. He was sorry he had been so contrary, but he always said what he thought.
“If you want a baby, we can have one,” he told her. “It’s not hard.”
“Don’t you think we should have a house, first?”
“Yes. People usually have houses before babies.”
“It’s too bad we can’t stay in this one,” she said with a sigh. “It would be a very nice house when the sun is up, but I suppose its owners will want it back once the bombs are gone.”
“They usually do,” he told her.
“I’d like a house with a green door,” she said. “The door to my parents’ house was like that.”
“We can try to find one,” he said. “I would have to get a job.”
“Where would you work?”
“I used to work for a newspaper,” he said. “It was where I learned to write after I stopped playing, after the war. I can try to find a job at a newspaper. They probably need more people to write about the war effort.”
“You would do that?”
He thought.
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like that.”
He liked pianos. They were usually old and musty, and they sounded better than people.
His fingers found their place on the left side and struck a resounding D. The sound rolled through the house. It was good. He reached further down and played an E, letting his fingers span an octave. The sound was rich and muddy, and it rumbled in the brown wood. On the right he touched the highest E and listened to its clear wooden plink. It sounded like raindrops on the roof of the house in which he grew up.
He sighed and let his back bend. It had been a long time since he had touched a piano.
He played the D again because he could not decide what else to play. Then he hit it again, hard enough to make the dust on the piano rattle and bring out the harsh twang of the strings until he could feel it in his chest. It was good. The wood of the piano was older than his ribs, but it carried the note just as well.
He would play an old song, he decided, trying to dust off his memory. There were so many pieces, but he played something by Beethoven. He couldn’t remember what its name was, but it was in C major and it was lively. It was a happy piece, and there was no reason not to play a happy piece.
It didn’t take long before the girl heard the noise and came to listen. She came and leaned against the wall next to the piano, letting her head sag against the wall. It was a long while before he was done and the last few notes faded.
“I like it,” the girl said.
“You don’t have any reason not to like it,” he said. “It’s happy.”
“Why should I like it just because it’s happy?”
“How the hell should I know?” He liked to think in concrete terms.
“People like happy things,” she said. “It’s what makes us human.”
“Love makes us human,” he said, running his fingers along the keys. “I thought we agreed on that.”
“I thought so, too.” The girl leaned her head against the wall again. “Play something else. Something happy and full of love.”
“If I can remember.” He put his fingers on the keys again and started playing. It had been so long since he had played a piano that he felt stiff and uncomfortable. His fingers didn’t behave the way they used to—back when they were loose and moved exactly the way he wanted. Now they were rigid and resisted his efforts. He stopped playing and rubbed his fingers to try to loosen them.
“That sounded nice,” the girl said. “Why did you stop?”
“My fingers are too old,” he said. “They won’t play right.”
“It sounded fine.”
“It didn’t feel fine.” He shook his head. “It’s only good if it feels right. If it feels right, then you don’t have to think about anything else. It’s just you and the music forever, and that is all. Have you ever felt like that?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned. “How would I know?”
“You would know,” he said. “It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world.”
“Even better than love?”
“Even better than love,” he admitted. “Love does not last. Music can be played over and over.”
“But playing the same song again won’t sound the same,” she said. “Will it?”
“No. But it has a greater chance of success than love.”
“You don’t have much liking for love,” she said.
“You have not been in love before,” he told her. “I have. It is a very different feeling each time.”
“Try playing something else,” she said uncomfortably. “Maybe your hands are just cold.”
“They are always cold,” he said. He turned back to the piano and tried to play something slower. It was a sweet song in the key of E, but he had forgotten the name. It was also sad. The rain began to fall outside as he played, and the sound of the rain mixed with the sound of the piano. Some water came in through the broken windows. The water would make the building humid, and the humidity would warp the wood of the piano and make it lose its tune. Then the piano would be useless.
He sighed deeply while he played and tried to make himself concentrate on the present. Then he chided himself for sighing. There was a roof over his head, and he had a piano to play for now. There were no bombs falling. There was food to be had, and they were together for now. But he was not as happy with the piano as he could have been.
He finished the song because it had to end. The sound went through the floor and out into the rain. Maybe someone would hear it outside.
“That was also nice,” the girl said.
“That used to cost you a dollar to hear,” he told her.
“For one song?”
“For the evening.”
“How much is that in pounds?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask so many questions?” He asked, letting his hands fall from the piano keys. He did not like not knowing. It made him feel weak and insufficient, and that was the second time that night she had asked something he did not know. It made him irritated.
“I’m sorry,” the girl said.
“It’s all right.” He tried to start over. “Let’s eat something.”
The girl took out the food and began to set it out while he spread the blanket. Then they sat on the blanket and ate while the rain fell outside. Sitting on the floor was colder than it had been at the piano, and he could not get warm all the way. He had felt like that a few times before. It came often during the war when the trenches would flood, but the feeling rarely returned afterwards. There was once when he was walking in a storm in Illinois, and once when he fell skiing, and one last time on a cold night in the woods of his childhood home in Minnesota. Now there was this evening with the rain and the piano.
“Would you like a child?” The girl asked, leaning back on his chest.
“I had a child,” he told her.
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
“It was a boy,” he said. “He lived with his mother and was struck by a car.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It’s still a pity.”
“I don’t like to talk about pity,” he said.
They sat silently and listened to the rain. He listened to it fall, and he could smell her hair from how close she was. Eventually he took the bread and cut two thick slices. Then he took the apple butter and spread it on them. He offered one to the girl, but she refused. He ate them both, carefully catching the crumbs in his hand so they would not make the blanket uncomfortable as they sat. He ate and he thought, but he was careful not to think too much, because thinking too much made the mind dangerous.
“We could have a boy that looked like you,” the girl said quickly.
“I’d rather not,” he said.
“Why not? There’s nothing wrong with your face.”
“No, there’s nothing wrong with my face.”
“Then why not?”
“Boys who look like their fathers have to be their fathers someday.”
“Are you too hard to live up to?”
“I’m too easy,”
She pursed her lips and frowned. “You’re depressing.”
“I am,” he said.
“Well, what if it’s a girl?”
“Girls don’t look like their fathers,” he told her. “No matter what anyone says.”
“Then we can have a girl.”
“It may not be the kind of world where you want to raise a girl,” he told her.
She looked sad and did not say anything in response. He was sorry he had been so contrary, but he always said what he thought.
“If you want a baby, we can have one,” he told her. “It’s not hard.”
“Don’t you think we should have a house, first?”
“Yes. People usually have houses before babies.”
“It’s too bad we can’t stay in this one,” she said with a sigh. “It would be a very nice house when the sun is up, but I suppose its owners will want it back once the bombs are gone.”
“They usually do,” he told her.
“I’d like a house with a green door,” she said. “The door to my parents’ house was like that.”
“We can try to find one,” he said. “I would have to get a job.”
“Where would you work?”
“I used to work for a newspaper,” he said. “It was where I learned to write after I stopped playing, after the war. I can try to find a job at a newspaper. They probably need more people to write about the war effort.”
“You would do that?”
He thought.
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like that.”
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