Hill

“I am classically trained,” he explained, as he sat down to the stand-up piano. He wore a Beatles Abbey Road t-shirt. We had been talking in the corner. “Who will you be playing?” I asked, to remind him we were there first. “Bach, Chopin…Beatles…” “What’s the Beatles’ classical period?” I asked, smart-ass, not appreciating the intrusion. “’67 to ’71?” Yes,” he said, taking me seriously. “Rubber Soul.” For those three reasons, I decided to dislike this man; that, and now he was playing so loud we couldn’t hear each other, even though we lounged in leather chairs pushed right up together. You could see it in his body, tense in the shoulders, head thrust forward; and you could hear it in the playing. He was battering the keys diligently. Finally, when he came to a stop at the rest of a particularly loud Chopin waltz, I asked if he could play something a little more quiet—meaning “-ly.” “Which Nocturne do you like best?” He was talking Chopin. “Like them all," I said, refusing to play his game. “Sure, sure,” he said. “With this kind of piano, you really have to play loud to get it right. “Sure,” I thought, downing my second beer. “Tell yourself what you need to hear.” He wasn’t a bad guy, really. When he was done and about to leave, I noted what I’d been thinking. “Music seems to torture you.” He bowed his head and stepped back. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I’m just back from a long time away.” He was glaring at the piano. “I used to play a lot of Bach, for all its algebra. But Chopin works better now. There are so many ways to play it.” I heard what he was saying. “Perfectionism gets in the way, don’t it?” He nodded. My friend said, “We’re writers, we know all about it.” The guy finally left. We went back to our conversation, happy for the clear headspace. What was it he said, grinning masochistically, about one particularly difficult passage,? “That was sure a hill!”