The PianistA Story by Treo LeGigeoA nightclub, a song, a memory...
Previous Version This is a previous version of The Pianist. A warm, lilting melody wafted through the nightclub, nimble fingers dancing over crisp black and white keys as the song of the grand piano drifted down from the stage, filtering between the irregularly spaced tables to fill every niche, every recess of the dimly lit room. The lone figure in the spotlight moved gently with the music, her long chestnut hair billowing down her back in loose waves and her wine red dress fanning out around her knees as she sat on the worn leather stool. It was not a complex song she played, with no difficult notes or intricate rhythms, but there was something about it that was so enchanting, so entrancing, as if each sound touched you, clung to you, whispered to you. As the tune
swelled, as the notes danced, and as music came alive beneath her fingers, the
pianist began to remember. She met him at a cheap, backwater club on a cool autumn
evening while playing yet another of those low paid unambitious jobs that she
hated but needed to make ends meet. He was a cello player, so he told her while
they waited before their performances, and he hated playing this as much as she
did. Before they knew it a little small talk had turned into a riveting
conversation, which turned into an invitation to dinner. The courting that had begun awkwardly in that dark
corridor of the small backstage area continued. At first it was slow and
sporadic, stuttered by difficulties of work and money, but despite the troubles
it bloomed. From a strong passion their connection formed, their relationship transcending
the coldness of a small yet barely afforded apartment and the bleakness of a
forever broke life. Then the idea of a duet was pitched, and suddenly
they were no longer were they two starving musicians each struggling to make a
living for themselves. Now, they did it together. A double act, a two part
performance, working together, coping together, surviving together. For the
first time in her life she was no longer a lone child from a broken family trying
to make something of herself in a desperate attempt to leave behind her
stagnant origins, now she had someone there for her, someone to care for her,
and someone to love her. When he came to her with the song she was surprised
to say the least, he’d never composed before or told her that he had an
interest in composing. But as she took up the manuscript, as her hands danced
over the keys in time with the rich melody of his cello, as the song was heard
for the first time, she was amazed. And by the time the majestic tune faded and
the song came to an end, she was close to tears. “It’s so beautiful.” “I wrote it for you.” “But why is it so sad?” A pause, then, “There’s
something I have to tell you.” The next months were an agonising blur of waiting
rooms, doctor’s offices, and hospital beds. Leukaemia, they were told, and less
than a year to live. But it couldn’t be true, it wasn’t fair, not when she had
finally found someone to share her life. He tried to resist, to fight, but the
cancer won in the end. She will never forget the smell of the bleak white ward,
the dull beep of the monitor, the last look he gave her before he slipped away
into a coma from which he would never wake. She was there three days later, lying beside him, her
head resting on his chest, when she heard his breath stutter and his heart falter.
She was there, listening, as his lungs gave one last heave before finally falling
still. Once again, she was alone. The final notes
of the song died away to be met with silence. The audience sat wordless, unmoving,
captivated by the spell of the music. But then one clapped, another joined, and
it was broken. Applause rang out from the club as the pianist stood and gave
her bow. “Thank you very
much, that was the lovely Si Waters on the piano,” the emcee said with a grin
when the noise had died down. “Now Miss Waters, that was quite a change from your
usual repertoire, is it your own composition?” She shook her
head. “No, I only arranged it. It was originally a duet.” “And you stated
at the beginning that it was your first time performing it, yet you also told
us it was an old song. Is there a story there?” Si hesitated. For
so long the grief had consumed her, for so long she had been unable to play
that song, incapable of talking about what she had lost. “Promise me something.” “Anything.” “Don’t let this break you,
otherwise the cancer will have clamed two victims. Move on, Si. I’ll be your
past, promise me you’ll move on with your life, promise me you’ll let it go.” There was a long
silence, then, “He played the cello...” © 2011 Treo LeGigeoAuthor's Note
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StatsAuthorTreo LeGigeoSydney, NSW, AustraliaAboutI'm from Australia, so some people may find that I spell things differently. I love writing and have had a couple of publications of short stories and novellas under a pseudonym. I started .. more..Writing
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