The Page Turner

by

Nancy McMillan

I WENT TO THE PIANIST’S DEBUT at Franklin Hall, the most prestigious hall in this town. He had recently moved to town, I read in the paper, as an artist-in-residency at the university’s music department which, while small, had a good reputation. Dressed in a tux with an open collar, he strode onto the stage with a serious expression, took a bow, sat down at the piano and launched into a full program performed passionately yet with complete control. He was of medium height with glossy, thick dark hair, with the large head and long arms of what I’d come to think of as a typical male pianist’s body. Although he was not handsome, he had the kind of face that held your eyes. As he played, his entire body engaged in communion with his instrument.

At the end of the program, he played Chopin’s G minor Ballade, a piece I had longed to play for years, attempted and deserted many times as beyond my skill. He addressed the audience beforehand, sharing how he had fallen in love with the piece when he was a teenager; the same reaction I’d had decades ago, when I first heard it. I sat in the back of the balcony and when he began to play this piece, which I had often imagined making my own, I closed my eyes.

The pianist played it the way I dreamed of playing it. He communicated the piece’s power, beauty, and subtlety, the vast palette of emotion it explored, and something else, too – something I hadn’t heard before. He made it sound as if he had written the music and poured out this communication from his soul. It both enlarged the piece and made it more personal. I was in tears long before he finished, glad for the privacy the dark balcony provided. It took me several minutes before I could gather my coat to leave.

THREE WEEKS LATER, I rode the bus to the pianist’s house. I had tracked him down at the university and arranged a lesson. It was not an easy process, and now I wondered if it was wise. The knot in my stomach tightened the closer his stop came. I’d never played for someone of his caliber before. Had I been swept up into a fever of excitement I would regret? But I could not push the memory of the Ballade out of my mind, and it drew me along into the decision despite the cost of the lesson being double what I usually paid.

My music books sat heavy on my lap: all the repertoire I hoped he could teach me, with Chopin’s G minor Ballade added at the last moment. It sat on the top of the pile, the tall black letters on the cover mocking me. I felt ridiculous – a grey-haired retiree still bringing her wish list to her first lesson, like a child.

The pianist lived at the other end of the city, a short block off the avenue. I walked down a hill to a dead-end side street. His house was the last on the left, tucked back a bit. I knocked on the door, waited, then knocked again. I saw no doorbell. There were two cars in the short driveway, and I could hear music coming from inside.

At last, a short, pudgy woman came to the door. She led me to the kitchen, where the counters were cluttered with papers, pots and pans, and takeout containers, then returned to her seat at the table, the one closest to the studio door.

I sat down across from her. A chubby basset hound, penned in by a baby gate in one corner, looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. His chin remained on the floor.

From down the hall, behind a closed door, I could hear the pianist and a student, who I assumed was this woman’s child. The sound of a Bach fugue floated from the studio. I could hear the student’s detached eighth notes, appropriate to the Baroque style, but the melody got lost in the tangle of counterpoint. The playing stopped. I heard a murmur of voices, and the music began again. The mother kept her head bowed and listened.

The music stopped again. The door to the studio opened, and the pianist emerged with his student, a slim teenager, holding a single, thick volume of music in her hand. She carried the unknowing assurance of beauty that only teenagers possess. Her sheaf of black hair hung down her back, pulled into a low ponytail. She grasped her book with fingers that ended in ragged nails.

The mother stood up. “She practice enough?” she said, in stilted English.

The girl leaned over the baby gate to pet the dog, whose long tail swept the floor at the brief attention. I liked certain breeds of dogs, but the appeal of a basset hound, or any of those low-lying dogs like dachshunds, eluded me. I preferred the energetic and intelligent setters and spaniels who I grew up with and who were excellent companions. The Gordon setter I put down last year was the smartest dog I’d ever known. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to take on another.

The pianist nodded at the woman. “Yes, yes, she’s doing quite well.”

“She ready?” the mother asked.

The girl stood but kept her eyes lowered. The pianist said, “Yes, we have plenty of time before the audition.”

“Good,” the mother said, motioning to her daughter with a head nod toward the door.

They left, and we were alone. “Hello,” he said.

He was older than he looked onstage and, to my disappointment, a bit more average. I could see the beginning of laugh lines, the developing furrow between his brows. Probably thirty-five to forty, I thought, a long distance from my sixty-six years. But his dark hair was more gorgeous up close and fell fetchingly on his forehead. He pushed it back and met my eye and it was then that I glimpsed something in his eyes, as if he had visited someplace faraway that he had returned from with reluctance.

He shook my hand and squinted at me. I knew he didn’t remember who I was, despite our phone conversation four days ago to confirm the lesson.

“I just have to take Beatrice out,” he said. His voice was surprisingly unmusical and nasal. “I’m terribly sorry. It will only take a minute. Why don’t you go in and warm up?”

Beatrice. So, the dog was a female. He motioned me down the hall as he reached for a leash. The dog rose and tipped up its jaw obediently, so he could clip the leash under her chin folds, then trudged behind him to the door.

I stepped into the music room, lit on three sides by windows, containing one seven-foot grand piano, Steinway, of course, covered with piles of music, with more stacks on the floor, in no apparent order. I thought of my piano room at home, the music alphabetized by composer, grouped by musical period, organized horizontally on shelves with their spines facing out, the Steinway grand always kept clear of anything but the music on my music stand. I removed my coat and searched for a place to put it. A small, upholstered chair in the corner was the only unoccupied space, so I draped it there, set my music books on the floor, and sat down at the instrument. I played a scale and tried some chords. The action was stiff, heavier than my piano, but the sound was rich and warm, if slightly out-of-tune.

He returned, gated the dog in the kitchen, and entered the music room. He rubbed his hands together. “Yes, now, please forgive me, but I do not recall your name. I’m terrible at such things, and I feel awful about it, but I just didn’t get that gene.”

I introduced myself.

“Very well, Lois. Let’s begin. Play something for me.”

I pulled out the Chopin nocturne I’d been working on with my other teacher, the one I’d perfected to the best of my ability, and placed it on the music stand. The opening phrase went well enough, but my fingers felt stiff, and the melody sounded thin and uncertain. He stepped over to the window, his face out of my line of sight. I soldiered on to the end, by which time I was beginning to get a sense of his piano.

“Very good. Very good.” He came over to the piano and stood to my right. The energy that radiated from his body electrified me. He ignored my widened eyes as if he were used to having this effect on listeners. “What do you think Chopin wants to say here, in this phrase?” He pointed to my favourite part of the piece.

I hesitated. I never had shared my response to this section with any other teacher, but his eyes were on me, and he appeared interested. “It feels like church. It feels holy.”

He slapped the top of the piano with a light hand. “Exactly. Reverence. Now play it again, that part, and think about that feeling.”

My chest loosened as my fingers touched the keys. I played it again, more freely than I ever had, and his response was enthusiastic. We went through the piece like that, in small sections. The tight spot in my stomach eased.

It clenched again when he pulled out a book of easier pieces to sight-read, at which I failed miserably, stumbling on notes, and hesitating on rhythms.

“You must do more sight-reading,” he said. My heart sank at his teacherly words, but he wasn’t chastising me. I felt – I hoped – he was encouraging me. “It will help you learn your pieces quicker and give you more confidence in your playing overall.” I could always use more of that, I thought, and smiled right at him. The risk was worth it. He smiled back and my face heated up in pleasure. He assigned me something new to learn, a short prelude by Scriabin that looked dense on the page.

Then the lesson was over. I handed him the check I had made out beforehand and said, “Could we schedule another?”

AND SO WE BEGAN. I had a standing Wednesday afternoon spot, but he cancelled often for professional obligations. I called my former teacher, my third in five years, to tell her I was going on a hiatus. Although I admired her, we had never developed a personal connection. Our work together left me feeling restless and unsatisfied. She didn’t pretend to protest my hiatus, and I wondered if she was glad to see me go.

One Saturday morning, after I hadn’t seen him in three weeks, he phoned. “Could you come this afternoon?”

Without a moment’s thought I said yes, even though I had plans made weeks ago with my friend Charlotte for lunch and a museum visit. When I called her to cancel, she said, “You’re certainly at his beck and call, aren’t you?” A few weeks ago, I’d asked her to move a coffee date for the same reason.

“I really need a lesson, and his schedule is crazy.”

“You know, this Calder exhibit is only running to the end of the month. You said you didn’t want to miss it.”

Guilt picked at me. “Can we reschedule? Do you have time?”

“As long as you don’t cancel on me again.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Charlotte was my closest friend. I’ve never made friends easily, so I valued the ones I had. As the only child of an older couple who parented with benign neglect, I had grown used to spending many hours alone, either reading or practicing. All my life I had kept, at most, two or three friendships at a time. Charlotte, whom I had met when I moved to the city twenty years ago, loved art the way I loved music. Our monthly dates, when we would usually attend an exhibit, concert, or lecture and have a meal, were highlights in my calendar.

“I’ll call you tonight,” I told her.

On the bus ride over, I compared the pianist to other teachers I’d had; none compared. He was my dream teacher, someone who shared a deep, almost reverent, relationship to not just the music but also to the piano. Every moment during our lessons was weighted with a kind of desire, not exactly sexual, but having to do with the aesthetic union that can happen in music making which, to my mind, was better – and purer – than sex. I had already become a regular at his concerts, pulled into the orbit of a growing circle of admirers. Everyone fell in love with him. Both men and women waited patiently after his performances to stand for a few minutes in the reflection of his glow. With his attention focused on you for that brief time, the rest of the world dropped away, so much so that I forgot to call Charlotte that night and had to beg her forgiveness the next day.

ONE WEDNESDAY IN JUNE, I arrived for a lesson and there was, as usual, the teenage student with him – I still knew neither her name nor her mother’s – and, as usual, he was running late. The kitchen was empty except for the dog, Beatrice, who wasn’t gated today. She hauled her stuffed sausage body up off the floor to come and greet me, her thick tail in a slow wag. I pitied her and stroked her head and looked into her eyes, which drooped at the outside corners, giving her a sad expression. She lowered herself onto my feet. I wrinkled my nose at her damp dog odour. I looked at her overweight belly and imagined she didn’t get much exercise and spent far too much time alone. A poor lot to be a professional musician’s dog, I thought.

The kitchen was in greater disarray than normal. Dirty dishes filled the sink, a tuxedo jacket covered the back of a chair, and a grocery list hung on the refrigerator: butter, eggs, prosecco. I imagined a midnight omelette after an evening concert, a young woman watching him cook, his tie off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, he pulls her into a quick embrace, talking endlessly as she, too, falls under his spell. I shook my head: who was I really thinking he was with? I knew it was me, but perhaps a younger me, a more beautiful me, a me I had never been.

The front door opened, and I sat up straight and looked alert. It was the student’s mother. She must have gone out for a walk or errand. I nodded at her. Her English seemed limited, so we fell back on enthusiastic nods and gestures. She leaned toward the studio door and listened to her daughter play, her eyes cast down.

The agitated sounds of Chopin’s “Revolutionary Etude” came from the studio. The girl’s left hand was flawless, fast yet clear, and the right-hand octaves stood out against the constant tumult of the left. She was clearly accomplished. The Chopin Etudes: like most serious pianists, I had worked on a few, but more as studies to develop my technique than as completed pieces. Her version sounded ready for the college audition I gathered she was preparing for.

The music stopped, conversation followed, and the girl stepped into the hall. Today for the first time she met my eye. Her eyes darted away at my respectful nod, then came back to my face. I offered a small smile and she responded with a movement at her mouth, an almost-smile. She looked pale. I wondered if she ever went outside, or if she spent all her time practicing. She ducked her head and followed her mother out the door.

I entered the room, my stomach pinched with nerves, as always. Today he seemed distracted. His cell phone rang, and he took the call, which he sometimes did if it was his manager. This time I could tell it was a woman. I couldn’t make out most of the words, but there were murmurs of peacemaking. “Okay, okay, I know, can I call you later?” I sat at the piano and watched a man pull weeds in a tiny garden next door. The windows were open to the screens, the air heavy and hot.

He hung up and turned to me, his face disturbed. I said, “Is everything all right?” and immediately regretted my impulsiveness, afraid I’d stepped over an invisible line.

He pocketed the phone in a sharp movement. “Yes of course. Why?”

“It sounded like you and your girlfriend were having a . . . a tiff.’

“A tiff,” he said. “A word you don’t hear so much anymore, but it really is one that shouldn’t have fallen out of fashion. It’s such a nice way to say it. I love words like that, so quietly descriptive.” He walked over to the bookshelves, talking to himself. “Speaking of which, let me find the Schumann. Here it is.” He pulled a volume from the shelf. “You have probably played this already, everyone has, I know, but it is one of those pieces that never grows old.”

He placed this week’s sight-reading selection in front of me: “Of Foreign Lands,” from Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood. I relaxed. I knew this piece. He waved his hand to begin. The dog whined from the other side of the door.

“Do you mind?” he said. “She gets lonely.” I nodded. I felt sorry for her. Beatrice came straight toward me and lay underneath the piano.

I began to play. I had learned the piece as a child. Now I fell into it like an old friend. It seemed like a lilting dream, filled with optimism and a hint of melancholy. Although the music wasn’t hard, it was tricky to make the melody sweet and clear.

When I finished, he nodded. “Do you think it’s a duet?”

“No. I don’t know.” I felt stupid, as if I had failed a test.

He came over and sat on the bench, right next to me, his thigh touching mine. I was aware of how the late afternoon light showed every wrinkle, line, and flaw in my face.

“Listen.” He played the beginning of the right-hand part. “Now play the left-hand notes for those same measures.” I did, then we played them together. We continued for the next few measures. I started to hear what he meant: it was a conversation. I turned to him. “Yes, it is a duet.”

“You see, there is always another way to listen,” and his eyes had that look again, the look that made me want to visit that place where he went.

I left in a happy cloud and spent the evening at the piano. That night I lay in bed and re-imagined the lesson, him turning to me during the Schumann and touching my hair, stroking my face. I completed the fantasy on my own and fell asleep.

I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING EMBARRASSED. Good God, I thought, what are you thinking? I resolved to put my mind elsewhere and went out to prune the rose bushes, much overdue. The phone rang in the middle of the morning. I ran in and caught it on the fourth ring.

It was him. “I have a little emergency.” My heart leaped into my throat at the sound of his voice, and I gasped involuntarily.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. It’s about Beatrice. I need to go out of town unexpectedly. Something came up in Chicago, a nice opportunity. The soloist with the symphony had a death in the family, and they called me.” So, he was becoming more well-known in wider musical circles. But why was he phoning me? A desire to be part of that circle arose in me, unbidden and, I knew, unrealistic. “I’m one of the few people who have learned this Busoni concerto. It’s a monster. They want me out there for rehearsals, so I need to leave right away.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said, pleased to be in the know even for this bit of news.

“I was wondering, is there any chance, I know this is a lot to ask, but would you be available to come and let Beatrice out and feed her? It seems you have a flexible schedule. She’s taken a liking to you, I notice. She doesn’t lie under the piano for just anyone.”

I thought about the smelly dog, its thick sausage body and needy gaze.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight. I come back on Sunday night.”

Three days and nights. “Can the dog be by herself that long?”

“She’s grown used to it.”

I tapped my middle finger on the counter. Knowing I might regret it, I said, “Look, why don’t I just keep her here? I have a small fenced-in yard. Plus, I’m home a lot.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Let me see, I could drop her off on the way to the airport.” I had a moment of doubt as he talked through the logistics. It sounded like he had worked it all out before he called, that he knew I would suggest keeping her here. I felt like a puppet and was doubly mortified at my nocturnal fantasy. I pushed away those thoughts. It really would be easier to have her here, than to be running up to his house twice a day.

His voice brought me back to the present. “How can I repay you? I’ll give you some free lessons, but that doesn’t seem enough. What if I also comp you two front-row tickets for my next performance?”

“That seems fair – more than fair,” I said. Those tickets ran at least $100 each and the lessons strained my budget, so this would help.

“Unless you’d rather be paid?’

“No, no, that’s fine.”

BEATRICE TURNED OUT TO BE A GOOD COMPANION, quiet, and grateful for any attention. I took her out for short walks, in the hope of trimming her down a bit, or at least getting her used to some exercise. She fell asleep under the piano on the old dog bed I pulled out for her. I dragged the bed into the bedroom at night, so she wouldn’t be lonely. It didn’t take long until I could no longer stand her smell, so I bathed her. She was bulky to lift into the tub and squirmed at first, but she soon succumbed. She closed her eyes in happy submission when I brushed her short coat to a shine.

I grew to like her and began to soften my opinion about the breed. I found myself speaking to her as if she were another person. She would lift her head and gaze at me, as if she understood, or at least was trying to. She stayed off the furniture, let me know when she needed to go out, and didn’t bark. Her slow tail wags grew more frequent, and her eyes looked a little less sad.

When I fed her on Saturday morning, I realized there was enough for one meal left in the bag. Beatrice was on a special brand of food, so I called the pet store and found out I could only get it from the vet. A long conversation followed about alternative food options if I couldn’t get any more of her brand.

I didn’t have the vet’s number, so I left a message for the pianist on his cell phone. He called back after lunch. In the background I could hear voices, strings being tuned, a high-pitched clarinet. When I asked him how it was going, his “Fine” sounded terse. He apologized about the food and not thinking about giving me the vet’s number, saying he’d had to leave so quickly he’d forgotten. There was a bag of food at his house. Could I take a cab over and get more? He told me where to find the key, and that he would reimburse me for the cab ride.

“YOU SAID YOU’D BE FIVE MINUTES, RIGHT?” the cabbie said, as he clicked the meter to the wait rate.

I had planned to run in and pick up what I needed, but now I said, “Actually, I might be a while, so could you come back and get me in about a half an hour?”

At the door, I glanced around to see if any of the neighbours were out. I felt somehow sneaky, as if I were doing something I shouldn’t, though I had every right to be here. I found the dog food, stored just where he said, and jotted down the vet’s number from the magnet on the refrigerator. Then I went to the piano room.

I started with the photos I’d noticed on the shelves. They were propped here and there, many with him standing next to conductors, or other musicians holding instruments. A woman showed up consistently in other photos. She looked a little older than him, and there were images of them when they were younger, too, in their mid-twenties, I guessed. I was trying to work out a family resemblance when the phone rang, and his answering machine came on. I was surprised he still had one. It seemed old-fashioned. When I heard his voice on the message, I stopped, holding the photo in my hand, and waited for the beep.

A female voice. “Darling, where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you. I tried your cell with no luck.” The voice was scolding in a friendly way, a voice that had known him for a long time. “You must be out of town. Call me when you get this. I hope you’re picking up your messages, or your service is. You still have a service, right? Call me. I want to hear your voice.”

Girlfriend? Maybe. Sister? Perhaps. Mother? No.

I glanced down at the photo in my hand. Was I looking at the woman whose voice just filled the room? I decided to explore the rest of the house. My foot was on the top tread of the staircase when I heard the horn of the taxi.

IT WAS EASIER FOR ME to keep Beatrice until my next lesson on Wednesday, so I took a cab over with her in tow. He stepped outside to pay the cabbie and help me with the dog gear.

He squatted down in front of her and stroked her long ears. “Look at her. She’s like a new dog. You are a dog whisperer,” he said. He held her face to his. “Beatrice. Beatrice,” he said in a soft croon. The dog licked his nose and he laughed.

His smiles came easily during our lesson. When I asked him how it had gone in Chicago, he said it had gone well and that the reviews were glowing. They had booked him for next season. He handed me an envelope at the end of our lesson: two front-row seats to his next concert, featuring an up-and-coming soprano who had won a big competition.

I called Charlotte to invite her to the concert. “That is, if you’re not still mad at me?”

“Never for long,” she said. I liked that about her: she was outspoken, but never held a grudge.

“So, would you like to come? You’ve never heard him.”

She laughed, and said, “Sure. I suppose I should check out my competition.”

WHEN CHARLOTTE AND I ENTERED THE LOBBY, the pianist was coming out of a side door, looking preoccupied. He spotted me, and took me by the elbow, pulling me aside with a firm touch I admit I found thrilling.

“Listen, I’m in a bit of a quandary here. The vocalist’s accompanist has the stomach flu that’s going around, so I’m going to play for her. I need a page turner. It’s just three pieces. Could you possibly?”

My eyes widened.

“Look, forget I asked,” he said. “I’ll find someone else.”

He began to turn away. I grasped at his sleeve. “No, no, no. It’s just that I always get so nervous turning pages. It’s harder than actually playing.” My laugh was short and forced, yet he joined me.

“I feel the same way,” he said, “and if I already knew this music, I’d be turning my own pages. But I’ll signal you. It will be fine. I know it’s such a huge favour.” I was aware of Charlotte next to me and his quick glances in her direction. She was an imposing figure – tall, dressed in her signature eye-catching bohemian clothes, set off by a short, sleek haircut. I wanted to introduce them, but he was obviously rushed.

His dark eyes were on me, lit up, his smile disarming. Was there really a choice? I agreed.

“Thank you.” He air-kissed my cheek. “The soprano is on before me, so you should come backstage now.”

I introduced him to Charlotte and ignored her raised eyebrows, not sure if they signalled curiosity or disapproval. I handed her the tickets, then followed him through a maze of doors and long hallways. In the green room, I had a brief look at the music, then it was time.

Before we walked onstage, he said, “There’s a group of us going out afterward. You should join us. We’ll meet in the lobby.”

I flushed at the inclusion and tried to sound nonchalant as I said, “That would be lovely.”

The bright lights prevented me from seeing the audience, which was a relief. I was glad I’d dressed up in one of my few fancier outfits, black silk pants and matching jacket. The vocalist, a tall column of dignity and self-possession, dressed in a clear rose, sleeveless sheath, stood and waited for her cue as he and I settled in. Her dark hair, swept up in a French twist, emphasized her strong features – the long nose, the supple neck. She was not beautiful, but certainly striking. He nodded to her and played the opening measures. She began to sing.

My nerves prevented me from hearing the first piece. I held my gaze on the score and by sheer will controlled the shaking in my hands as I rose to lean over him. I held my right arm against me to keep it out of his way as I held the corner of the page with my left hand and waited for his signal. My heart hammered, and my underarms were moist. I hoped my deodorant was still working.

I was able to relax by the second piece – to watch and listen. I had a bird’s eye view of his hands. In the fast passages his fingers were light on the keys, the backs of his hands level and calm, his body leaning right and left, every movement natural and effortless. I stole quick looks at his face, noticed his eyes move back and forth from the music to her, his nod to me in plenty of time for smooth page turns. His face appeared relaxed, an occasional smile across his lips. The sound arising from the nine-footer was luscious, substantial enough to feel like a meal. I wanted to close my eyes and listen but that, of course, was out of the question.

He accompanied the soprano’s voice, never overpowering it, yet grounding her both rhythmically and harmonically. He was as good an accompanist as he was a soloist – not a common combination. For those fifteen minutes on stage, I felt on top of a mountain in the most beautiful air, in the presence of a god.

The applause was the rush of the ocean headed toward shore. Before he stood to take his bow, he leaned over and said, “You’re a lifesaver.”

I slipped into the seat next to my friend, my cheeks hot, and my heart still beating fast. I caught her eye. She nodded and squeezed my arm. “Well done.” I smiled, happy for her forgiveness.

“I’m sorry I deserted you,” I said.

She waved the apology away. “It’s fine.”

I eased into my seat and watched him take his place again at the piano, this time centre stage, in the spotlight.

THE CONCERT ENDED, and the audience held him for four ovations until he sat down to play an encore. He glanced up, and it seemed as if he looked in my direction. He took a moment to place his hands in his lap before he lifted them to play the opening chords of the G minor Ballade. I had told him at our first lesson it was my favourite. I closed my eyes and listened once again to a perfect rendition.

The audience went wild before he could stand to take his final bows. He turned and smiled from the bench, taking it in. Who had the nerve to do a nine-minute encore? These days, people put on their coats and stood up to leave as soon as the regular program ended. This audience was on its feet, but not to depart. Shouts of “Bravo” filled the hall. There were three more curtain calls before the house lights came up.

I discreetly wiped my eyes, then turned to Charlotte. “Well?”

“He’s amazing. An incredible talent, and a real charmer. I can see why you’ve fallen under his spell.”

Her approval made me happy. “He invited me to go out with a group of friends afterward. I’m sure it would be all right if you came.”

Her expression turned serious. She held my gaze for a moment, then lowered her voice. “As your friend, I need to say this: you are on the verge of looking like a fool. Don’t embarrass yourself. Please. There’s nothing here but hurt for you.”

I was shocked at her harsh words. “You don’t understand. You’re not a musician. He has something I need. If he can show me how to play even one tenth like that, it would be a dream.”

“Is this really just about the music?”

My face coloured, thinking about my private fantasies, but I knew they were just that: fantasies. I gathered my things. “Yes, it is. Really.”

“Don’t let me ruin your fun. I’ll catch a cab.” She turned to leave.

“Wait, please.”

She stopped.

“Look, I’m . . .” I began.

She shook her head. “You’re right. Maybe I just don’t understand. It’s none of my business, anyway.”

We stood for a moment together, in an awkward place neither of us could find the words to untangle. “Thank you for the concert,” she said, formally, then picked up her bag and headed toward the side exit.

“I’ll call you,” I said to her retreating back.

I sat back down for a moment, exhausted and exhilarated. I’d call her tomorrow and smooth things over. A thought circling in my head held my attention. When it landed, I knew it to be true: I was going to tackle the Ballade, and he would help me do it. I would talk to him about it tonight.

I stood up and joined the slow-moving mass. When I reached the lobby, I didn’t see him. I waited until the place emptied. Did he forget? Or look for me and not find me because I lingered in the hall?

I stepped outside and stood on the sidewalk. Damn it. I watched every penny, which meant cabs were a luxury, but tonight I couldn’t face the lonely despair of a near-empty bus on a Saturday night. The cool air revived me, so I thought I would walk to the corner, then decide.

There was a café on the corner with windows that wrapped around the side of the building and cast light onto the street. I noticed a group at a front table. There were seven of them, handsome and beautiful, smiling, vital. The vocalist sat on his left, and on his right, the woman I’d seen in the photo. I stepped back from the window. He had his arm on the back of the soprano’s chair, not touching her shoulder, but there, nonetheless. He gestured as he leaned over to say something to the man sitting on her left and brushed his finger across her arm. It looked like an accident. She smiled and met his eyes. The woman on his right watched him, then lifted her eyes to meet mine. We exchanged a look. Did she recognize me as the page turner? I flushed and turned and walked in the other direction.

WHEN I SAW HIM THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY, I had already decided not to mention the post-concert invitation, chalking it up to a simple misunderstanding. I was more excited about digging into the Ballade.

I opened the music on the music stand before I sat down and paged through it, showing him what I’d been able to do and my issues with the up-to-now impossible ending. He stood silent next to me. In his silence, I realized I was babbling. I stopped speaking when I saw his flat expression.

He nodded, then gestured for me to sit down. He walked over to his bookshelves, pulled out another Chopin nocturne, and placed it over my music.

“This seems a logical next step,” he said.

My cheeks burned and my eyes filled. I had played most of the nocturnes and knew this was not a step forward. It was a slap in the face. How dare he, after all I had done for him, not even discuss the Ballade with me?

Was he so vain that he thought the piece only belonged to him? And did he not see how committed I was and how willing to work hard? Did he secretly look down on me because I was an amateur? Or old? I thought about standing up, gathering my books, and storming out. Of course, I would never do that, I’ve never done anything like that in my life. Instead, I looked out the window, my throat clogged with humiliation, until I could take a deep breath. I have no idea how I managed to hold myself together for that lesson, my last.

ON A LATE SUNDAY MORNING TWO MONTHS LATER, I left Charlotte after brunch at a midtown restaurant and took a cab to meet the pianist at the appointed time and place. It was raining, a pleasing, light drizzle. I spotted him as the cab pulled up. He held Beatrice on a short leash and shouldered a large canvas bag. She had a little spring in her step as she moved down the sidewalk. A woman held an umbrella over them both, her arm linked through his.

Beatrice’s tail swung into a wider arc when she recognized me. He called “Hello, hello.” I stepped forward, an umbrella in one hand. He introduced me to the woman, blonde, not too glamorous, yet thin and fashionable. She had a sleepy, satisfied expression.

“She’ll be so much happier with you.” He squatted and spoke to Beatrice the way he had after the Chicago trip, murmuring endearments, stroking her long ears, and looking into her eyes. The dog returned his gaze, then her eyes slid to me and back to him. He stood and passed me the canvas bag. “Everything’s in there.” He leaned over to kiss my cheek and squeeze my arm, whispering in my ear, “Thank you so much.” I breathed him in one last time, his scent mixed with the rain and the woman’s perfume and a faint dog smell.

I took the leash. We parted. The dog looked over her shoulder once. I did not.