opened on the fifth floor, he lit up. We were a few minutes early, and while they debated over whether
or not to go in, I walked to the door and entered. Mr. Martin may not have been a fairy, but he was very
fey. Tall and thin, his white hair long in a shaggy boy's cut, he wore a worn plum-colored suit.
Christopher Robin all grown up and gone to gen-teel seed. Behind him stood the most beautiful machine
I had ever seen. Lac-quered to a high black finish, the grand piano drew all of the vitality of the room
toward its propped-open lid. Those keys held in their serenity the pos-sibility of every beautiful sound. I
was too dumbstruck to answer his inquiry the first time.
"May I help you, young man?"
"I'm Henry Day, and I'm here to learn everything you know."
"My dear young man," he replied, sighing, "I'm afraid that's impossi-ble."
I walked to the piano and sat at the bench. The sight of the keys un-locked a distant memory of a
stern German instructor ordering me to in-crease the tempo. I stretched my fingers as far apart as
possible, testing my span, and laid them upon the ivory without eliciting an accidental tone. Mr. Martin
glided behind me, overlooking my shoulder, studying my hands. "Have you played before?"
"Once upon a time ..."
"Find me middle C, Mr. Day."
And without thinking, I did, pressing the single key with the side of my left thumb.
My mother and father entered the room, announcing themselves with a polite ahem. Mr. Martin
wheeled around and strode over to greet them. As they shook hands and made introductions, I played
scales from the middle outward. Tones from the piano triggered powerful synapses, resurrecting scores
that I knew by heart. A voice in my head demanded heissblütig, heissblütig—more passion, more
feeling.
"You said he was a beginner."
"He is," my mother replied. "I don't think he's ever even seen a real piano."
"This boy is a natural."
For fun, I plinked out "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," the way I would play it for my sisters. I was
careful to use only one finger, as if the grand were but a toy.
"He taught himself that," Mom said. "On a tiny piano that you might find in a fairy orchestra. And he
can sing, too, sing like a bird."
Dad shot me a quick sideways glance. Too busy sizing up my mother, Mr. Martin did not notice
the wordless exchange. My mother rattled on about all of my talents, but nobody listened. In measures
too slow and far apart, I practiced my Chopin, so disguised that even old Martin did not dis-cover the
melody.
"Mr. Day, Mrs. Day, I agree to take on your son. My minimum require-ment, however, is for eight
weeks of lessons at a time, Wednesday afternoons and Saturdays. I can teach this boy." Then he
mentioned, in a voice barely above a whisper, his fee. My father lit another Camel and walked toward
the window.
"But for your son"—he addressed my mother now—"for Henry, a born musician if I ever heard
one, for him, I will require only half the tuition, but you must commit to sixteen weeks. Four months. We
will know how far we can go."
I picked out a rudimentary "Happy Birthday." My father finished his smoke and tapped me on the
shoulder, indicating we were to leave. He walked over to Mom and grabbed her lightly by the fleshy part
of her arm above the elbow.
"I'll call you Monday," he said, "at three-thirty. We'll think it over."
Mr. Martin bowed slightly and looked me straight in the eye. "You have a gift, young man."
As we drove home, I watched the city recede in the mirror and disap-pear. Mom chattered
incessantly, dreaming the future, planning our lives. Billy, hands locked on the wheel, concentrated on the
road and said nothing.
"I'll buy some laying hens, that's what I'll do. Remember when you used to say you wanted to turn
our place back into a real farm? I'll start a brood of chickens, and we'll sell the eggs, and that will pay the
bill, surely. And imagine, we'll have fresh eggs ourselves every morning, too. And Henry can take the
school bus to the streetcar, and the streetcar into town. You could drive him to the streetcar Saturdays?"
"I could do chores to earn the fare."
"You see, Billy, how much he wants to learn? He has a gift, that Mr. Martin said. And he's so
refined. Did you ever see such a thing in your life as that piano? He must shine it every day."
My father rolled down his window about an inch to let in a roar of fresh air.
"Did you hear him play 'Happy Birthday to You,' like he's been at it forever? It's what he wants; it's
what I want. Sweetheart."
"When would he practice, Ruth? Even I know you have to play every day, and I might be able to