He then bent his hands backward at the wrist, speaking in a lilting voice. “Not stiff this way. Easy movements. Relax your hands. Let the music flow.”
Landini placed his hands correctly on the keyboard, holding his hands still as he played first from the fingers, then moving his hands in a hammering action from the wrist. After that, he added elbow action, and finally, leaning forward, he employed his entire body, using the strength of his upper torso while playing from his shoulders to increase the volume of the sound.
“See? There are many ways. Now, play the Beethoven,” he ordered, moving from the bench to the chair.
She slid to the middle of the seat and began to play the piece again, from the beginning.
“Stop!”
He moved behind her and placed his hands on either side of her head, gliding his fingers to her forehead and eyebrows. Then he moved his hands slowly down her face to her clenched jaws.
“You are indolenzito. Relax here.”
What do my head and face have to do with playing the pianoforte?
Landini gently rubbed his fingers in circles against her temples. “Imparare a rilassarsi. Relax all your muscles.”
She held her breath and closed her eyes, trying to focus on his words, not the exquisite feeling of his skin against hers.
I cannot think when he does that. He touches me, and I lose my concentration. I must try harder to think of what he says instead of what he does.
She felt a tap on her shoulder and looked up at him.
“Maria, breathe,” he said quietly. “Now, relax more.”
Landini touched his own temples and smiled, assuming an expression of relief. “Like so. Ah!”
He frowned and gestured to his patrician face. “Relax.” His closed eyes, and his facial muscles showed a complete lack of tension, as if he slept.
Then he pointed to his broad shoulders, hunching them, and then releasing them. “Relax. You must relax! Close your eyes.”
She obeyed his authority as he directed the exercise, taking charge of her body by compelling her to relax each set of muscles as he called them out, one group at a time, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.
The gentlemen stepped to sit in the chair beside her. “Very good. Now, open your eyes and give me your ’and.”
Mary held out her hand to him, and he turned her palm towards the floor, placing his index finger under her wrist. “Relax.”
He quickly pulled his hand back, but hers stayed stationary, hanging in the air.
“’a!” he laughed. “You did not relax. I will show you.”
He held his hand out flat, knuckles up. “You put finger under wrist like me.”
She did as he said. “Like this?”
“Sì,” he answered, allowing the weight of his hand to rest on her finger.
Landini looked away. “Move when you want.”
Mary waited a few moments before she snatched her hand away.
His hand immediately fell to the bench, limp, and he turned his face back to hers. “See? I relax. You do not relax. Now you.”
They did the exercise again, and when he jerked his hand back, hers plummeted.
He favoured her with a blinding smile. “È stato molto bello! Very good! You did relax! Now play, Maria.”
She forced herself to look away from his beautiful face, calming herself, breathing deeply, releasing all tension before she put her hands on the keyboard. As she concentrated on the notes, she removed everything else from her mind.
By the time she finished, she was exultant.
Mary lifted her hands to her face, pleased beyond measure with her performance. It was simply the best she had ever performed any piece.
“Better!” he said, pride in his voice. “Much better. You did relax. Music flowed from you. Now we will think loud and soft, fast, and slow.”
Her smile faltered. “You were not pleased? I did not do well?”
His confusion was apparent. “I said ‘much better.’ Non sono stato chiaro, forse? You do not understand? You did much better.”
“I will work harder, signore,” she replied, eyes cast down.
“Maria! Look at me,” he demanded, leaning towards her.
She turned her face to his. “I am very sorry to disappoint you, Maestro.”
“Do not make the sad face. I am ’appy. We must all play better. Every time. We try to be better. Every time.” He pointed to himself. “Me, anche.”
Mary managed to smile for him. “I understand. I played better than I had before, but I still have more work to do. I should try to make improvements every time I play.”
“Yes. More feeling. What does the music say? Find the words in the music. Speak to me.”
“Speak to you with my music? I have never done that before. I tried to play the notes and rhythm correctly.”
“Did I speak to you? At the concert?”
Her eyes sparkled. “With your music? Yes, you did. Until I heard you play, I had not thought of music in such a way. I saw images in my mind. It felt as if I knew you, and you were playing only for me.”
He smiled tenderly and leaned back into his chair. “Now play. Speak to me, Maria.”
She closed her eyes, trying to remember how she had felt when she heard him play at the concert. As it flooded back to her, she looked at her hands and lost herself in the music.
She became what he called her: beautiful, exotic, romantic Maria instead of provincial, plain, uninspiring Mary.
Maria did not rush the melody – instead experiencing the ebb and flow as measure melted into measure, thought into thought, gradually building in profundity and grace, until she dove deeper than she had ever dared before.
To Maria, the music was tranquil rather than gloomy; dark as midnight with a crescent moon, rather than blackness of the soul. It spoke of longing, and she understood that very well, for she longed above all else to be loved for who she was.
As the final chord died away, she knew she had achieved something she never had before.
She had put her own emotions into her music. She had bared her soul.
Landini did not speak; he did not move.
Finally, she lifted her head to look at him. “Maestro?”
He took a breath. “Magnifico,” he whispered.
She clasped her hands and brought them to her mouth. “You liked it? Truly?”
“Very much. You speak in music.” He hesitated. “You speak to me?”
Mary lowered her hands to her lap, gazing at them as she nodded.
“Maria, what did you say?”
She looked up at him, bold for the first time in her life. “What did you hear?”
“No sadness, but alone. No one knows you. You look for something. I look, too. What do you look for?”
“I look for what you see when you see me, signor Landini. I think no one else sees me as you do. I want to be Maria, not Mary.”
He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and smiled for her alone – an achingly lovely smile which destroyed her walls. “My bella farfalla.”
“What does that mean, Maestro?”
“My beautiful butterfly. My Maria.”
She pulled her hand away, sitting up straighter. “What shall I learn next?”
His lips twitched. “Learn to say ‘Ale’ to me.”
Her eyes were round. “Ale? Not Maestro? Not Alessandro?”
“Many call me Alessandro. Only family say Ale.”
He thinks of me as a sister? Probably a little sister, at that.
She tried to hide her chagrin, being careful not to move. She would not allow her features to betray her thoughts. He knew her too well.