Elaine was already spending the evening with us, so as soon as King left, I hurried to the living room, asking if she’d watch Oliver for me while I popped out for a bit. I was behind the wheel of my car and pulling out of the driveway just in time to see King’s Merc turn the corner at the end of our street.
I followed a few cars behind him all the way into the city, biting my fingernails the entire time. Where the hell was he going? Finally, he parked down a side street in Camden, got out, and walked off. I hurried to park, too, then discreetly followed him. He didn’t suspect a thing, never once looking back, and then he slipped inside the door to a hipster-looking bar.
Oh, shit.
A bar? He’d sneaked off to a bar? Maybe I wasn’t such a good judge of character after all. This wasn’t looking good. I stood on the street for at least ten minutes, freaking out and trying to convince myself that this wasn’t what it seemed, while my brain was all, Bitch, how can it not be what it seems?
FYI, my brain was a skinny gay guy who worked in a hair salon and loved to gossip cynically about other people’s love lives.
When I managed to calm myself down, I noticed that a long queue had formed outside the bar, but King had managed to walk right past it. Figuring I didn’t have any other option, I got in line. It took forever for me to get inside, because the place was packed out and the bouncers were staggering the queue. The bar was dark and crowded, and I instantly hated it. That was, until I heard the music. It was beautiful, transforming the room from something annoying into something wonderful. It was a unique mix of classical and modern, and it was just one instrument. The piano.
I felt it all around me, right down to my toes, and instinctively I knew it was his, knew this was the music he’d spend days on end composing alone in his apartment.
I couldn’t see the stage because it was surrounded by people, but my heart began to pound as my suspicions about King being back on the beer slowly faded into the background. Pushing my way past the bodies, I finally reached a spot where I could see. There on the tiny stage he sat, playing glorious music on a worn-out, beaten-up piano that looked like it had been in the bar for over twenty years. Nevertheless, his audience was captivated, and so was I.
The way his body moved as he played, the way his hands manipulated the keys so fluidly, set my every nerve ending alight. He’d kept his hair long, just like I’d asked him to, and it hung attractively over his face, making him appear elusive and mysterious. His eyes were closed, too, adding to his enigmatic vibe. He wore only a simple white T-shirt under an open grey shirt and jeans. Basically, he looked nothing like what you’d expect from a classical pianist, but then again, he wasn’t exactly playing straight-up classical. It was an unusual sound, something new and different, which was probably why he’d attracted such a crowd. Somehow I knew that if King wasn’t playing, this bar wouldn’t be half as packed as it was right then. I could tell because the patrons were focused completely on him rather than chatting amongst themselves and socializing.
He must have been doing this for weeks, telling no one. The thought made me both happy and sad at the same time. But then I remembered our conversation weeks ago in his apartment, where he’d talked about playing for the love of it rather than the praise. I also remembered telling him that his playing didn’t have to be either of those things, that it could simply be a gift to other people. In that moment, I knew he’d taken my words to heart, because every person in the bar was getting a gift right then.
A worker moved past me, collecting empty glasses, and I pulled her aside, nodding to the stage.
“Does he play here often?” I asked.
She glanced at King, then back to me. “Not often. He performs in different places around the city. A couple of weeks ago he showed up at a bar in Soho and asked the manager if he could play. The place was quiet, so the manager said yes. He’s been gaining a following ever since, but he never announces a gig, just shows up randomly, and people spread the word.”
“Oh,” I said, absorbing her answer, skin tingling at the idea of King just randomly playing piano for people wherever and whenever it took his fancy.
“What’s his name?” I asked just before she turned to leave.
“They call him Oliver,” she answered.
“Just Oliver?”
“Yeah, just Oliver.”
And then she was gone and I was looking back at King, everything about him holding me captive. The fact that he kept his eyes closed most of the time and never really looked at anyone in the audience meant he didn’t see me there. Still, I made sure to stand behind a couple of other people just in case. For a second I thought of waiting around until the end, pouncing on him, and declaring I’d discovered his secret. But no, that wasn’t what I wanted. I just wanted him to go on playing, to keep doing what made him and the people he managed to touch with his music happy. I’d never be the one who turned what he loved into something that required praise, something that had once destroyed him.
So, when he finished his final song of the night, I inhaled a deep breath, savoured the moment, and soaked in the reactions of those around me, the catharsis they felt from the emotions portrayed in his wordless song. Then I turned and left the bar.
***
A couple of days later, I found myself waking Oliver up on a Monday morning and getting him ready for his first day of school. I had his uniform all set out: a white shirt, grey tie, navy jumper with the school crest, and grey slacks. I swear he looked so handsome, tiny yet grown at the same time, and I felt like crying.
I bet all mothers cried on their kid’s first day of school. It was programmed into our DNA. Oliver was full of questions and enthusiasm. He’d been gearing himself up for this for a year. Often we’d drive by the school and he’d see the kids, and I’d tell him that’s where he’d be going soon. I marvelled at how he never acted frightened or apprehensive. No, his eyes lit up at the prospect of something new.
King was sitting in the kitchen, eating a slice of toast, when I came down with Oliver, all clad in his new uniform.
“Daddy! Look at me, don’t I look handsome?” he said, and King turned to take him in. Unlike me, he didn’t get-teary eyed. No, his lips twitched in amusement.
“You’re looking very dapper indeed, little man,” he said, shooting me a smile.
“What’s dapper?” Oliver questioned.
“Your daddy’s being fancy again. He always tries to be fancy,” I teased. “And it means you look sharp. Sharp and handsome.”
He seemed pleased with my answer, and King went about getting him some breakfast. Once it was time to go, all three of us left the house to walk him to school. It was only ten minutes away, and it was a sunny morning, so we decided to forgo the car. I held one of Oliver’s hands and King held the other. All the while, our son strolled along between us, chatting away about how he was going to make friends with everyone and how he was going to play hopscotch in the yard during his break.
I glanced at King at one point to see him smiling down at Oliver, affection and love in eyes as he listened to his every word. Then, too soon almost, we were at the school, and the teacher was waiting outside as the children gathered.
“There’s Timothy,” Oliver shouted, spotting his friend. “I’m going over.” Before he could run off, I pulled him back and knelt down, looking him in the eye and fixing his tie. There was something about how small it was that made me feel like welling up again. King noticed my ridiculously emotional expression and took over, bending down to give Oliver a hug.
“You be good today, son. Your mum and I will be back later to collect you.”
And with that he was gone, running excitedly to his friend, his little blue rucksack on his back. All around me, parents said goodbye to their kids, and there was a lot of crying going on. I saw a girl bawling her eyes out at the prospect of being separated from her mum, and it kind of broke my heart. In a way, I wished Oliver had been more like her, more upset, because that way I’d feel like less of a wuss.