Glenda the Good glided on a gleaming sea drawn by six snowy swans. The Grande Armée crossed Poland on pogo sticks. A woman with a shopping bag walked across the street and up steps. A man with briefcase walked briskly by like an overacting extra.
Six dogs tapdanced on tabletops.
The Variations came to an end. There was a short pause.
A flight of octaves took off like startled flamingoes. No one stopped and stared.
He played variations on the Variations and variations on the variations and he would play one variation next to another next to which it had not originally been juxtaposed.
Are you ready for another fight? No prospects. It could be dangerous.
I stood up and knocked on the door.
A woman came to the door. She said: What to do you want?
I said: I’ve come for my piano lesson.
She said: Oh.
She said: But he doesn’t give lessons.
I said: He’ll see me.
She said: Oh I don’t know
I said: I’ve come for a lesson on Alkan, the once celebrated contemporary of Chopin and Liszt, passed over for the directorship of the Conservatoire through sordid political machinations in favour of a mediocrity and so condemned to a life of bitter obscurity only to die (as legend has it) crushed under a bookshelf while attempting to take down a volume of the Talmud. Only six people in the world today play his music of the six perhaps three are active of the active only one lives in London I have come for a piano lesson with him.
She said: He hasn’t said anything to me.
I said: Oh, go on
She said: Well all right then.
I went through the door. I was in a big room with a bare floor and peeling plaster and a grand piano. Someone sat at the piano—I could only see his legs.
He said:
What do you want?
He raises his sword. He draws it back with a slow sweeping motion.
I said: I had to see you because I’m your son.
He stood up. He was about 25. He was no Mifune lookalike, but it was not likely that I was his son.
He said: What is this shit?
I didn’t know what to say. Then I thought of something to say. I said:
Hey you!
asking me ‘Are you a samurai?’ like that…
what a nerve!
He said: What?
I said:
Even though I look like this, I’m a genuine samurai.
I did not seem to be making much of an impression. I persevered:
Hey, I’ve been looking for you the whole time ever since then
thinking I’d like to show you this.
Look at this.
This genealogy.
A genealogy belonging to my family for generations.
You bastard (you’re making a fool of me)
Look at this. (You’re making a fool of me)
This is me.
He said Ah.
He said:
This Kikuchiyo it talks about is you?
I said:
That’s right
He said:
Listen, if you’re definitely this Kikuchiyo it talks about
You must be 13 this year
This genealogy, where did you steal it?
I said:
What? It’s a lie! Shit! What are you saying?
He laughed.
I said
You left out some lines
He said
I haven’t seen it in years, Kikuchiyo-san.
I remembered suddenly that according to the Kodansha Romanized Japanese-English Dictionary kisama is [CRUDE] and very insulting, that according to Sanseido’s New Crown Japanese-English Dictionary kono yar
I went over to look at the piano. It was a Steinway, but it was the only thing in the room apart from a rolled-up sleeping bag and a suitcase.
I said
Did you know that Glenn Gould practically rebuilt CD 318 so that it wouldn’t sound like a Steinway?
He said
Everybody knows that.
He said
Do you play the piano?
I said
Not Alkan.
I said
I can play Straight No Chaser.
He said
It doesn’t matter. I don’t give lessons. I don’t even give concerts.
I said
I wasn’t asking for lessons.
Then I said
Why don’t you give concerts?
He started walking up and down the bare floor. He said
I kept giving the wrong size of concert. People missed their trains and they found it detracted from their enjoyment of the evening.
Then he laughed. He said: I thought a few hours one way or the other couldn’t matter but people don’t like to catch just any train.
He was still walking up and down. He said: People kept giving me good advice.
I said
Why don’t you make a CD?
He stopped by the window. He said
No one would buy the kind of thing I’d like to put on a CD and I can’t afford to make a CD that no one will buy.
I said
Variations on variations on variations
& he said
Something like that.
He said
It’s funny the things people won’t buy.
He started pacing up and down the floor again. He said
When you play a piece of music there are so many different ways you could play it. You keep asking yourself what if. You try this and you say but what if and you try that. When you buy a CD you get one answer to the question. You never get the what if.
He said
It’s the same only worse in Japan. People take the train every day. They get on a train and get off and get on and get off day after day.
He said if that was the thinkable you’d think the unthinkable would be—
He said even if you weren’t interested in music wouldn’t the idea that things could be different—
He stopped by the piano. He said
But actually people don’t really like a piece of music until they’re used to it.
He began picking at one of the thin steel strings of the treble. Ping ping ping ping ping. Ping ping ping
He said
I’m stuck in a rut myself. I’ve been doing this too long. I keep telling myself I should bite the bullet, play some of my party pieces and make a comeback. What’s the use of spending my life in this room?
Ping ping ping
Then I go and look at CDs.