They were incredibly wealthy. They sent their four sons to the finest schools and, upon graduation, on European tours. They dined out in the best restaurants four times a week. They threw dinner parties, lavish affairs with flowers and champagne, sumptuous feasts. They had the ease of the equally matched and long married. And moving under the soft light of chandeliers and among guests upon whom life had not bestowed equal good fortune, they were envied their beautiful and bountiful life.
Justine cleaned the living room, a spacious room filled with antiques and art. Wiping small ormolu-encrusted tables and heavy gilt picture frames, she avoided the piano, a white baby grand with a glossy sheen. She never touched it. She never looked at it. Dusting furniture set far enough apart for easy mingling, she sensed the piano’s pearly white presence, a ghost hovering at the back of her mind.
At parties, Mr. Morgenstern would play for admiring friends. Mrs. Morgenstern would lean on the lid, enraptured and misty-eyed, martini in hand. I play better than that, Justine would think, moving among the guests in the black and white maid’s outfit required for parties. And listening with a faint smile, she would offer canapés on a silver tray.
Mrs. Morgenstern collected Royal Doulton figurines, displaying “her pretty ladies” on the mantelpiece. Receiving a new one every Christmas from an indulgent husband, she would fall upon her present with delight. What a lucky girl I am! she would cry. And bestowing a kiss upon her husband’s silvery head, she would place the newcomer on the mantle.
January sunshine filled the room with winter warmth. Washing the figurines in warm soapy water, Justine admired the voluminous skirts filled with motion, the china perfection of arms and necks. Autumn Breeze, one hand to her hat, her green skirts lifted by wind. Marguerite, coquettish in an off-the-shoulder crimson gown. And Fiona, simple and still in a fall of cobalt blue. Wiping them dry, she wondered if a world of such ladies existed, their days glossy and smooth.
Outside the window, an icicle cracked. She went over to the piano. She hit C sharp. She snatched her hand away. The note shimmered pitch perfect in the air.
She sat down, lifted her hands and played. Releasing the strength in her shoulders and arms, she landed resounding chords. She raced up and down scales. She rilled along arpeggios and trills. In the quiet sunlit room, music came rushing back, filling her with relief and delight.
“You’re a pianist,” Mr. Morgenstern said from the doorway.
She leapt up from the bench.
“I study in my country,” she said.
“Do you play now?”
How could I? she wanted to snap at this well-mannered gentleman. His politeness stifled any silly retorts.
“No piano,” she said.
“Use mine,” he said. “Please. A talent like yours should not be allowed to languish.”
Justine did not understand languish but understood the offer. Fear vied with wild hope in her breast.
“But Mrs. Morgenstern…,” she said.
“Oh you leave Greta to me,” he said with the pleased puckishness of a man who didn’t mind the mild sport of riling his wife. “Would you play for me now? Please? It would give me the greatest pleasure.”
She played, racing up and down the stairs of Scarlatti and Bach, swooping upon the currents of Chopin, rippling along the rivers of Ravel.
“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Morgenstern said, setting down bags from Creeds and taking in her husband leaning back in his favourite wing chair with cognac and cigar in hand and her maid’s behind on the piano bench.
“Why just as you see, my dear,” Mr. Morgenstern said with the mild patience of an unexcitable man. “Justine is playing the piano. Did you know she was such a talent?”
Mrs. Morgenstern turned to Justine. “Take these bags up to my room.”
Justine leapt up, hurrying forward to relieve Mrs. Morgenstern of her expensive shopping. Carrying the bags to the master bedroom, she could hear husband and wife arguing. Her talent is for worming her way into other people’s lives, Mrs. Morgenstern shouted. What will you have her doing next? Playing for our guests? Justine placed the bags on the closet floor and hurried back downstairs.
“I no play,” she said from the doorway.
“How many times have I told you not to enter a room when people are talking?” Mrs. Morgenstern said. “I will not have my maids eavesdropping. Even someone like you should be able to understand that.”
“Greta, there’s no need for that,” Mr. Morgenstern said.
Mrs. Morgenstern glared at her husband then turned and left the room.
Mr. Morgenstern sighed.
“Justine, your first duties are as housemaid. You must do as my wife says and do it well. But the piano needs playing. It doesn’t get played enough by me. Practice in your spare time if you wish. As to my wife,” he said, raising a hand to still her objection, “I will take care of it.”
He left the room, pursuing his wife and peace.
Trouble trouble trouble, Justine thought, resuming her cleaning, her strokes keeping rhythm with her thoughts. No good to make trouble between husband and wife. No good for job. No good for me.
The next morning, Justine found herself heaped with work. Moving the furniture away from walls, climbing upon chairs, she cleaned in behind cupboards and along the tops of lintels. For the first time, she heard complaints about her work. You cannot break me, she thought. I have had tougher masters than you. Polishing the silverware stretching along the glossy dining room table like a shiny landscape, she worked in a fury.
Mrs. Morgenstern left for the afternoon, pulling on long dove grey gloves with satisfaction. Putting down her cloth, Justine went over to the piano. She lifted the lid, sat down and played, once more in the golden studio in Vilnius. She played in the sunlight of memory. Then rising and closing the lid, she made sure the lady of the house found her dusting the piano when she came home.
Justine stood at the stove, cooking breakfast for the Morgensterns. Shifting the eggs in the pan, she watched her employers reading the Globe and Mail at the kitchen table. The wife liked scrambled, the husband sunny side up. Mr. Morgenstern always insisted that Greta be served first. And lifting his cup for coffee, he said that Tony Ursell, a colleague on the board at the Royal Conservatory of Music, had agreed to hear Justine play.
Mrs. Morgenstern kept her face turned carefully to the paper.
“Thank you, Mr. Morgenstern,” Justine said. “Thank you but I no ready.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Morgenstern said. “You were ready the moment I heard you. And now that you’ve been practising you’ll be even better. Shall we say next Saturday? I’m sure Greta can manage breakfast on her own that day.”
“Of course, I can. Of course, she must go,” Mrs. Morgenstern said, glancing up. “Our budding pianist.”
Justine hesitated. Refusing would offend Mr. Morgenstern, accepting would displease Mrs. Morgenstern. She might lose her job. But if I could play it wouldn’t matter, she thought. I could leave this work behind. And heart leaping, she resolve to take this chance to regain her musical life.
“Thank you,” Justine said. “Thank you.”
“It’s settled then.” Mr. Morgenstern sat back, beaming.
Mrs. Morgenstern stared at her, eyes glittering.