“Are you expected, sir.”
“I’m expected.”
“And who may I say is calling.”
“Alfonso Stephen O’Kelly’O.”
“Oh, yes. Listed here as Stephen O’Kelly’O. One moment and I’ll announce you.”
The elevator operator kept glancing down at the slight peg in my pants and then at my shoes which were before getting a shine, a little worse for wear. I felt more and more inappropriate as we rose up through the elegant floors of this building. Even old Gilbert forgetting he ever saw me before and, at the door, giving me the once-over. But recovering his powers of recognition as I made no bones about my identity.
“Oh, of course, Mr. O’Kelly’O, nice to see you again. I’ll take your coat. Madam is awaiting you in the music room, then if you’ll follow me this way.”
Another hallway exiting in another direction from this domed-ceiling lobby. The feet silently tread in the serene peace across these carpets. And then make noise on the parquet. The faint smell of wood smoke. And something not noticed before, a curving staircase sweeping upward to an indoor balcony. Dare one ask how many rooms and how many floors this joint has. No. Don’t dare. Just carry on. Let all knowledge arrive freely. A left turn and then a right through two double mahogany doors paneled in green baize, the doors closing over one another and opening into an enormous, somber if sumptuous room with prints and gilt mirrors on the walls, picture windows, a small terrace, and far below, on the river, a tug boat hauling barges, its bow afoam pushing its way through the ripples and waves. And there, across the golden carpet, the ebony concert grand piano, its top ajar ready to be played. Flames licking a brace of logs in the fireplace. But not to be ignored in the soft hues of light and seated at a small table in another of her white clinging gowns, her hair gleaming and drawn back from her face, Drusilla. And by her elbow, a dish stacked with a variety of cookies, and from within an elaborate silver ice bucket peeked a golden-topped bottle of champagne, and on a side table a tray with pink tulip glasses and canapés.
“Ah, the moment I’ve been waiting for while I’ve been playing my game of patience, with cards of course, as you are a little later than expected.”
“Forgive me, ma’am.”
“Oh please, no.”
“Sorry. I mean Dru. I had to find clothes to wear.”
“Well, I had a perfectly awful thing happen. So your later arrival has given me further time to recover my composure. Join me in a drink to help wash away images. You will, I hope, have some of my favorite champagne.”
“Yes, thank you. What a wonderful room.”
“Yes, originally two enlarged into one. Entirely soundproof. Well, there it is, the Steinway waiting for you.”
“Nice to feel one has no worry concerning any protesting neighbors.”
“And it is so nice to see you, Stephen, it really is. And I’m so so sorry about the situation. It’s not, of course, for the first time that Sylvia has run off and disappeared.”
“What would you like me to play.”
“Well, I’d love to hear your composition.”
“I might perhaps warm up my fingers on some composer whose music already possesses proven greatness.”
“Oh, you are modest, aren’t you.”
“Well truth be known, yes I am. Possibly because when I first used to play piano, growing up in my house, among my unappreciative family, only my dog Chess, appreciated my playing. And he would sit up, trying to balance on his hind legs out on the driveway below the living room window, howling always in perfect pitch.”
“Well then, would you know something perhaps by Rachmaninoff.”
“Yes, I believe I would.”
“Then Rachmaninoff.”
“How about some passages from his Piano Concerto Number Three in D Minor.”
“Oh, yes, that has such marvelous bursts of romanticism. And the climaxes arise so splendidly.”
Stephen O’Kelly’O massaging his knuckles and fingers, advancing to the piano. Turning to gently bow back to his smiling hostess. When about to sit to play, always the moment to set the scene. With the utmost seriousness in one’s posture, stand perfectly still, count to thirteen. Then be seated, look upward, as if seeking spiritual inspiration from above. Hold outstretched the fingers above the keys. For a moment, hold them as if to cause levitation and the whole piano to rise to the ceiling. Contract the fingers ever so slightly. Then. Now. Bring them down. Strike. Fingertips concussing upon the ivory whiteness. Usher into the world this exquisiteness of sound. What a pity it can’t escape across the fast flowing, shimmering water of the west channel of the East River. And thence pass over the gloomy shadowy buildings on Welfare Island to Queens and thence across to the distant lights of Brooklyn. And, in traversing the ether, even reach a sympathetic ear in Brownsville and Canarsie. To quaver, quiver and tremble their euphonic sensibilities as one’s fingers touch the keys and reverberate the strings strung across this cast of iron. And most nobly best of all. To have as well, as I strike the last chord upon the keys, the appreciative warmth and joy of an admiring listener.
“Stephen, that was wonderful, wonderful. Oh, you do play so beautifully. So marvelously easeful. Without being extrovert. Yet youthful. And with such forward surge. I can’t imagine why you’re not on the concert stage giving performances.”
“Well, having undergone a rather long stale stretch in the navy, where there were few pianos to be found to play, I have I’m afraid missed the boat. Very little privacy to pursue musical interests within a gun turret aboard a battleship.”
“Oh, you poor you, you. Did you make big bangs. Here, let me replenish your glass. And then, although I’m aware it’s not entirely finished, you must play for me your minuet.”
Stephen O’Kelly’O rising from the piano. Crossing the room, tripping on the carpet. Gaining his composure, a hand held over his heart, a broad grin on his face. Taking up his glass and drinking deep into the delicious grapey substance. If there were any condition and moment mankind could undergo that could be termed that overabused word happiness, then this was it. Amazing how with just a little admiration one is tempted to strike a Napoleonic pose and behave like a prima donna. And of course meanwhile wondering when old Jonathan Witherspoon Triumphington is going to jump out of a closet or from behind a door or come swinging into view off a chandelier with a.38-caliber pistol aimed at my head. And make his own big bang for my being here playing his piano and drinking his champagne and desperately now wanting to fuck his wife, who hasn’t even winked once since I began to play. Which I again return to do. The world premiere performance of my minuet. Bow. Beseat oneself to play. Totally and absolutely inspired. Improvise and embellish chords and harmonics. Fingers going wild, produce integral multiples of fundamentals up and down the octaves. Then dulcet passages on this dulcimer instrument. Tears welling in Drusilla’s eyes. Her hands folded still in her lap. Which, as I struck the last faint key, she raised to clap. A diamond on a finger glinting along with diamond-encrusted bracelets on her wrists. She stands and crosses to me. A kiss on my brow.
“That is simply so wonderful. So sadly delicate at the end. I’m so glad I worked up all my nerve and invited you to play.”
“And I’m so glad that you did and that I played.”
“Well you are brilliant. Come and let’s finish our champagne. Oh, but you’re limping.”
“A fall in the bath taking a shower in my rush to get here.”
“Poor boy, you must show me where it hurts. I believe in the laying on of healing hands. But now I do have a question or two, of course. Is your first Christian name Alfonso. They called from the lobby as you were coming up in the elevator.”