The Last Piano

by Gary Beck

All right. So everyone thinks I’m crazy. Even my mater. But I’m doing what I want to. When I was a kid, I fell in love with the piano. I listened to piano music on my IPOD. Then my Dorfer, when that was available commercially. My favorites were Beethoven, Chopin, Thelonious Monk.

Mater indulged me with lessons and bought me an old-time electronic piano when I was five years old. I practiced every day for hours, and my tutor android, Erasmus, struggled with me every day for me to do my regular learning tasks. I did velocity exercises every day, played simple études over and over, losing myself in the cleanliness of the majestic sound.

I was highly proficient at the age of 10. I persuaded Mater to let me play with an adult chamber music group: violin, cello, viola. Of course I had to go with Erasmus and my bodyguards, Jim and Veronica. They were cool, but Erasmus could be a pain in the ass. He’d tell me the rules on the way to rehearsal or a concert. He’d tell me everything I did wrong on the way home. But at least I got away from the house.

We played at people’s homes: big mansions like mine, for a handful of invited guests, as well as the resident families. Most of our concerts of contemporary composers lasted about twenty minutes. I was surprised that people would listen that long. But some of the elite people prided themselves on supporting high culture.

We were well known by the time I was 12, the Off-World Quartet, getting a lot of attention from anyone claiming to be educated. I actually earned my own credits. I had a family account that I never really used, since Erasmus took care of all my finances and expenses, but it felt good to earn my own livelihood.

I was 13 when I heard some people after our concert talking about a retro club where they played old-time jazz. Mater and Pater were away somewhere at the time of my next concert, and I asked Erasmus, Jim and Veronica to take me to the club, the Hidden Chord. They resisted at first, until I offered Jim and Veronica 5,000 credits each, then they agreed.

Erasmus objected strenuously. He kept saying over and over, “That is not allowed.” He stopped only when we got to the concert house.

He started again on what should have been on the way home in our hover car. But I was determined.

When he said, “I’m obliged to tell your mater—” I held up my hand.

“You’ve been a good tutor, Erasmus, even though you tell me what to do all the time. I’m going to the club. If you don’t stop arguing, I’ll tell Mater your programming is obsolete and I need a new tutor.”

“That’s not fair,” he protested. “I’ve been with you since you were born. I’ve always done my best for you.”

“True. And I appreciate you. But I’m going to the club. Either come with me cheerfully or start looking for a tutoring position somewhere else.”

“Where would I go? I was designed for you.”

“Then grow with me.”

“All right, Brandon.”

“And no sulking.”

“Yes, Brandon.”

The club was dirty, smelly, loud and full of ganja smoke. I loved it. Erasmus insisted I wear a respirator, which I did only when we were outside, but he was right this time.

I listened for a while getting used to their playing. There was a core group: drummer, bass, some kind of horn. Musicians kept joining them, playing for a while, then leaving. An old guy played the electric piano for a few minutes, then stopped. No one else played it.

The group started something that sounded familiar, and I went to the piano, sat down and softly played some thematic chords. Another horn joined us and blared away for a while. When he was done, the bass nodded to me, and I just let music flow from my fingers.

I lost track of time, like every time I practiced or played. Other musicians came and went, but the bass kept letting me lead. It felt good. They stopped for a break, and the audience applauded loudly.

The bass thanked me. “Come back any night and sit in with us.” And he gave me a handful of credits.

Erasmus ushered me out with Jim and Veronica in their usual positions: one in front, one in back, Erasmus next to me. I lay awake for hours that night, thinking that it felt just as good in a different way as playing with the Off-World Quartet. I suddenly had the image of playing alone on a real piano, the old kind, made of wood and stuff. It sent a thrill through me.

In the morning, I had Erasmus search the web for a piano. Naturally he mumbled about how useless it would be since we had excellent electronic pianos. But I ordered him to do it. He normally did everything lightning quick, but this time couldn’t find anything. I was disappointed, but couldn’t get the idea out of my head.

I started practicing the Appassionata. After two months, I was making progress with the Allegro assai. A month later I actually played the entire Opus 57, albeit slower than it was written. Erasmus begrudgingly admitted it wasn’t bad.

Then one day, a miracle: Erasmus found an ancient Steinway Concert Grand in a curio shop. It emptied my account of all the credits I had earned, plus some. It came to the house on one of the few days people went out without respirators. A good sign. I had Erasmus put it in my living room area, then I tried it. It sounded strange and off-key. Erasmus tuned it, polished the wood and oiled the moving parts. I tried again. It still sounded strange after a lifetime on the electronic piano, but it was definitely in tune.

I practiced every day on the wooden beauty that Erasmus called “the old box.” He kept warning me that it was a very fragile instrument and could break any time. But I dismissed that, saying, “You can fix it.”

I made a special request to Mater for my 14th birthday that she invite her select friends to our house where I’d give a concert. She consulted Pater and, wonder of wonders, he approved. The date was set. I practiced diligently. The big night came. The guests arrived and despite Pater’s misgivings that 25 minutes was an awfully long time to listen to music, everything was ready.

Most of the people knew me and applauded when I bowed, then sat down. I began the main theme, in octaves, quiet and ominous. Just as I was getting the feel of the down and up arpeggio, there was a loud screech, then a thud and the strings broke. I was horrified. Erasmus rushed to the piano, looked, then shook his head forlornly.

“The metal plate that hold the strings broke, then other parts broke.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Maybe in a year or so, if I can find replacement parts.”

He went to Mater and told her that I could continue on an electronic piano, but Pater decided we’d have supper instead. I sat there stunned as the guests fled into the main dining room. I stared at the beautiful instrument that I had become so obsessed with.

“Can we find someone to fix it?”

“I’ll try, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

I got up and went to my room, already accepting I would never play the Appassionata on a real piano.