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Rewrite of one of my old stories.
His hands were rusty; the once-crisp sonata slipped through his fingers like Jello on chopsticks. It had been nearly three hundred and ten days since Jack had played Clementi on a keyboard; normally he played the markets on one. Soon, the clock would strike midnight and the cherubic building manager would knock at the door, smiling through the tempered glass window, and let him go into the snowy courtyard, and then it would be three hundred and ten days.
He’d first seen her face through the other side of the tempered glass. She was playing La Campanella, a piece which suited her personality well. To a neophyte like Jack was then, it sounded deceptively simple and clear, especially when compared with Liszt’s other virtuosic monstrosities. But beneath the façade lay at least five years of long hours spent alone in practice.
Or, at least that’s how long she’d said she’d played. Of course, Jack had no idea whether she was lying or not. He just knew, from that day onwards, that he wouldn’t mind seeing those bony white fingers dance over the keys a lot more often. Day in, day out, Jack would sit in the practice room and listen to her as he labored over problem sets and class readings. Some days he would just walk right in and sit in a chair and listen. Her only annoyance was that he would often knock far too loudly for her liking.
They didn’t talk much, at first. The music filled that in. Some days it would be a sunny Mozart sonata, other days it would be somber Rachmaninoff. One day she began to play an intimate piece. Jack asked her for the title, and she said that it had none, at least not yet. It would be named for a certain guy, eventually.
So Jack did the only thing someone with basic knowledge of chords could do. He sat by her left side and clunked out an accompaniment to her melody.
She’d started him off on a basic curriculum. He was a quick study, and within half a year, was playing reasonable pieces from her childhood. She said that his sound, his style, reminded her of how her own childhood teacher would play.
When they moved in together later that year, they bought a small upright for the apartment, but they still preferred the beat-up Steinway in the third-floor practice room that overlooked the now-blossoming courtyard. They got so good at some duets that they could play them with their eyes closed and lips locked. For the entire summer, Jack would sneak dinner in from the cafeteria after his lab shift let up, and they would play until the knocking came at midnight.
Third year rolled around. She noticed a change in Jack. He no longer brought problem sets and books to the practice room, but a stack of business cards, a laptop, brochures and pamphlets, the paraphernalia of worldly ambition. And he no longer appreciated those romantic nocturnes, the slow waltzes. He went straight for Chopin’s etudes. They argued more and played less. Twice the cherubic building manager had to knock and tell them to keep it down. She bitterly thought that he’d never asked that when they were playing Schubert.
They played their last duet as autumn rains fell on the flagstones outside. The piece got louder and faster as they went on, mainly because each tried to outplay the other. It would be their first and last argument about the piano. Jack picked up his business cards, his laptop, his brochures and left. He narrowly ducked the book of duets as he walked through the courtyard. Dark blue ink ran all over his fingers when he picked it up; the book was printed in black. He made out his own name for a fleeting moment on the piece of paper taped to the inside cover before the rain washed everything on it away.
He graduated in three years. Found a job at a prop shop downtown, a cookie-cutter place named after the street the office was located on, got a promotion, got an account, and bought a loft in a trendy section of town, filled it up with all the usual items, but no piano. His neighbors bought one, though, and their ten-year-old would unknowingly drive him crazy by playing the very same pieces which she had started him on.
The next winter, Jack for some reason found himself at his alma mater again, this time handing out brochures and business cards. It took fifteen minutes before the false eagerness which the undergraduates displayed was too much to bear. He took a walk outside, and for some unconscious reason, he found himself below that third floor window again. Strangely, he felt no sadness, even though he remembered everything. The memories had faded to black and white.
The same cherubic face, the same sign-in sheet. Room 301 was available. The Steinway was no longer there, having been replaced by a Yamaha. Still, it was a decent machine, and soon Jack was playing again, first slowly and with trepidation, then with increasing confidence.
Suddenly, knocking. Five bony fingers behind tempered glass. Jack opened the door to no one, but he didn’t mind. At his feet lay a new duet. It was untitled.
 
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The writing is good, but I don't understand the ending. So she finished it, but never found a guy to dedicate the song for?
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How old is his teacher? I can make a guess by the bony white fingers, but maybe that could be misleading.
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Jesus. That was great! I loved it! I'm not usually a fan of stuff like this, but this is an exception!
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you are everywhere on this site now
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You're a really good writer
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Great ending, you should write contemporary novels or short stories.
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On September 30 2012 07:03 Disregard wrote:
Great ending, you should write contemporary novels or short stories.
=) Thanks. My day job eats up most of my time, but my dream is to earn enough cash through startups/VCs to fund a movie in China.
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On September 29 2012 08:49 husniack wrote:
The writing is good, but I don't understand the ending. So she finished it, but never found a guy to dedicate the song for?
she left him a new duet, a signal that she's willing to get back together with him again, to let him earn his way back into her heart again
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On September 29 2012 10:43 LeapofFaith wrote:
How old is his teacher? I can make a guess by the bony white fingers, but maybe that could be misleading.
one year younger than him
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Nice story and writing. From what I've read of your blogs/fiction, we seem to have similar backgrounds and to have run in roughly the same social circles - I also have a lot of friends from China or who are now expats in China (though I have no experience myself) working in finance/consulting etc., I have friends who have worked in prop shops, I made the rounds as an undergrad doing endless recruiting interviews, worked for a time as a consultant, etc.
Incidentally, I also love creative writing and am hampered by a day job - in my case as a corporate lawyer, at least for now. Perhaps that's why I like reading your posts so much. In any case, hope you keep writing!
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Your stories are so well-written.
Please continue producing awesome stuff like this. :D
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On September 29 2012 07:29 Shady Sands wrote:
Rewrite of one of my old stories.
His hands were rusty; the once-crisp sonata slipped through his fingers like Jello on chopsticks.
There's a lot of mixed imagery, so it's hard to immediately set a concrete scene. But it works. Rust, Jello, chopsticks.
It had been nearly three hundred and ten days since...
... and then it would be three hundred and ten days
All you have separating the two milestones is "nearly" -- kind of weak. Starting at "three hundred and nine days" reads easier.
Jack had played Clementi
I've heard vaguely of Clementi, but don't have anything else to bring to this. You might alienate readers unless you describe something about Clementi's music or style.
on a keyboard;
What kind of keyboard (computer, piano, electronic)? You mean a piano, right? Why not just say piano?
normally he played the markets on one.
What do you mean in the "played the markets" phrase? "Market" (i.e. popular) music. He played "on the market?" I feel like I know music pretty well, so I feel both alienated and distrustful.
"on one" -- a keyboard, of course. What else would he play the markets on? Probably just delete.
Soon, the clock would strike midnight and the cherubic building manager would knock at the door, smiling through the tempered glass window, and let him go into the snowy courtyard,.
Well-composed, but... it's fast, abstract motion for the quick reader. "The clock," then "the cherubic...," then "the door," then "the tempered...," then "the snowy."
My brain has to slow down and hurt itself to put all of those descriptors into a picture. Try breaking it into individual sentences. If that's too verbose, eliminate the details that are least important.
At a glance, I think you might move quickly from one visual item to the next. Take a moment to initiate the uninitiated. Offer something concrete to visually attach to, and (remember music theory?) use step-wise motion for your melody. Don't be afraid to take your time embellishing an idea. Readers will appreciate the effort, and you can always trim things later.
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On October 02 2012 13:07 mmp wrote:
At a glance, I think you might move quickly from one visual item to the next. Take a moment to initiate the uninitiated. Offer something concrete to visually attach to, and (remember music theory?) use step-wise motion for your melody. Don't be afraid to take your time embellishing an idea. Readers will appreciate the effort, and you can always trim things later.
At a second glance, this is definitely a stylistic element, giving the piece a lightness and sensitivity. This is distinctive, and I like it.
It's also hard to approach for the same reason. You're offering the reader less concrete material to hold onto. Make sure your intentions match the result.
With that caveat aside, very well composed.
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Wow. mmp, you are amazing. Thanks so much
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That was an awesome analysis mmp. Shady, great stuff. I like that I can find things like this in the blogs section.
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When I read the ending I actually had a fleeting thought that this was a ghost story and Jack was the new "ghost" of Room 301, to forever wait until he too could name the new duet with someone else. The bony white fingers didn't help. Almost disappointed this wasn't it haha.
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EPT
