2004-08-11
One day I will hear you play Chopin
�I find it hilarious how all of us Jews are in Honours Economics. Look, there�s me, Marti, Max, and Jeff--this is basically like Hebrew School!�---Ben D.
For some time, I have abandoned my garden and the weeds have begun to grow--the rich soil has taken an ashen colour. When I was ten, many Sundays would be spent in the small patch of dirt my dad allotted for me. Once, I grew a watermelon and observed its ripe, green vines twirl and twist like my friend Angela�s brown, curly hair. I had this pastel-green bonnet my aunt had given me, and I made the attempt at growing strawberries only after reading �Strawberry Girl�.
This was probably when I still played the piano--with a different teacher. I still remember my first lesson, at five years of age--trudging along with my mother in front, having her lightly shove me into the room that smelled of oak and peppermint. The teacher was overweight and wore dresses of printed flowers--she was very kind, however.
�One day, I will hear you play Chopin,� I think she said once.
�I hate Chopin,� was most likely my response, not knowing who Chopin was at that time.
I quit some years later, and it wasn�t because I disliked it, but because my teacher changed and so did those lessons. I had to leave my country, and so, she would no longer sit on that wooden stool in the evenings waiting for my arrival. That Cuban-Chinese girl with pigtails that bounced like candy-curls, she clumsily played �Ode to Joy�, and had begun touching the keys with only two index fingers. At that time, I didn�t properly know how to manipulate my hands and move them through the piano--I was her youngest student.
There was one piece in particular that I played, and I can�t even remember anything about it, except that it reminded me of a labyrinth--winding and complex, at least for me at that time. �Ode to Joy� was my first, and she taught me piece by piece until my hands learned to flow about the keys, and I learned that I didn�t need to put pressure on my fingers when I played, rather, my forearms.
But after one year, I started to notice how aged she truly was, and how sickly. Yet, she was beautiful, the way she closed her eyes and grinned when she heard me play �Ode to Joy� without any cuts or interruptions, for the first time. Perhaps one day I told her that I didn�t hate Chopin anymore, yet I don�t remember.
The day I had to leave my country, it wasn�t rainy, but rather, quite sunny. It was morning, and my mother had called her the night before and we went to her house for the last time. So when she cried, I and I asked why tears danced out of her eyes as she wrapped my curls around her index finger, my mom tried to conjure up some explanation. At six, I wasn�t supposed to know that we were leaving Cuba for political reasons, because my father had renounced the communist party, or because there was barely any food. But I asked why she was crying, and why she wasn�t happy that I wouldn�t need to have my red ration book anymore. My mom said, �Because she won�t hear you play Chopin�.
And Sylvia nodded her face glistening of silent tears and said yes. Still, I didn�t really know who Chopin was. Then, at eleven, I learned. I finally learned to distinguish between all of them, and I heard Chopin. The new man, who came to replace Sylvia, possessed an elongated face and cold stare.
�Play it again....again,� he could command.
By that time, I had probably almost forgotten about Sylvia, and her memory was hidden in the cobwebs of my memory. I don�t know if she ever wondered how the pig-tailed girl let her dark hair loose, and how she went from pastel dresses to mini-skirts, and if this girl still remembered the smell of oak and peppermint every time she went near a piano.
During supper, my mom casually says, �Oh, do you remember your former piano teacher, Sylvia?�
And thinking for a brief moment and scrunching my eyebrows, I suddenly remembered and nodded my head.
�I called Cuba the other night, and your aunt Anna told me that Sylvia has died--I had been meaning to tell you,� my mother says.
Afterwards, she begins speaking to my father.
I do wonder why she cried with tears dancing about her cheeks, and her finger twisted around the ends of my pig-tails. For many years, she had been quite ill, yet, she taught me regardless. Only, she never heard me play Chopin, and I hope that she took the sweet melody of the �Raindrop� prelude with her.
Maybe I should play Chopin for her now and let my fingers dance about the keys--I no longer play with just two fingers.
I'm wishing that godmoney were here.