The Pianist's Room – Part 2: Four Hands

Felix did not give her the violin. He gave her the bass part of a four-hand piano piece, a dark, rolling arrangement of a Schubert march that he had been practising since the spring.

"You're not playing the violin tonight," he said, opening the score on the stand. "You're playing with me. Just the bottom half. It's very forgiving."

"It's not forgiving at all," said Anna. "It's the hardest part."

"It's the part that holds everything up," said Felix. "Like a foundation. Nobody notices it until it cracks."

They sat side by side on the bench, close enough that their elbows touched, and began.

The first bars were slow and careful. Anna's left hand found the notes with a stiffness that made her wince. Felix's right hand, above hers, waited and listened, and when she faltered, he slowed down to meet her, playing softly until she was back on the beat.

"Again," he said, at the end of the phrase.

"You're not angry?"

"I'm delighted," said Felix. "You're playing. That's all I wanted."

They tried it again, and again. By the fourth time, her hands had remembered the shape of the phrase. By the sixth, she was laughing softly at her own mistakes, and Felix was laughing too, leaning into the keys with a grin that made his whole face look younger.

"You're very good at this," said Anna.

"I'm good at it with you," said Felix. "I'm terrible alone."

She stopped, her hands still on the keys. The concert hall was silent around them, the ceiling high and shadowy, the old chandeliers dark above.

"Can I tell you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"I haven't played for anyone in four years. Not since Dresden. I thought I'd lost the sound, and I was relieved, honestly. It was easier not to try."

Felix looked at her, his expression open and gentle.

"Then I'm glad you're trying now," he said. "Can I ask you something back?"

"Yes."

"Would you play the violin for me, one day? Not tonight. Whenever you're ready. Just for me, in this room, with the lights off and nobody else listening?"

Anna's breath caught. She looked at her hands, the calluses still there beneath the piano keys, faded but not gone.

"Yes," she said. "But only if you promise to tell me the truth about the middle section."

"Always," said Felix. "It's still terrible."

She laughed, a bright, unexpected sound, and he laughed with her, and the sound rang softly through the empty hall.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, after a moment, turning on the bench to face her.

"Yes," said Anna. "And if I say stop, you'll stop, and we'll play the bass part again until I'm in tune."

"That's a very strange deal," said Felix. "I accept."

He kissed her slowly, his hand coming up to rest against her cheek, his touch warm and careful. The kiss tasted of coffee and the faint sweetness of the cakes from the shop on the corner. When they parted, their foreheads were touching, and both of them were breathing a little unsteadily.

"Green?" he asked quietly.

"Green," said Anna. "Very green. Play the first bar again, Felix. I'll come in on the second."

He smiled, slow and certain, and placed his hands on the keys.

She came in on the second bar, and her sound was low and shaky at first, and then, slowly, steadier, the notes filling the old hall with a warmth that had been missing for years. Above them, the chandeliers caught a faint, golden light from the street, and the music rose up towards the ceiling and the room above, where her bed sat waiting, and nobody was listening except the two of them.