The Piano Movers – Part 2: First Piece

Imogen held her house concert in October.

She invited thirty people to the walk-up: neighbours, old students, a retired conductor and the piano-moving crew, who stood at the back in clean shirts. Folding chairs filled the little apartment. The grand piano glowed in the corner, lid open, polished to a mirror.

Dana stood by the window with a glass of wine, feeling out of place. Marcus stood beside her. They had had coffee, and then dinner, and then a great many walks. He wore a jacket for the first time she had ever seen.

"You look nice," she whispered.

"I look like a man in a jacket."

"You look like a man who has carried a nine-foot piano."

He laughed. Imogen sat at the keyboard, raised her hands, and the room fell silent. The first notes rolled out, slow and golden. She played Schubert, then Chopin, then a plain little waltz she said she had written for her husband. Nobody breathed. The October light fell across the keys.

When the last chord faded, there was a long hush, then loud applause. Imogen sat with her hands in her lap, eyes closed, face wet and radiant.

Afterwards, when the guests had gone, Dana and Marcus carried the folding chairs down to the landing. The stairwell was quiet, lit by a single bulb. A faint smell of beeswax drifted from the apartment.

"Can I ask you something?" said Marcus.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Dana? On the landing where we got stuck?"

"Yes," said Dana. "And if you say stop, you must carry me up all three flights."

"That is the heaviest thing I've ever been threatened with."

"I'm very strong."

He kissed her, warm and gentle, a calloused hand cupping her cheek. She kissed him back with a slow, bright joy, her gloves forgotten in her pocket. Above them, through the open door, the piano gave one last soft, humming note.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Dana. "Very green."

The crew van now has a small sticker on the dash: Careful with the grand. And each other.

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