The Piano Teacher – Part 2: Fermata

The lesson ran for hours, and each hour was a deepening. She made him play the same four bars until they were perfect, then until they were more than perfect. She made him stand beside the piano, hands behind him, and recite the rules of the studio. She made him kneel on the rug at her feet while she sat at the keyboard herself and played, slow and exquisite, the piece he would never be able to play, and told him, in the intervals, what she thought of his progress. She corrected every flaw with a word, a tap, a cool finger under his chin. It was strict, patient and gentle in its severity, and under it the whole of him settled like sediment in still water.

Every half hour: "Do you wish to continue, Paul?" "Yes, Madame." "Say it clearly." "I do. Thank you."

At midnight she played the last chord of a nocturne and let it ring.

"Fermata," said Magdalena.

She set down the baton and held the note in the silence, then reached over and closed the lid. She was suddenly just Magdalena, flushed and soft, sliding onto the piano stool beside him with a blanket from the chair.

"How are you?"

"Resolved," said Paul, with a damp laugh. "Perfectly."

"Good." She kissed his forehead, and he felt her smile.

"Will there be a second lesson?"

"I'm preparing the syllabus," said Magdalena. "It begins with scales. And a great deal of discipline."

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