“Yes please, Laszlo.”
I smile to myself as I follow her up the stairs. She’s seventeen now but she’s always said it just that way since she was eight. Yes, please, Laszlo.
Though neither of us have ever played the piece before we get through it easily enough, but we both know we can do better. As my hands ply the keys I watch her between glances at the sheet music. I vastly prefer conducting to performing but this is one of my favorite things to do, playing with Isabeau. When she was younger it was The Swan, of course, but when she was feeling lively we’d play The Royal March of the Lion, our instruments doing battle with each other to sound the most prideful, the most regal, but getting less and less stately toward to the end, louder and faster, my hands crashing through the chords and her bow whipping across her cello until we finished the piece in a mess of notes, tempos and laughter. When we performed the piece in the youth orchestra I could see the smile glimmering in her eyes at the memory every time. It made me smile, too. We’ve played Elgar. We’ve played Brahms. But nothing has felt like it has playing this Rachmaninoff piece and I don’t know why that should be. We get to the end a second time and Isabeau sits in silence for a few minutes, sunk in thought.
Finally she asks, “What do you think that piece is about?”
I don’t know what I think and I don’t want to search my feelings, either. Straightening the sheet music I reach for what I’ve heard about the piece. “It’s said to be a love song, a sad one. One of the instruments saying I love you, and the other answering I loved you, but I don’t anymore.”
She hums the cello part for a moment. “I don’t believe that. I think it’s a love song on both sides, but a love that’s destined never to be.”
I feel strange, my heart racing lightly. I think again about the music, the way the two instruments play together and yet seem to be very much alone with the emotion they’re expressing. Maybe she’s right, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I close the piano lid and stand up. “Goodnight.”
Isabeau lays her cello and bow aside, still smiling, still as happy as she was when she came toward me with the sheet music. She puts her arms around me and kisses my cheek, something she used to do all the time when she was younger. Lately I’ve been calling out goodnight from the stairs or while walking away from her so she couldn’t hug me.
She rubs the tip of her nose through the bristles on my cheek. “Night, Laszlo. Mm. Your beard is getting long.”
My body clenches and I don’t hug her back. I pretend to have forgotten something in the lounge and pull away from her. As I walk down the stairs I touch my beard. She’s right, I do need to clipper it. I rub the place where her lips touched me, not knowing if it’s because I want to obliterate the memory or long to relive it.
Isabeau wants to play Vocalise just about every Monday night from then on. I want to say no but I’ve never said no to playing with her in nearly ten tears and I don’t know how. A piece of music has never been too much for me no matter how emotional or stormy, but I feel like Vocalise is killing me every time we play it. It should be losing its power over time but it only gets stronger. We learn the parts by heart and she plays with her eyes closed, pouring her every emotion into the notes. I can’t tear my eyes away from her. Who is this young woman playing so beautifully beside me? There’s no coltish uncertainty about her now and in a few months’ time she’ll be eighteen. When did she get so grown up? When did she become so beautiful, inside and out? And loudest and most confusing of all: why does it cause me such pain to look at her when she’s everything I hoped she would be?
Each time we play her cello sounds sadder and sadder, until one evening she stops playing abruptly halfway though the piece and puts her cello away without a word. I don’t dare look at her. I stare at the piano keys, not moving, waiting until she’s gone and it’s safe to look up.
“Goodnight, Laszlo,” she says behind me, a wobble in her voice.
“’Night.”
She comes forward and clasps me around the shoulders, hugging me close, burying her face in my neck. She holds me like that for several long moments. I close my eyes, savoring her closeness. Paralyzed by the feel of her arms around me. Then she’s gone, hurrying to her room. I put my hand up and touch my neck and feel wetness there, as if she’s been crying.