Sonatina
I first learned how to play on my grandmother's old piano. I remember her, smelling like stale tea and fresh flowers, hovering, guiding my fingers over the keys; the soft stutter of the clock in the hallway as the only metronome. It was old and beaten up- the action was horrible and several keys didn't work, but none of that seemed to matter at the time. Even now I don't mind playing it, finding ways to work around the stalled keys.
Janne always reminded me of that first piano- scars and bent hammers under a laid-back and easy-playing manner, several broken keys that became more obvious as time went on. He was the first person I ever fell in love with. We weren't quite in tune, but it was nice while it lasted.
When I was six, I began to take lessons in town. Mrs. Lendrum had three cats, two kids, and a little Baldwin upright. The cat hair bothered my allergies and the children were all bigger than I was and liked to pick on me, but I remember being amazed when all the keys played. She was a lot more strict, but generous with her stickers and little candy canes.
My parents eventually bought us a second hand piano, oak finish and soft lines and harsh from years of bad treatment. At the time I couldn't tell the difference- I was just grateful. I'm sure after weeks of Birch Canoe over and over again, my mother must have wanted to take a sledgehammer to the thing.
I tried to teach Paul how to play. It wasn't until then I realised how patient my grandmother must have been- either that or he was just musically impaired. Middle C took three days. Finding it on a music staff another two. By that time we both decided it might not be the best idea ever. He still seemed to like watching me play- especially Chopin. He always loved the romantic era.
We lasted a little longer than the aborted lessons. But not by much. He was the result of questionable tuning, harsh and sharp and ready to snap at any second; we almost ended up driving each other insane.
By the time I was eleven, Mrs. Lendrum said she wasn't qualified to take me any further. That's when I first met Daniel Forbins. He reminded me of a buffalo that had been boiled down until only the gristle was left, with a small, wiry form and a gruff voice. During my first lesson, he ripped apart my dynamics and tempo, claimed I had the worst technique he'd ever seen, and eventually shooed me out of the house, claiming he couldn't take it anymore. I was traumatized. The next week it happened again, only that time he broke down crying before I managed to escape.
He pushed me harder than anyone else ever had, never happy with anything but perfection, always demanding more. I hated him. I worshipped him. It wasn't until after graduation I found out he saw me as one of his best students in years.
Pushing or not, I always loved to play. It wasn't quite like skating; the glide of ice under your skates, but it came close. The thrill of making it through a particularly difficult passage, the small twinge as the right chord progression tugs at your heartstrings.
After my concussion, the doctors told me it wasn't likely I would ever play again. I managed to wait until they graciously left me alone to break down. When I was finally allowed home, I found a small, white lily gracing the keys of my keyboard- a cue card with 'MIDDLE C' written in big block letters beside it.
I never told him it was the wrong note.
At first it was like starting all over again. My fingers felt as if they were tipped with lead, the simplest line seemed impossible. But then the muscles began to remember the old patterns, and I could work my way back to where I was before.
If it was possible with piano, I decided, why not with hockey?
While I liked practicing well enough, performing was another matter. Daniel only managed to wheedle me in front of an audience once, when I was fifteen. It was in St. Thomas, almost an hour away, with some of the students he taught there. The piano was a Kawai grand- jet black and responsive to even the slightest change in touch. I'd never played anything like it before.
Doug was always a big talker. It wasn't that he liked to hear the sound of his own voice, that's just the way he did things. Stevie, on the other hand, always let his actions do the talking for him. When he did say something, the world seemed to stop spinning until he was finished. That wasn't just my childish crush talking; I know the rest of the locker room felt the same way.
Unfortunately, I let that childish crush slip to Shanny, who wasted no time in gleefully informing none other than Stevie himself. I could have died. I expected a few snickers, maybe even a few pitying looks.
What I definitely didn't expect was to be pulled into a corner after practice and see Stevie grinning mischievously, or his hands cupping my face and pulling me down, his lips covering mine in a warm, easy kiss. There was never anything more than that, but sometimes if I close my eyes and hold my breath I can still feel his breath on my face, the soft pressure of his lips.
It was impossible to move the piano I'd bought with Janne in Edmonton, so I was forced to sell it and buy a new one. Mathieu invited himself along, despite having no shame in admitting he knew absolutely nothing about music. It took almost no time to pick out a Yamaha U-3 - mahogany finish at Mathieu's insistence- somehow being backed up against it during the most mind-blowing first kiss of one's life seems to be a strong selling point.
He had completely blindsided me, come out of nowhere and suddenly become part of my life I couldn't imagine doing without. The dirty clothes always scattered on the floor, the strange fondness for Celine Dion, chattering conversations in French to his plant when he thought I wasn't paying attention, even the appearance of blue cheese in my fridge, however disgusting it might look. Even now I'm sure I have a lot about him to find out. Life with Mathieu Dandenault, at the very least, is never boring.
Although he still claims to be clueless about music, I can tell that's not completely true. Occasionally he'll sit beside me on the piano bench, his chest against my back, arms around my waist and a small smile curving against my neck, and I can hear him softly humming the more familiar melodies.
Maybe someday I'll be able to teach him.