Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

He gladly agrees to Oliver’s offer, despite the weakness of this man’s character. (Teach him all you can, Oliver says. He has money in him.) He smiles, having made a silent renewed resolution to remember his debts — the house, the servant, his publications, his books — and his commitment to the higher cause. It is (becomes) important to stand before this man with a straight face, free of anger, however difficult. Tragedy offers no consolation. No, he is not without twinges of doubt, and hatred, but he is mildly hard up and needs the money and needs this mission. He quietly accepts the banknotes that Perry Oliver hands him in advance of the first lesson. Money or no money, he can’t refuse. The weakness of others demands a greater strength from him. Tells himself that he is not so much taking on a student as taking on a moral obligation, that he is serving as someone who can do for Tom what no other white man in this city can do. This is his conviction that he will repeat and reaffirm in the months and years to come.

Can he save Tom?

The patent of nobility is the color of the skin. To the watching world it sounds like the carefully thought out result and experience of reason. But it is all too cruelly untrue. The hurt to the Negro is the wound dealt to his reputation as a human being. Nothing is left. Nothing is sacred.

He has no reservations about race. Like music, race is a sturdy armature on which you can hang all types of feeling and sensation and behavior. Our society works the theme like no other subject. The very fabric of what we manufacture, export, and breed.

Tom sniffs the keys. An animal taking outer skin in. Something heavy and skeletal. Blocked from the fleshy insides that nourish and sustain. Howard has never seen anything like it, and doubts if he ever will again. He is moved. He is profoundly grateful.

So this is how Tom does it. This is what he is after. (Squeeze yourself into Tom’s shoes.) Music slumbers in the shell, biding its time. The blind live in the world of time alone. The auditory hemisphere colonizes the visual hemisphere. And it is Howard’s belief that this metamorphosis goes further still. The olfactory enacts hegemony over the auditory. Tom smells the notes. Why his head moves when he plays, probing around, sniffing out the melody. It is there already, waiting for him to find it. What could be better, more perfect? No need for imagination, speculation, or invention. No need for study, for planning the planting of the initial seed, or for fertilizing, tending, harvesting. No. For Tom the notes are already buried inside the composition. A composition without compost. A coming to position, a bringing forth of what is already there, like a fully grown potato hidden under the soil that pops to the surface when summoned. What is already there. What is always there. Self-plenishing. Self-generating. Self-contained.

The piano for Tom is a tool of reference, not an instrument of discovery. Any other could do, might at any time be called into service. Music is the most lasting touch, awaiting him. Howard can be little more than a steadying influence. Help him to sniff here as opposed to there.

Seven has never called him master after that first day. I’m not a master. I’m no master, I don’t master. Seven small under his wide-brimmed field hat. He seemed unaware that you don’t simply walk into a house with your hat on. Take a seat on the couch or in a chair with your hat on. Sit through a musical lesson or recital with your hat on.

Seven drives Tom from a far district of the city. They enter the house shaking the journey out of their limbs. Hold hands absent-mindedly but firmly. Sometimes both boys smell of the horse and the harness. Tom’s clothes are slightly too small, cuffs and ankles (no socks or stockings) revealed, so he looks half tramp, half clown. Seven looks far more untidy and underslept. Both their shirts are buttoned to the neck, which give them the appearance of being in uniform.

Tom begins to wander about the room, but Seven stands, wordless, humble, stiff as a paper doll, seeming out of place among the cold heavy furniture. Even when he is spoken to he doesn’t raise his head (hat) to talk to Howard. Directs his words at the floor. Good afternoon, Professor Howard.

Why don’t you take a seat over there.

He doesn’t seem able to take the first little step toward the couch. And when he does, he sits down as people who feel guilty about something sit down, timidly looking about him, his legs dangling over the edge.

Howard begins the lesson. Uneasily conscious of Seven. Can’t see him but knows that Seven is watching them, him. Can feel Seven’s eyes gazing right through him. He turns and sees that Seven sits listening, his cheek on his hand. Trying to be brave, he will gaze without blinking at Howard, although it is obvious he feels a little apart from the musical lesson, feels left out. He seems unaware that he is creating a distraction. He stretches his neck like a snake out of young wheat and smiles unexpectedly, with no trace of enjoyment. Smiles, almost as if the sight of Howard and Tom at the piano amuses him. No, he lacks such pride. He thinks his goodwill is something he must establish. Smile always at the ready. Eyes cast down. Words like master in his mouth. Seeing his smile, Howard grows annoyed — He doesn’t know, Howard thinks in amazement. He doesn’t even know what I’m fighting for — and will send him into the kitchen or out of the house with instructions to feed or water himself or the horse. It takes Seven quite a while to get to his feet, to get his body to budge from one spot, moving slowly, lead shoes, heavy with shame. Then he will suddenly jerk forward and turn away as if he has been pushed, lurching through the doorway. The timid anxious glance he steals at Howard as he leaves the room. After a spell of an hour or more he returns from the horse or the kitchen and lets himself fall onto the couch. Sits, adequately nourished, quiet, indecently dressed.

Remarkable that Tom can play anything at all with his pudgy hands and fat fingers. He touches the piano as if he has lumpy pillows at the end of his fingertips. This explains why his playing is so forceful at times, during certain passages or movements, so forceful when it shouldn’t be, or less than it should be. A music of regurgitation that expels — a grunt, a shout, a fart — after being bottled up too long.

But it is well possible for someone with an inferior touch, bad hands, to develop a warm tone. Tom’s posture and hand position are far from good. (Start there.) The pianist must not allow his body to dominate his hands. (Among other things the professional recitalist must create the proper picture for his audience.) The pianist need first sit inclined decidedly toward the keyboard. (Tom sits straight up, except when he is sniffing notes.) The upper arm and forearm should be light, float in air, for maximum ease and freedom of movement. The fingers must remain near the surface of the keys so that the playing is delicate and uniform. The piano key must go all the way down. The finger, the hand, the wrist, the arm, the torso, the head (face bent forward, chest hovering two feet above the keys, a bearing that is graceful, lively, alert) — all operate in conjunction for this to happen. The whole body comes together in a rhythm that goes deep. Master the principle of moving the fingers only at the joint where they are connected with the body of the hand. Do not battle the keys, hammer them like some blacksmith. As large a surface of the fingertip as feasible must engage the key. The thicker the cushions of flesh upon the fingertips, the wider the range and variety of touch. The wrist must always be flexible, loose, sinking below the level of the keyboard. The more spring the less bump. This Rubinstein calls the pedal the soul of the piano. But a soul resides either in hell or in paradise. Fine pedaling is worthless without a sense of touch. Hand controls the foot. And brain controls the hand. Instructs hollow fingers to transmit feelings to the keys. So why this focus on the hands when so much of the body is involved? When all of the body is involved?