William Kienzle - Deadline for a Critic

Groendal dried his fingers with the napkin. “I’m afraid I haven’t kept it up. After what happened at that recital, I lost my enthusiasm.” He tried not to recall that humiliation. Whenever the memory resurfaced, so did the bitterness.

“Oh, what a pity! You mean you don’t play at all anymore?”

“No, I still play. But rarely. It’s just that . . . well, back then, I was aiming at something, something that could have become a concert career. When that didn’t . . . work out, I just let the serious side of training slide. Practice, and all that.”

“Does that mean you won’t play for me?”

“If you want me to, I’ll try. But my fingers aren’t as supple as they were when I was really working at it. I just want to warn you that in these last seven years I’ve lost technique instead of gaining it.”

Jane hesitated. “Can you still play Rachmaninoff s ‘Prelude’?”

“I’m afraid to try. I haven’t played it for years. I’d probably just mess it up. And Rachmaninoff doesn’t need that.”

“Well, then, anything.”

“Okay.”

Ridley moved to the piano, rubbed his hands together, getting as much warmth as possible into his fingers, and essayed a few exercises. He then selected some popular pieces of the day that were lyric and lazy, giving his reluctant fingers a chance to limber up.

He played “That Lucky Old Sun,” “Scarlet Ribbons,” and “Tell Me Why.” Simple tunes, but he chorded them imaginatively. He could hear Jane humming along. Her voice was pleasing. Frequently, he played for schoolmates’ singalongs. He was accustomed to a group of male voices, not universally in tune. Jane’s soft soprano was a pleasant change. He played on from a little further back “Everybody Loves Somebody,” “Bluebird of Happiness,” “Now is the Hour.”

His fingers were beginning to respond and to do nearly what he wanted of them. He moved into the classical field, staying in adagio tempo. Mendelssohn’s “Consolation,” Handel’s “Largo,” Chopin’s “Prelude in A” and “Prelude in C Minor.” He decided to take a chance on Liszt’s “Liebestraum.” While it was far from perfect, he played it better than he’d hoped. Works by Bach, Sibelius, and Grieg followed. He lost track of time. So immersed was he in the music he loved that he even forgot Jane for a while.

He stopped. He’d been playing for almost an hour and a half. He’d begun to sense control of the music. It was, of course, far from what he might have expected if he had been faithfully practicing daily. But it was by no means either clumsy or sloppy playing. He could sense that Jane was more than thrilled at what he could draw from the old upright.

“I think I can play that Rachmaninoff for you now.”

Softly but enthusiastically she applauded the idea.

He played it every bit as letter perfect as he had seven years before, with the added maturity and perspective of the intervening years as a bonus. He concluded with the full, crashing chords that for fifty years had brought audiences to their feet in resounding applause.

Jane neither stood nor applauded, but she was deeply moved. “That was beautiful.”

He felt drained. And he was perspiring. It was the first he’d noticed that. The house was warm but not excessively so. He had been working hard and he felt it. He stretched, and flexed his back muscles. His shirt was damp and adhesive.

Jane noticed. “Come sit on the couch and let me rub your shoulders. It’ll make you feel better.”

He thought about that. There were a lot of considerations. On the positive side, it would relax him and it was the least Jane might do in payment for a far better than average concert. On the negative, there was Monsignor Cronyn and his exhortation against girls. In all, the scale swung heavily to the positive. He joined Jane on the couch, back toward her, waiting to absorb the promised massage.

“That was just beautiful . . . gorgeous! The most beautiful concert I ever heard.” She kneaded his shoulders and upper back.

“Thanks.”

Her surprisingly strong fingers dug into his muscles, generating a medicinal inner heat. “Were you kidding . . . I mean about being out of practice and all?”

He laughed. “No, I wasn’t kidding. What I did, in effect, was practice on your time. The pop tunes weren’t difficult at all. I just kept working into more demanding stuff until I had warmed up enough to do a decent job with the more complicated pieces. Besides, it wasn’t that I haven’t played for the past seven years, only that I haven’t been practicing every day. It’s not all that much of a miracle.”

Ridley surmised that Jane was not an habitué of the concert hall. His makeshift presentation probably was one of the outstanding musical events of her limited cultural life.

“Well, I think it was wonderful!”

The steady kneading was growing painful. “I think that’s enough.” He moved to the opposite end of the couch. “But thanks. It was a very good massage. I feel very relaxed.”

“That’s good.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, look at the time!”

He consulted his watch. A quarter to twelve. It made no profound impression on him. Only that it was very late. Under ordinary circumstances, way past his bedtime.

“It’s almost midnight!”

He could not argue the point.

“We should have something to drink.”

“We should?”

“Of course. It’s New Year’s. Everybody has a drink at midnight on New Year’s Eve.”

“They do? I’m sorry, I didn’t bring anything.”

“Oh, that’s all right.” She got up and walked toward the kitchen. “There must be something in the house.”

Ridley began to have qualms. To this point in his life, he’d been a beer and wine man. And not much of that.

“Do you have any preference?” she called from the kitchen.

He knew he should express his known limitations, but, “Not really. Anything will be fine.”

She emerged carrying a tray on which were two glasses and a bottle. As she drew nearer, he could see ice in each glass. The bottle bore a not unfamiliar label, though he had no idea what it might taste like. It was Cutty Sark.

She set the tray on the coffee table, which was now no longer near the couch but close to the chair where Ridley had been sitting. She poured a bit of the amber liquid in each glass.

“I couldn’t find any champagne. I think champagne is what’s called for on New Year’s Eve. I guess we’ll have to make do with Scotch.” She presented him with one of the glasses. “I’ve never had it myself, but my dad swears by it. He just sips it, so it must be pretty powerful.”

Ridley sniffed the drink. He’d seen them do that in movies. The drink was usually brandy, but Scotch could not be far different. He recoiled. The aroma was abrasive. Keeping in mind the example of Jane’s father, Ridley took a small sip.

It was repulsive. Which did not necessarily indicate that it should be dismissed out of hand. After all, cigarettes had been a not dissimilar experience. To begin smoking, or to take up the habit after a hiatus, was difficult. It was, indeed, challenging. Cigarettes, initially, were horrible. The nicotine invaded one’s bloodstream, made one dizzy, and caused coughing fits. But if one stayed with the weed long enough, smoking became second nature. One could not imagine arising without—coffee without, breakfast without, talking on the phone without, attending a meeting without, etc., without—a cigarette.

Jane seemed to be having the same experience. She took a sip and considered. But, in spite of it all, she took another sip.

So did Ridley. He could not argue that something was happening. But what?

Ridley was guilty of two errors that an experienced drinker would never make. He was hungry. With the exception of that single sandwich, he had had nothing to eat since a light supper hours earlier. And he was thirsty. So the Scotch to some extent was taking the place of water. On a nearly empty stomach, liquor can do awesome things. Already he felt lightheaded. For that matter, so did Jane.