The Enigmatic Pianist The night had its quiet regrets while the moon permeated the dark moment. Suddenly I heard great piano music coming from a well-manicured mansion. I was then an undergraduate in college and I didn’t know much about classical music. My living quarters were dismal compared to that of the enigmatic pianist. The pianist played in absolute perfection amidst his darkness. A poorly lit and empty lot separated my modest apartment from his Victorian-style mansion a short distance away. The hollow space between the two buildings allowed the intriguing music to echo and dominate the air. The pianist played forcefully and deliberately delivering rhythmic and melodic tones that resonated in some labyrinth within. As I stared into his dark and solemn house, the music brought me into its realm. Life only came to be so whenever he played the piano. As he played, the moon’s rays used to light up his silhouette, which appeared formidable. Just as I, the moon clamored to hear the intonations. The pianist played at very specific times just before eight. One night as I listened to his music, my roommate and his friends disturbed the experience with obtrusive noise. That night, no sooner were my requests for silence heeded than the music stopped. Though back then classical music was not my forte, I felt that what the pianist played in such entrancing way had to be classical. To hear the pianist, I had to often strain my ear in order to filter out unwanted noises emanating from nearby partying college students. The music would begin with a deliberate pounding of perfect keys and gracefully march as to enchant love from its slippery ways. At time, the music would clamor desperately into an agitated pandemonium suggesting that death was just a thought away. The resumption of rhythmic striking of piano keys used to bring the musical chaos to order. I desperately wanted to meet this pianist who played so well amidst the glittering city lights. Was it fear that kept me from just walking up to this towering house and knocking on his door? Was it that I might’ve felt insignificant in his presence? To no avail, I reduced myself to an observer who simply stared at just greatness before me. The cryptic relationship between the enigmatic pianist and me journeyed into my subconscious. One night I dreamed that my defiant spirit had left my body to seek out the pianist on its own. My rebellious spirit soared into the sky and swooped toward the pianist window only to find that the music had ceased and the musician had vanished into another room. My spirit peered through the window and saw an inviting grand piano in solitude mirroring the moon. Defeated, my spirit retreated back into my perspiring body as it had waited restlessly. The pianist ushered me into an intensive musical journey and I found unimaginable treasures like Camille Saint-Saens’ Organ Symphony No. 3, Joaquín Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez, Heinrich Schutz’s Musiklische Exequien and Edvard Grieg’s immortal Concerto in A Minor. One night, the pianist played something that was truly ill boding. It caused me great despair. It was Chopin’s funeral march. The next day, I saw the pianist being taken away in a wrapped body bag by the coroner. He died as he lived, alone. The music he played that I so love today is Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor. With regrets, I grieved the pianist’s demise. A friend that gave me so much yet I never had the courage to simply try to meet. After death, how do you call a loved one? © 2014 Luis Lomeli, M.D./Beta Thread lightly through this Eden we call mother earth.
Posted on: Mon, 06 Oct 2014 04:24:37 +0000
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