The Stolen Child by Keith Donohue Read Free Book Online Page B

furnaces within glowing with hearts of fire. A bend in the road—then all at once, a view of buildings stretched to heaven. The downtown’s sheer size left me breathless, and the closer we came, the greater it loomed, until suddenly we were in the car-choked streets. The shadows deepened and darkened. At a cross street, a trolley scraped along, its pole shooting sparks to the wires above. Its doors opened like a bellows, and out poured a crowd of people in their spring coats and hats; they stood on a concrete island in the street, waiting for the light to change. In the department store windows, reflections of shoppers and traffic cops mingled with displays of new goods: women’s dresses and men’s suits on mannequins, which fooled me initially, appearing alive and posing perfectly still.
    “I don’t know why you feel the need to come all the way downtown for this. You know I don’t like coming into the city. I’ll never find parking.”
    Mom’s right arm shot out. “There’s a space, aren’t we lucky?”
    Riding up in the elevator, my father reached inside his coat pocket for a Camel, and as the doors opened on the fifth floor, he lit up. We were a few minutes early, and while they debated over whether or not to go in, I walked to the door and entered. Mr. Martin may not have been a fairy, but he was very fey. Tall and thin, his white hair long in a shaggy boy’s cut, he wore a worn plum-colored suit. Christopher Robin all grown up and gone to genteel seed. Behind him stood the most beautiful machine I had ever seen. Lacquered to a high black finish, the grand piano drew all of the vitality of the room toward its propped-open lid. Those keys held in their serenity the possibility of every beautiful sound. I was too dumbstruck to answer his inquiry the first time.
    “May I help you, young man?”
    “I’m Henry Day, and I’m here to learn everything you know.”
    “My dear young man,” he replied, sighing, “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
    I walked to the piano and sat at the bench. The sight of the keys unlocked a distant memory of a stern German instructor ordering me to increase the tempo. I stretched my fingers as far apart as possible, testing my span, and laid them upon the ivory without eliciting an accidental tone. Mr. Martin glided behind me, overlooking my shoulder, studying my hands. “Have you played before?”
    “Once upon a time         .         .         .”
    “Find me middle C, Mr. Day.”
    And without thinking, I did, pressing the single key with the side of my left thumb.
    My mother and father entered the room, announcing themselves with a polite
ahem
. Mr. Martin wheeled around and strode over to greet them. As they shook hands and made introductions, I played scales from the middle outward. Tones from the piano triggered powerful synapses, resurrecting scores that I knew by heart. A voice in my head demanded
heissblütig, heissblütig
—more passion, more feeling.
    “You said he was a beginner.”
    “He is,” my mother replied. “I don’t think he’s ever even seen a real piano.”
    “This boy is a natural.”
    For fun, I plinked out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” the way I would play it for my sisters. I was careful to use only one finger, as if the grand were but a toy.
    “He taught himself that,” Mom said. “On a tiny piano that you might find in a fairy orchestra. And he can sing, too, sing like a bird.”
    Dad shot me a quick sideways glance. Too busy sizing up my mother, Mr. Martin did not notice the wordless exchange. My mother rattled on about all of my talents, but nobody listened. In measures too slow and far apart, I practiced my Chopin, so disguised that even old Martin did not discover the melody.
    “Mr. Day, Mrs. Day, I agree to take on your son. My minimum requirement, however, is for eight weeks of lessons at a time, Wednesday afternoons and Saturdays. I can teach this boy.” Then he mentioned, in a voice barely