Chapter 7 – Mr. Theodore Donovan.
Iwake up the next morning before my alarm goes off, surprisingly refreshed and with a buzz in my steps as I practically skip to my bathroom. Who knew how much one day could change how you feel.
First thing on my agenda for today: private piano lesson with Mr. D. Urrghh, how bad is he going to be today? Especially since he found Colton and I in his classroom. His rules are simple enough.
1.DO NOT be late to class.
2.No food or drink allowed in the classroom.
3.Remain at the piano until you have permission to move.
4.Be respectful to your instruments and teacher at all times.
5.Choose your attitude to lessons wisely.
Yet, here I am, nearly every day, breaking those rules. The only reason he hasn’t kicked me off the course yet is because I am pretty good at playing the piano.
He’s one of the best teachers in the city, if not the country. He played the piano professionally for thirty-five years working with cinematic orchestras, the dramatic music playing at the start and end credits of movies—that’s Mr. D.
Now he mentors the Professional Studies programs in Piano and Harpsichord at the University Of New York. He came over to the UK scouting for possible students last year and saw the senior recital which I was a part of at Oxford University. It was my final test before I graduated with my degree in music.
He stopped me as I was leaving the stage and handed me a slip of paper, then walked off. I remember the other students in my class going crazy with excitement for me. It was a letter to audition for his program here in New York City. The rest, well, is history.
“I guess it’s time to face the music,” I say, trying to hype myself up while air punching nothing in front of my bathroom mirror.
“You got this, girl.”
******
Five minutes early … Would you look at that? I mentally high-five myself for turning up early for once.
My schedule is structured so I have a private lesson with Mr. D first thing, then another later in the day. Between that, I have classes with other teachers on piano technique, piece working, and musicality or methods. It sounds like a lot, but it’s only four hours of my day.
The rest I use for studying and practice plays or as us Brits would say, doing proper fuck all.
“Good morning.” I jump at the sound of Mr. Donovan’s grumpy voice as he stamps through into the room to his wooden desk in the corner.
“Tell me, Miss Jones, what do you see when you sit at that bench?” His question catches me off guard, and I stare down at the piano in front of me like I’ve never seen one before. My mind goes blank, and my mouth falls open.
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Piano is, above all, a sentiment, a movement. I will teach you to transfer your feelings, whether you are joyful and upbeat or dark and brooding, into something magical with just those eighty-eight keys underneath your fingertips. If you can already feel the music when you play, well, you are halfway there.” He pauses and narrows his eyes at me before standing next to me at the bench. I wait, still trying to figure out the meaning of his speech or lecture, I can’t really tell, just yet.
“The problem with this, in order for me to teach, I need the student, i.e., you, to be fully committed to the lesson, to every lesson.”
“I am committed, Mr. Donovan. I swear.” I gasp to control my breathing, and my nerves spike at the thought of him kicking me off the course. This is my life; this is where I belong. I need this.
“It appears you are not, Miss Jones. Do not insult my intelligence. You were late to my lesson yesterday morning, then I returned to this very room last night and found a man in here.” Before I can protest, he sticks up his hand. “Do you know how many potential students I auditioned for this place on the scholarship you have?” I shake my head as tears rush to the surface. He inhales, then slams his hand down on top of the piano, and a squeak leaves my throat.
“I sifted through over a thousand applications from students all over the globe, auditioned over a hundred of those, thousand. You were one of them. Each and every one of those students deserved a spot on this course, yet you have chosen to waste it. I wonder how many of them would love to be in your position.”
I sob. “You misunderstand.”
Exhaling through his nose, he sits beside me on the bench and utters, “I picked you because you are one of the best I’ve ever witnessed, your movements are effortless, angelic, you have a gift, Margo.” There’s a pause and I’m too scared to move or speak, and to my surprise and relief, he says, “Now, pull yourself together and press down slowly, apply the same fingertip pressure, play for me ‘Hun Var Min.’”
Today is my lucky fucking day. I’ve never wanted to get away from a piano so fast before in my life.
He made me play over and over for three hours straight while shouting things like, “Feel the hammer striking the keys,” or “I said feel the keys, you’re wasting my time, Miss Jones.” Then when I’d get that bit right, he’d ask me question after question. “Tell me how many unique notes you hear.”
I am exhausted. Thankfully, he let me go home and said I’ve done enough for today, but tomorrow I’m to come back ready to be a pianist. My bed, I need my bed.