13. The Pianist
The Pianist
A week goes by, with obvious improvement already by Henri.
He’s quite serious about his practicing, even if he does seem pretty tired, far beyond the talents of anyone I knew at his age.
He listens to my every word like it’s the gospel.
He takes this seriously—almost far too seriously for an eight year old—and it shows in his playing.
When the end of our lesson comes, the door to the room opens right on time. But it’s not Ms. Wilder who steps through.
I’ve largely been able to avoid Mr. Beauchene. What he’s up to during the day, I don’t know. A man with that much hunger in his eyes is never a good thing.
Henri stumbles over the end of the etude he’s running through when his father walks into the room.
Leo’s smile is pleasant enough, an easy set to his shoulder, hands in his pockets.
“One more time, Henri,” I say. Focusing on the young boy, pretending my employer isn’t in the room, is the only way I know how to remain composed.
If I talk too much, if I talk at all, I’ll make a fool of myself.
Henri pauses for a moment, resetting his hands and taking a breath like I taught him, before he begins again.
For a whole minute, as Henri plays, I stare only at his small hands moving across the keys, but every atom in my body is aware of Leo Beauchene.
A tense, tight feeling in my breastbone.
Nothing like the awareness of the eyes of the ghost, which are curious, observant, if a bit guarding.
No, there’s something dark in Leo’s attention.
And when Henri completes the short tune, I point out a few moments in the sheet music where his tempo needs work. “Remember the emphasis is on the quarter notes, not the eighth notes. We’ll work on it a bit more tomorrow,” I say, shutting off the clicking metronome.
Ms. Wilder finally arrives as I straighten the sheet music and put it away into folders. Henri avoids looking at his father at all costs. I wait by the piano, watching them leave.
And even though I’m completely still, Leo calls my name. “Stay for a second, won’t you?”
Only then do I look at him, and I find him staring right at me with that calm smile.
“Mallary Doyle.”
He gestures to the velvet couch in the center of the room, motioning me to sit. So I do, because I don’t really have an option.
I clear my throat. “Is something wrong?”
He steps a bit closer, as though to sit across from me, but he remains on his feet. I have to crane my neck back to look up at him.
“No. Nothing's wrong.” And then, “You’re very nice to him.”
I don’t know how to respond.
“His last tutor was a bit more… harsh.”
“Are you telling me you’d like me to be more strict?”
“No.” Leo glances around the room casually, as if it’s his first time really noticing the space. “Not necessarily. As long as he is doing what he’s told, then I suppose it’s no issue.”
I clasp my hands together in my lap. “Henri is well-behaved. He has more discipline than any other child I’ve met. I will let you know if we start to have trouble, I assure you.”
Leo laughs. “He’s not always been that way.”
“He’s a child.”
His lips press into a line. “His last tutor was quite regimented. She instilled that discipline in him that he carries even now. As an eight year old, no less.” A muscle ticks in his cheek.
“He may only be a child, but one day he will be an adult, and the better he is now, the better he will be then.”
I stay silent, unable to look away, but equally uncomfortable meeting his stare. “I understand.”
“I’m sure you do,” he says. He’s staring at a point on the wall. “Your own training was just as hard, wasn’t it?”
Against my will, my face burns red at the implication I swear I hear in his words. But there’s no possibility that he knows anything about that.
And then I remember this isn’t a job I applied for. They reached out to me. They found my information.
“Not at his age,” I hear myself say. “I was self-taught until high school.”
His gaze gleams with something like interest.
“And those were weekly lessons. Only at university did I get real, formal training.”
“While you were up against all those other students?”
“Yes.”
His gaze flickers to the wall again, just briefly, so quickly I could’ve missed it. “Then it’s a testament to your talent.”
I’m sure pink still stains my cheeks. He’s trying to flatter me.
I know the playbook: a few well-timed compliments, lingering glances, feigned interest in my ability, in me. Then, a brush of his fingers on my arm, escalating, eventually, to wandering hands where they shouldn’t be.
“We want someone who knows what they’re talking about teaching Henri.” Leo continues. “It’s why we chose you.”
I was a substitute piano player for the symphony. The most Jason had procured for me before he left me to rot.
I straighten my spine, my clasped hands growing clammy. “I will do my best.”
“I know.”
Leo glances around again. Does he feel the staring eyes too? The ghost observing this very moment?
At least I feel like I am not facing Leo entirely alone.
“Did Mariane tell you about our New Year’s banquet?”
“No, she didn’t.”
He smiles at me again. His jaw is strong, shadowed with stubble, and I know he’s used to charming people with that carefree smile that makes you think he likes you, like he cares about what you have to say.
“Must have slipped her mind. There’s a lot going on around here, isn’t there?
Every year, we host New Year’s. A few hundred people, nothing too crazy.
We wanted Henri to play. Show off everything he’s learned. ”
“Oh.”
“Better than hiring a band for the night. Is that a problem?”
“Of course not. I’ll pick something out that we can prepare.”
Never mind that we only have a few weeks until the holidays.
His grin widens. “I knew I could count on you.”
He’s still standing; I’m still sitting. He looks down at me with that curve to his lips, a hint of his age showing at the corners of his eyes, and he leans a palm on the arm of the couch.
He is dissecting me, a scalpel straight to my sternum. Peeling back my skin and bones, finding the small, scared girl underneath: the girl I used to be, the girl I’m trying to hide away. She’s mine, and no one else’s.
But I swear he can see her, and that is no good.
I stand. “If that is all—”
“Mallary.” He says my name again. Too familiar.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. And though I force my voice not to shake, it’s too soft, too timid. “Miss Doyle, please.”
“Miss Doyle.” His smile doesn’t waver.
He stares at me just as Jason used to.
And look how that turned out for him.