21. The Pianist
The Pianist
The rising sun doesn’t bring clarity, as it normally does. The nightmares aren’t chased away, that lucid dream is still bright in my mind, even when the daylight shines through the curtains and sends sparkling motes across the room.
My exhausted limbs are weightless in the cloud of my bed.
Disconnected from my body, my mind is a jumbled mess, vague sensations sparking across my skin—real or not, I don’t know, until I start to doubt where I am, who I am.
Like watching through a massive silver screen, the dust keeps floating, the sun keeps rising, and my body continues to lay there, unmoving.
A vivid dream. That’s all that was.
Until I force this body to sit up, and find the evidence of the tryst between my thighs.
For a moment, I lie to myself, let myself believe that it’s all in my head, a waking dream.
A ghost came to me last night. He—
He’s supposed to be dead. He isn’t alive.
And yet the subtle soreness in my core says otherwise.
If I were the naive girl I’d been when I met Jason, I would believe shame burned beneath my skin, embarrassed at what I’ve done, what I’ve agreed to. I’ve fallen into a trap, like a fly darting too close to honey.
But I’ve been so good.
Nausea burns in the back of my throat. I can’t ruin everything again.
It’s not shame in my veins, it’s a need for more.
I have more to give.
Without thinking, I grab my phone. It’s nearly dead, the charging cord between the bed and the nightstand. It doesn’t matter—there are no texts, no missed calls. Nothing from my aunt, or that coworker from two jobs ago, or from the symphony director.
No one checks in. No one needs me.
There’s no one for me to tell.
I’d agreed to meet Julia for breakfast this morning. The Beauchenes are out for the weekend to the city, so the duties of the household staff are minimal.
I swipe my mascara on like normal, dress into a large knit sweater and leggings like normal. Smile at myself in the mirror like normal. Make my way down to the kitchens like normal.
If I act like nothing happened, maybe it’ll become true.
I can’t ruin this for myself. I won't. Nevermind the things Bastien promised me. I’m not sure if he will deliver. It could’ve all been some ploy to get his dick wet.
I haven’t felt his eyes on me all morning, and even though it’s what I’ve asked of him, a little voice in my head says I’ve been discarded not that he’s gotten his use of me.
This is how it goes: they get too close and realize it was a mistake.
“Mallary.”
Julia’s brow is arched, her fork stalling in the air. “Where have you gone off to?”
One of the cooks made a breakfast of pancakes and sausage, and though it’s a few hours later than we typically eat, there’s still enough for the two of us.
My appetite is long gone. “Sorry.” I straighten the utensils next to my plate. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Here.” She stands, and in a moment, she’s poured me a cup of coffee and sets it down in front of me. “Cream? Sugar?”
“No.” I watch the liquid ripple. “Thank you.”
When I don’t drink the coffee and a few more seconds pass, she reaches for me, her touch gentle on the back of my hand. I don’t flinch. “Are you okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You seem particularly distracted. You’re quiet.”
“I’m not distracted,” I say, but I can feel heat rising to my cheeks, worried that she’ll be able to read the truth written out on my face. “Just—tired.”
Nodding as though she understands, she pushes food around on her plate. “These kinds of weekends are always weird,” she says, going on like usual. “I feel like I’m supposed to be doing something. Like I’m behind. But there’s nothing to do.”
“Ms. Byrne hasn’t found a locked up room you could dust?”
“No. If a room is locked, we don’t touch it. Not without the Beauchenes telling us.”
“What, did someone see something they weren’t supposed to?”
“Something like that.” She shakes her head. “Not me, but one of the old maintenance workers. A few years ago. He was servicing the radiators before winter in each room, and…”
She hesitates, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know, it’s sort of dark.”
“You can tell me,” I say.
“You’re going to think there’s a murderer loose in the house.”
My stomach drops.
“He was servicing the radiators, and at some point, he… He was found dead. Burned by the radiator. His face…”
We both cringe.
“Was he murdered?”
“We don’t know but… it’s not the kind of injury that’s easy to explain away as an accident.”
She keeps talking, but all I can think about is Reece, and his accident, and how that didn’t make much sense, either.
“Which room?”
“Oh, not the one you’re in, that’s—” She catches herself. She knows.
They all know whose room I’ve been given. Of course they know. I am the outsider here.
“What’d he do?”
“What did he do? What do you mean?”
My mouth goes dry. “Well, if someone killed him, he must have done something to make them so mad.”
“It’s just a rumor,” she insists. “We don’t know for sure what happened.”
With every word, it sounds like there’s a murderer in this house. Arnie’s “death”, Reece’s injury, and now this? But who’s the culprit? And how many others have mysteriously met their end here?
Too many strange things conveniently explained away.
“Will you play something for me?” Julia pushes away from the table, her chair squealing against the floor.
My mind lags at the change of topic. “Oh. Sure.”
“Everybody talks about how good you are. We can hear you play at night.” She leans closer. “They did tell you about curfew, right?”
“Yes, I—” Don’t know what to say. I can’t exactly tell her that Bastien has made me practice late into the night. And I haven’t thought too hard about why no one has reprimanded me, what that might mean.
“Just be careful. You don’t want to make Mariane angry. Though, maybe they are enjoying the music, and that’s why they haven’t said anything?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
We clear our dishes, bringing them to the kitchen staff, who give us friendly smiles.
Everyone has a more relaxed air about them today.
There’s no need to rush, nowhere else they need to be.
They don’t know how dread is looming over me, shadowing my every step like a pitch-dark rain cloud over my shoulder.
The practice room is empty. Julia stares at the Steinway, keeping her distance, even when I sit at the bench.
“Any requests?” I ask. I push the fallboard back to expose the keys, stretch my fingers.
“No. I don’t know. What’s your favorite?”
The one song I’m itching to play, and yet I can’t. My practicing can be heard through the door at night, but it’s not ready, it’s not done, it’s only for me, until it’s finished.
So instead, I play Chopin’s Scherzo No. 2, starting about halfway through the piece.
My heart stutters at the familiar notes, a reluctance to allow me to continue, and yet my hands obey, even when I slow the song down and take my time with it.
Emotions I shoved down long ago try to lock up my muscles, make my fingers fumble.
It’s been two years since I even thought about this piece. I don’t know why it’s spilling from me so easily now.
A concert hall, the audience forgotten in the shadows, only one person I was trying to impress.
And he wasn’t there.
My fingers stumble, cutting the song off on the wrong chord, which rings out, filling the room, permeating my memories. I can play this off like I just forgot the rest of the song. I can pretend it wasn’t my body refusing to go on.
Julia claps, nevertheless delighted. “You didn’t tell me you could play like that.”
“I thought you could hear me practicing?” I force a smile.
“Only bits here and there. Nothing compared to standing right here and watching.” She’s beaming, her eyes sparkling with that awestruck-look all performers get addicted to. “No wonder they hired you.”
Playing for Julia is so much easier than practicing for myself. She has no real expectations. No musical training. I could play Clair de Lune and she’d probably like it.
“They’d be crazy not to extend your contract,” she says. “Henri’s had some good tutors, but they never really played anything. At least, I never heard them play outside of lessons.” She’s still smiling. “Imagine that: you, a permanent part of the staff.”
“Yeah, that would be…”
“And Henri seems to really like you. I don’t know why they would want anyone else teaching him.”
Has she heard something? Does she think they won’t choose me again?
She’s right. On paper, I am the obvious choice, I know it.
But something tells me the added complication of Bastien might somehow hinder me. Especially if he is able to make demands to the Beauchenes, like letting me play late at night.
In the daylight, I am normal. He can’t touch me. He’ll leave me alone. I can pretend that I’m like everyone else in this house. Like Julia. I’m here to do a job. To play music, to watch Henri. I’m normal.
Julia makes an excuse not long after, leaving me alone in the practice room.
I find the waltz he wrote hiding amidst Henri’s music, shuffled between scale sheets and etudes, where it hides every day.
There’s still something simmering in my blood after playing the Scherzo. A door that began to unlock in my head, before I slammed it closed again.
There’s no use dwelling on the past. I only want to move forward.
I need to move forward.
Centering myself with a breath, positioning my fingers over the keys again, my eyes scan the handwritten melody, even when I know most of this by heart now. I run through the few dozen measures.
The end is still too abrupt. I keep going, my left hand repeating the chords of the bassline, my right fabricating the rest of the melody, searching for a resolution to this sinking, desperate feeling.
I’m unsure if I can feel his stare, or if it’s just wishful thinking. His name slips from my lips.
Maybe he’ll show himself. Maybe he’ll break his promise.
I let my fingers continue their dance, grounding myself in the quarter notes of the lower register. Letting my worries fall away, letting the memories the Scherzo uncovered fade, letting myself feel nothing but the music in this moment.
There is power in doing as I like in the daylight, knowing he can do nothing about it. I can spend my afternoon at the piano and he can’t interrupt. I can change his melody however I like and he can’t say a word. Not until it’s dark.
He said he would listen. And he told me to make the song mine.
The music keeps coming. One, two, three, my fingers carving melodies from the air, until there’s nothing in my mind anymore, no thoughts, my body given over to the waltz. It takes a life of its own. It uses me to find its ending.
Maybe this is what Henri’s last tutors didn’t understand: that music can only be coaxed, not controlled. I’ve given this instrument the last decade of my life, and in return, it transforms me into who I want to be. A Faustian bargain. I let this inanimate object use my soul, a vessel for its music.
My eyes snap open. It’s still early afternoon, but the room is awash in gray, shadows creeping into the corners. More time passed than I thought.
The hair raises on my neck.
“Bastien?”