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Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind... Romans 12:2

Siren Song

by Karoline Will

It was a stunning concert.

He played the first movement of the Tchaikovsky and he played it like a god. You have to have passion in you to play that concerto right, and he did. You have to fantastic technique, and he did. He made that concert hall like the mount of transfiguration. An old man sitting behind us said "A-men!" when it was done. We stood up and whooped and hollered for him, of course. We all knew Denton had done something incredible with that piano. I think only I knew just how incredible.

The girls said we had to go straight backstage and find Denton. I thought he might want a little time to himself, but don't try to tell a bunch of girls what a guy needs. We had to wait, of course. The ushers wouldn't let us backstage. And when he came out, of course he had to get through his parents and grandparents first. Then members of the orchestra came up and wanted to shake his hand and tell him how well he got through his first time soloing with an orchestra. It was a while before he got to us. The girls hugged him and gave him flowers, and all the other guys said it was awesome. After a while he saw me and asked what I thought, and told me thank you, again, for accompanying him for his audition. I told him that he was welcome, and that he sounded like a professional, and that it was no wonder he'd won the competition and gotten picked to perform with the orchestra. He said it was a wonder, and he thought I'd deserved to win just as much as he had. And that of course he couldn't have won without me accompanying him. Only someone who had known him for so long and accompanied him for so long could have played so well with him. He said that after all that's what the judges looked for: how well you stayed with your accompanist. They couldn't pick you to play with an orchestra if you couldn't play well with just another pianist.

His parents asked me to come have dinner with all of the family. They were going to a fancy restaurant downtown. I said I'd come.

There were people at the restaurant who had been at the concert. They recognized Denton, and some came over and shook his hand. Two girls asked him to sign their programs. Denton told them I was a pianist too, and that I'd accompanied him for the concerto competition. One of them asked me what it was like to play with a rising star, and what it would be like to see him in Carnegie Hall. The other one, who seemed like a nice girl and laughed a lot, asked me if I'd competed too, and what piece I played. I told her I'd played the Grieg piano concerto, and Denton had accompanied me.

Denton made me sit across from him at the table, and after we'd ordered he started asking me questions about the performance. He said right in the middle of the concert he blanked out on the music and thought he was going to forget the rest of the movement and have to stop playing, but somehow his fingers went to the right notes, and he was able to keep on. I knew what place he was talking about. He'd had a memory slip there before, and skipped several measures. I'd worked it out so I knew where he was rocky, and could help cover up any slips.

Mostly, though, Denton talked about what it was like performing with an orchestra. I'd never seen him so wound up. He leaned across the table and hugged his arms around himself and talked faster than I'd ever heard him talk. He said it was like singing with a choir of angels. He said all that sound, and being in the middle of it, and hearing all the real instruments playing their parts instead of having another pianist play the parts, made it seem almost like playing a different piece. And that being onstage in an auditorium, playing a nine-footer Steinway in front of a thousand people, was the most thrilling thing he'd ever done. All he wanted to do for the rest of his life was perform for people. He wanted to be a concert artist. He didn't care how long it took him, or how much practice he had to do, or how many years he had to spend building a career. He said performing brought beauty into humdrum lives, and it was a noble calling.

I was mostly quiet. I didn't need to listen to everything he was telling me, because I'd imagined it all out for myself. I knew what it would be like up there onstage, and what it would be like bowing to all that applause. I thought about how it would feel to turn and look at that piano, that gorgeous long nine-footer with the light reflecting off the inside of the lid, and know it was mine, mine to do whatever I wanted with, mine to win the world with.

But that wouldn't ever happen. I was a good pianist. Everybody said so. I was pretty sure of it myself. Denton was better, though, and as long as he was there, he'd always win. He was my biggest rival. My only rival, really. At competitions I'd gotten grade sheets back with 100's written at the top, then scribbled out and replaced with 99's. It always happened when Denton played after me. He always ended up with the 100's. I had the 99's.

It didn't sound like much. One point's difference. But that could mean a lot. It could mean the difference between success and failure, between a pianist who goes to conservatories and has a shot at building a performance career someday, and one who never gets further than playing in church on Sunday mornings and teaching little kids how to play Merrily We Roll Along. No matter how you looked at it, fact was, Denton would have all the first place honors on his college applications, and I wouldn't have any.

The waitresses were bringing in the platters. Denton had to stop talking. When we had our food, he started talking again. He was already figuring out what concerto he would play next. Maybe the Emperor. What did I think of that?

When he said that, I felt kind of punched, like someone had knocked me in the chest. That was the concerto I wanted. I'd been dreaming of playing it for pretty much forever.

"It's a good choice," I said. "You should play it."

This way I'll have a concerto from every major era in my repertoire. I haven't played a Classical era concerto yet. You should play a Classical era concerto too, Kyle. You've done mostly Romantic concerti."

"Why?" I asked him.

"Experience, of course. And it looks good on your repertoire list."

I picked up my fork and knife and sliced into my steak.

"I don't think I'm going to play a concerto next year," I said.

I'm glad I said it. I might as well have given up my hope of heaven, but I didn't care anymore what anyone said. I'd wasted enough time.

Return to Volume 10, Number 1.