Paris in May. D. Grey

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СКАЧАТЬ knowledge and skill would not land him in a place like the stable. On the other hand, at no time in the years that Bootsy worked for him had he been disingenuous or a teller of tall tales. Other men who worked on the farm had tried to bullshit him and were noted storytellers, but he never had reason to suspect Bootsy was one of them. Until today, he saw him as a good, trustworthy employee. Was he telling the truth, or was he just another prevaricator?

      When he arrived the next day, Bootsy saw the boss’ truck parked near the barn under the umbrella of the willow oak. Mr. Carle leaned out of the window of the truck and waved Bootsy over. The sun had not yet warmed the atmosphere, nor had the stableman gotten warm enough to want to talk. At this time of day, Bootsy saw talking as an annoyance.

      “Is all that stuff you said yesterday true, Bootsy?”

      “What stuff, Mr. Carle?”

      “Can you really play anything on the piano?”

      “Well, I might have stretched the truth a bit, but to the unschooled ear, the answer is yes,” Bootsy answered.

      “Okay then. Jump into the truck and come with me to the house.”

      “The man wants to test me,” Bootsy said to himself. “I’m not up to this shit this early in the morning. Why can’t this motherfucker leave me alone?”

      They drove the short distance to the house, and Bootsy followed behind Mr. Carle through the back door and into the kind of wealth he had not seen since he played for the private parties of the well heeled on Fifth Avenue and Central Park West. He shook off the morning slows and, out of necessity, cleared his head. He instinctively knew where he was being taken. So wide-eyed and slightly nervous, he readied himself for the challenge. Bootsy followed his boss into a well-lit room with sunlight streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows on the east and south side of the house. There, in the middle of the room, stood a 1916 ebony Steinway Grand, model A3, that Mr. Carle introduced with pride, even though he knew nothing about pianos. This was the quality instrument that a talent like Bootsy should be playing, but he rarely got the opportunity.

      “Here is our piano, Bootsy. The one Kenneth plays.”

      “This is a beautiful instrument, boss. Your son is an incredibly lucky boy to have the opportunity to play it.”

      Bootsy walked over to the piano and smiled as he stroked it like one would touch a lover or beloved child. He turned to the boss. “Is there something you’re in the mood to hear, Mr. Carle?”

      The evening before, Mr. Carle called Kenneth’s piano teacher and asked her about difficult pieces. “If one were to ask a piano playing braggart to play a piece of music that would expose his or her limited knowledge and talent, what piece would that be?” Then armed with a request that a man like Bootsy could not possibly know, Mr. Carle asked for Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2. They were now at the Rubicon—the moment when Bootsy would be slapped down by his own exaggeration. The moment when his stableman would be publicly humiliated and marked as a liar. Mr. Carle had practiced the speech he would give if this whole thing was a mistake. He would pile the stableman back into the truck and dump him into a pile of horseshit where he belonged.

      There was no sheet music to read, so the stableman sat quietly for a minute with his head bowed as if in thought and his hands in his lap. For Mr. Carle, time seemed to have stopped. All his questioning, all his need for truth, and the consequences he had imagined if Bootsy was not genuine hung in balance in a ball of anticipation. Then Bootsy raised his arms, and his fingers lay softly on the keys without making a sound. First, a two-hand chord followed by a bass note and then another followed by a bass note, and then the sound of the concerto filled the room produced by fingers so swift and smooth that they could not be seen. Mr. Carle could not believe what he was hearing and seeing. Mrs. Carle appeared with the household staff and gathered around the entrance to the piano room to hear music as they had never heard it before in the house. He played for five minutes to demonstrate his ability, and after the point was made, he stopped. The maid and cook clapped and cheered without inhibition, and Mr. and Mrs. Carle stood speechless, knowing that they had just witnessed something special. Something out of the ordinary had been loosed in their music room that was worthy of being heard in a grand concert hall. Then the room fell silent, in part because of the unforgettable sound they had just heard. The incongruity between what they knew of their stableman—the almost ragged work clothes he was wearing versus his display of pianistic ability—made the scene almost bizarre. The myths of magical transformations take place in literature when frogs become princes and farm girls lead armies. But here in front of them, a similar emergence had taken place. Hidden in their stables was something beautiful, something that no one would have ever suspected. It left them agape with surprise, speechless, and palpably excited. In a word, they were all stunned.

      “Would you like to hear something else?” asked Bootsy, who watched the whole scene with a touch of “Gotcha” and an internal glee that only he could appreciate.

      “By all means,” answered Mrs. Carle at a volume louder than her speaking voice, which was both a sign of approval and a prod meant to accelerate the process.

      “What about some jazz?” asked Bootsy. “That’s what I like best.”

      The Carles, the cook, and the cleaning lady all found comfortable seats, and for the next hour, they listened to a master play melodies they all knew. He knew what he was doing. The intention was not just to play the piano well but also to seduce their sensibilities, so they wanted more. The rhythms may have been a little different and the melodies embellished, but they knew what was being played, and they all hummed the melodies and mouthed the lyrics to many of the songs that were played. They lost track of time and space, totally consumed by the music. After the shock and awe had worn off, Mr. Carle approached his stableman. Still sitting at the piano bench with a respectful nobility that Mr. Carle could now see, he asked the question.

      “Would you like a change in your job description?” Bootsy was not expecting this, but he did know his employers had been jerked out of their business heads and into a place that allowed purely emotional decisions. “Would you like to teach my son Kenneth?”

      Bootsy knew he had to strike while the iron was hot, and he did.

      “Would this be a complete change in job description, Mr. Carle?” This might be a chance for him to make a living doing what he was born to do. Even though he did not consider himself a teacher, he could certainly do it, and maybe he could wind up doing something that he loved and could finally leave the filth of the stable. Finally, he might be able to get back to the thing he loved most in the world.

      “Yes,” said Mr. Carle. “The only thing you would be responsible for is teaching Kenneth.”

      Then he hesitated and added, “You might also be periodically asked to play for the family’s entertainment and parties. If you agree, I think it only fair that your pay would be what any pro would make putting in the same hours. I’ll check into that. I could see you becoming the boy’s musical mentor.”

      “This might be too much to ask, Mr. Carle, but could you help me set up a retirement account? Right now, I have nothing to take me into old age,” said Bootsy.

      “Don’t push it, Mr. Johnson. But I think we can do that.”

      “Then I say yes to your offer and look forward to teaching your son. By the way, it’s been a long time since I’ve been called Mr. Johnson, and I thank you for that.”

      Mrs. Carle approached and stood by her husband, trying unsuccessfully to contain her excitement. She grasped Mr. Carle’s hand and said with a slightly exaggerated СКАЧАТЬ