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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Fairy Tales & Fantasy
- Subject: Art / Music / Theater / Dance
- Published: 10/21/2019
They say you can’t really remember things when you are three years old. I don’t know who “they” are; but they are wrong. I can remember clearly the first time I heard that phrase- I was three years old.
I had just finished playing the piano. It was supposed to be a difficult piece for a Concert Pianist to play. I had played it flawlessly. I always did. The Headmaster at the elite Conservatory and the World Famous Conductor sitting beside him were in shock. Moments went by. It was then that the Headmaster turned to my Mother and said the phrase that has haunted me my whole life:
“Can he talk?”
My Mother shook her head.
“He understands. I know that. But he doesn’t talk. The Doctors say that it isn’t unusual for three year olds to be behind a bit on speech.”
This time it was the Headmaster who shook his head.
“It isn’t usual for a child (he shook his head again), no, a Toddler... to play like he just did. We can’t accept him.”
My Mother started to cry. I left the piano and went and rested my hand on her shoulder. It calmed her down a little. Enough for the Headmaster to continue…
“No, please don’t cry. I think you misunderstand me. We can’t accept him simply because we can’t teach him anything. He already is the most accomplished Pianist that we (and the Conductor nodded agreement) have ever seen. We could put him on tour now. He would probably become a World Famous Celebrity overnight." (Again the Conductor nodded agreement).
“But Madam, he is only THREE YEARS OLD. I think the Media would savage his talent, burn him out with endless engagements, and leave him a torn and frustrated former child prodigy by age seven. I recommend that you just let him play as much as he likes. When he is fifteen years old, bring him back here to us. He can go to school with other talented young artists.”
“But…but…but I thought you said you couldn’t teach him anything.”
“We can’t. But we can learn from him. He needs to have a childhood first. I don’t want to see a toddler paraded out for show on the World’s stage. When he is older, much older, he will need to find people to be around who have his kind of talent.“
The Conductor snorted at that last comment. Under his breath he muttered in a stage whisper:
“No one has that kind of talent…except him.”
The Headmaster nodded.
*****
The Headmaster was older now. Still in his prime. In a way, much more distinguished than he appeared when he first met the Prodigy more than a decade ago. The Conductor who was at that first meeting was long dead. The New Conductor had heard the story but more than a little disbelief colored his view of the whole thing. Still, he was a good man and willing to listen to the quiet willowy fifteen year old play the piano for him.
Just as it happened twelve years earlier, when the boy stopped playing there was a profound silence. The Headmaster made no effort to wipe the tears from his eyes. The Conductor made quite the effort to conceal the tears in his own eyes. To no avail.
No one had ever played with such precision, such passion, such control, as this quiet willowy boy just had. Just as it happened all those years ago, that same phrase popped up again:
“Can he talk?”
Just like all those years ago, the Mother answered for the boy.
“He understands. I know that. The Doctors all say he should be able to speak. He…he…he…just doesn’t.”
She started to cry.
The willowy quiet boy got up from the piano, went over to his Mother and put his hand on her shoulder. It calmed her down. The Headmaster dried his eyes, looked over at the Conductor who was smiling through his own drying tears.
“Well, what do you think?”
The Conductor didn’t have to think.
“Accepted. Move him into the Dorm as soon as possible. Let him get settled in before the Summer term starts in three weeks.”
“I agree.”
The Headmaster held out his hand to the quiet willowy boy.
“Welcome to your new home.”
The quiet willowy boy reached out and shook the Headmaster’s hand.
*****
Three years have gone by. The quiet willowy boy had grown a few inches, added a few pounds, and a wisp of a mustache had taken up residence on his upper lip. His chin was as clean and smooth as a newborns. His build had gone from willowy to merely slender. He would never be stocky, but he would never reach gangly in stature either.
His hair was cut short. Not by any pressing House Rules, or Authoritarian directive, but simply to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes as he played. If there was one word to describe both his physical looks and his demeanor, it would be…unassuming. Until he played the piano.
The Headmaster and the Conductor had kept the young boy under wraps for three years. He was a Senior now, eighteen years old, and about to give his first Public recital in a few weeks. For three years, the young boy had heard from each new incoming group of prodigies: “Can he talk?”
Teachers, other students, and of course the Headmaster and Conductor would all say the same thing:
“He understands. We all know that. He just doesn’t talk.”
And he didn’t.
Until…
*****
He was walking down the long hallway in the practice wing of the Conservatory to play the piano some more. Practice was not the right word for when he played the piano. He never practiced…he played. In the entire three centuries that the famous school had been open, and had taught some of the greatest Musicians and Vocal talents in history, he was the only one -ever- to not need, nor have, a rehearsal. It would be tantamount to having Leonardo “practice” painting the Mona Lisa again.
He heard the music first. It was a Cello. It caught him by surprise. The sound was unlike any he had ever heard before. He closed his eyes and let the music wrap around him like a silk cocoon. There he stood, transfixed, until the playing stopped.
He went past one closed door, than another, the third one was open. Looking through the door he saw long dark hair hanging over the back of a chair. He could just see the neck of the Cello along side her head. One hand, the one holding the bow, was dangling loosely along her side, the other was maneuvering the Cello into playing position.
Selfishly, he silently flowed into the room, closing the door behind him without a sound. He wanted the music to himself. Unaware of the closing of the door to the practice room, the girl with the long dark hair brought the bow across the strings with the lightest touch of absolute control possible.
Music matching the web spinning cocoon the quiet slender boy had heard in the hallway, wrapped around him again.
She finished playing.
“Bravo. Bravo.”
She turned in embarrassment to see who was there. It was a slender boy, quite unassuming except for the fierce joy she saw in his eyes. She blushed.
“Do you mind?”
The slender quiet boy pointed to the Piano wedged into the corner of the practice room.
The dark haired girl caught on immediately.
“No. No. That would be lovely.”
The quiet slender boy settled himself at the piano. He looked over at the dark haired girl as she placed her bow near the strings. She nodded.
The music flowed.
*****
It always amused her. Even after fifty years. Sometimes, when some particularly obstinate interviewer or critic would enquire after one of their rare public appearances: “Can he talk?”
She would smile and reply for them both:
“He understands. He listens. It is the music that does the talking.”
Can he talk?(Kevin Hughes)
They say you can’t really remember things when you are three years old. I don’t know who “they” are; but they are wrong. I can remember clearly the first time I heard that phrase- I was three years old.
I had just finished playing the piano. It was supposed to be a difficult piece for a Concert Pianist to play. I had played it flawlessly. I always did. The Headmaster at the elite Conservatory and the World Famous Conductor sitting beside him were in shock. Moments went by. It was then that the Headmaster turned to my Mother and said the phrase that has haunted me my whole life:
“Can he talk?”
My Mother shook her head.
“He understands. I know that. But he doesn’t talk. The Doctors say that it isn’t unusual for three year olds to be behind a bit on speech.”
This time it was the Headmaster who shook his head.
“It isn’t usual for a child (he shook his head again), no, a Toddler... to play like he just did. We can’t accept him.”
My Mother started to cry. I left the piano and went and rested my hand on her shoulder. It calmed her down a little. Enough for the Headmaster to continue…
“No, please don’t cry. I think you misunderstand me. We can’t accept him simply because we can’t teach him anything. He already is the most accomplished Pianist that we (and the Conductor nodded agreement) have ever seen. We could put him on tour now. He would probably become a World Famous Celebrity overnight." (Again the Conductor nodded agreement).
“But Madam, he is only THREE YEARS OLD. I think the Media would savage his talent, burn him out with endless engagements, and leave him a torn and frustrated former child prodigy by age seven. I recommend that you just let him play as much as he likes. When he is fifteen years old, bring him back here to us. He can go to school with other talented young artists.”
“But…but…but I thought you said you couldn’t teach him anything.”
“We can’t. But we can learn from him. He needs to have a childhood first. I don’t want to see a toddler paraded out for show on the World’s stage. When he is older, much older, he will need to find people to be around who have his kind of talent.“
The Conductor snorted at that last comment. Under his breath he muttered in a stage whisper:
“No one has that kind of talent…except him.”
The Headmaster nodded.
*****
The Headmaster was older now. Still in his prime. In a way, much more distinguished than he appeared when he first met the Prodigy more than a decade ago. The Conductor who was at that first meeting was long dead. The New Conductor had heard the story but more than a little disbelief colored his view of the whole thing. Still, he was a good man and willing to listen to the quiet willowy fifteen year old play the piano for him.
Just as it happened twelve years earlier, when the boy stopped playing there was a profound silence. The Headmaster made no effort to wipe the tears from his eyes. The Conductor made quite the effort to conceal the tears in his own eyes. To no avail.
No one had ever played with such precision, such passion, such control, as this quiet willowy boy just had. Just as it happened all those years ago, that same phrase popped up again:
“Can he talk?”
Just like all those years ago, the Mother answered for the boy.
“He understands. I know that. The Doctors all say he should be able to speak. He…he…he…just doesn’t.”
She started to cry.
The willowy quiet boy got up from the piano, went over to his Mother and put his hand on her shoulder. It calmed her down. The Headmaster dried his eyes, looked over at the Conductor who was smiling through his own drying tears.
“Well, what do you think?”
The Conductor didn’t have to think.
“Accepted. Move him into the Dorm as soon as possible. Let him get settled in before the Summer term starts in three weeks.”
“I agree.”
The Headmaster held out his hand to the quiet willowy boy.
“Welcome to your new home.”
The quiet willowy boy reached out and shook the Headmaster’s hand.
*****
Three years have gone by. The quiet willowy boy had grown a few inches, added a few pounds, and a wisp of a mustache had taken up residence on his upper lip. His chin was as clean and smooth as a newborns. His build had gone from willowy to merely slender. He would never be stocky, but he would never reach gangly in stature either.
His hair was cut short. Not by any pressing House Rules, or Authoritarian directive, but simply to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes as he played. If there was one word to describe both his physical looks and his demeanor, it would be…unassuming. Until he played the piano.
The Headmaster and the Conductor had kept the young boy under wraps for three years. He was a Senior now, eighteen years old, and about to give his first Public recital in a few weeks. For three years, the young boy had heard from each new incoming group of prodigies: “Can he talk?”
Teachers, other students, and of course the Headmaster and Conductor would all say the same thing:
“He understands. We all know that. He just doesn’t talk.”
And he didn’t.
Until…
*****
He was walking down the long hallway in the practice wing of the Conservatory to play the piano some more. Practice was not the right word for when he played the piano. He never practiced…he played. In the entire three centuries that the famous school had been open, and had taught some of the greatest Musicians and Vocal talents in history, he was the only one -ever- to not need, nor have, a rehearsal. It would be tantamount to having Leonardo “practice” painting the Mona Lisa again.
He heard the music first. It was a Cello. It caught him by surprise. The sound was unlike any he had ever heard before. He closed his eyes and let the music wrap around him like a silk cocoon. There he stood, transfixed, until the playing stopped.
He went past one closed door, than another, the third one was open. Looking through the door he saw long dark hair hanging over the back of a chair. He could just see the neck of the Cello along side her head. One hand, the one holding the bow, was dangling loosely along her side, the other was maneuvering the Cello into playing position.
Selfishly, he silently flowed into the room, closing the door behind him without a sound. He wanted the music to himself. Unaware of the closing of the door to the practice room, the girl with the long dark hair brought the bow across the strings with the lightest touch of absolute control possible.
Music matching the web spinning cocoon the quiet slender boy had heard in the hallway, wrapped around him again.
She finished playing.
“Bravo. Bravo.”
She turned in embarrassment to see who was there. It was a slender boy, quite unassuming except for the fierce joy she saw in his eyes. She blushed.
“Do you mind?”
The slender quiet boy pointed to the Piano wedged into the corner of the practice room.
The dark haired girl caught on immediately.
“No. No. That would be lovely.”
The quiet slender boy settled himself at the piano. He looked over at the dark haired girl as she placed her bow near the strings. She nodded.
The music flowed.
*****
It always amused her. Even after fifty years. Sometimes, when some particularly obstinate interviewer or critic would enquire after one of their rare public appearances: “Can he talk?”
She would smile and reply for them both:
“He understands. He listens. It is the music that does the talking.”
JD
10/23/2019Another wonderful masterpiece short story, Kevin. Absolutely beautiful in every way, and filled with hope, inspiration and love! A true joy to read. I loved it. THANK YOU so much for all the marvelous short stories you've shared on Storystar, Kevin! :-)
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Aziz
10/22/2019Excellent!
This one has a special taste Sir. It engulfs many beautiful things: art, talent, childhood, the warmth of mothers, frankness of the headmaster... I really like the bond between the present and the future implied from the vision of the headmaster.
This piece of work deserves a special analysis.
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Kevin Hughes
10/23/2019Thanks Aziz!
There is a lot of beauty in this life...it just doesn't get much Press Coverage.
Smiles, Kevin
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