Free The Distance Between Us by Noah Bly Page B

whimpering.
    My studio is just as I left it a moment ago. The two Steinway grands are still sitting side by side, beneath the picture window looking out over Carson Conservatory’s small but tasteful campus, bleak and gray in the late afternoon light of winter. The yellow carnations I brought with me today are also still here, fragrant and bright in a tall vase on the top shelf of the bookcase by my desk.
    It’s all so familiar. On the surface, nothing has changed.
    My life is just as much a disaster as it was before I sat down to play, my prospects for a decent tomorrow are just as grim. I’m still losing my house, I’m still at war with my family, I’m still tired and old and angry. All of this is true, and yet somehow there is a difference now, however slight.
    I feel like me again.
    It’s not much, but I guess it will have to do.
    I let my hands fall from the piano into my lap. Miranda is watching me with her mouth half-open; her eyes are enormous.
    She swallows several times and finally clears her throat.
    “I didn’t know Prokofiev could sound like that,” she whispers. “I didn’t know anything could sound like that.” She seems dazed. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”
    I thank her as gently as I’m able. “So now do you understand what it is I’m after? Do you hear what I’m talking about?”
    She shakes her head. “I hear what you want, but there’s no way I’ll ever be able to play like that.” Her voice is diffident.
    I stand up, cradling my left wrist. “Of course you will,” I say. “All it takes is patience and practice.”
    I watch her go, her face full of wonder. She’s practically floating with inspiration.
    She doesn’t yet know a lie when she hears one.
    She’s right, I fear. She’ll never play as I play. Oh, she has enough talent that she may eventually be able to execute the notes as well, and she has enough discipline to build herself a decent career as a musician. Ten years from now she may even be something of a name in the world; she has ample poise and grace when she’s performing, and a rare physical beauty audiences will likely respond to. I predict she’ll be well reviewed, and many younger musicians will no doubt flock to her for lessons and guidance.
    But Miranda Moore will never have what it takes to play like me.
    It’s not a question of talent or ambition; it’s a question of character. She doesn’t have the passion; she doesn’t have the endurance; she doesn’t have the self-honesty necessary for fusing her heart and mind to her fingers. And most damning of all, she doesn’t have the guts to live the kind of life that would teach her these things.
    I can’t fault her for that, I suppose. Most people are just like her.
    I lift my head and fill my lungs with air, then I let it all out again a second later with a heavy sigh.
    For better or worse, there’s only one Hester Parker.
     
    Prior to our children being born—and before I shattered my wrist—Arthur and I were frequently asked to perform together. The best concert we gave was in 1966, in Boston’s Symphony Hall, and I can still recall the entire program. We played the
Violin Sonata
by Darius Milhaud, and Ernst Bloch’s
Baal Shem,
and the third
Violin Sonata
by Brahms, and Rachmaninoff’s
Romance and Danse hongroise.
The audience nearly rioted at the end of all that, and after they finally let us off the stage (four encores later), we escaped to the city’s North End for a midnight dinner at a quiet Italian restaurant, near Old North Church.
    Being a classical music celebrity is an odd thing, because your fame is so limited. One moment you can be standing in front of a packed concert hall, receiving a ridiculous amount of adulation from what seems to be the entire population of the planet, and the next you’re out dining in public, unnoticed by anyone.
    I remember Arthur bringing up this strange phenomenon that night, over an exquisite bottle of chianti and two vast