Free Two-Part Inventions by Lynne Sharon Schwartz Page A

Suzanne embroidered blouses and once a skirt in a paisley pattern that twirled when she spun around. Uncle Simon could wiggle his ears—though by now she had outgrown her delight in that—and could recite lines of poetry in his faintly British accent. Suzanne loved hearing him come up with his quotations. On their last visit, when her mother and Aunt Faye were discussing what to do about a cousin who was still unmarried at thirty, Uncle Simon cleared his throat dramatically and said, “Full many a rose is born to blush unseen, and waste its fragrance on the desert air.” Faye slapped his hand mockingly and said it wasn’t over yet for that rose, there was still time. And when Suzanne’s father boasted about how well his furniture business was doing—the new housing development a few blocks from the store was a godsend—Uncle Simon muttered, “Put money in thy purse.”
    Joseph Stellman was immune to his brother-in-law’s wit and found his charm negligible, because (as he told Gerda after their visit), Simon could barely make a living as a clerk in a men’s haberdashery. “If Faye didn’t keep working they’d be up shit creek” was how he put it. “He sits on a stool and reads. The customers have to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention.”
    When she heard her father’s voice calling her from downstairs, Suzanne recoiled. She was in the middle of a Nancy Drew mystery, The Quest of the Missing Map , and the plot was at a crucial point: Nancy had found the decisive clue and was about to tell Ned who the villain was and how they would trap him.
    â€œDon’t you hear me?” He was halfway up the stairs. “I want Faye and Simon to hear that new piece you learned.” Now
he was in the doorway. Suzanne looked up, her finger in her place.
    â€œYou know the one I mean, with the fancy runs? Is it Bach? Or Beethoven?”
    It was a Chopin étude she’d begun working on two weeks ago, the third. Mrs. Gardenia said it was a good place to begin Chopin. “Take it slowly,” she said, “one hand at a time, before you try them together. Just do up to here—” she pointed. “That’s enough for a start.” But Suzanne had played the two hands together on the third day of practicing and gone further than Mrs. Gardenia indicated. The other night her father had stood behind her, listening, then patted her head. “Very nice, very nice.” She grew hot with scorn; she hardly knew the piece yet. The dynamics were shaky and she still stumbled over the chromatic chords. He didn’t even know what he was hearing.
    â€œI just started that one, Dad. I can’t do it right yet.”
    â€œIt sounded fine to me. Come on, put the book away. You can go back to it later.”
    She protested, he insisted, until she followed him sullenly down the stairs. He always won. He was still stronger.
    She played badly, as she knew she would, even worse than she expected because she was stiff with tension and rage. Her fingers faltered over the runs and botched the chords, even the timing. She stopped at a chord resolution—he’d never know the piece wasn’t really over—and, resisting the impulse to end with an infantile bang on the keys, let her hands grip the edge of the bench instead. There was silence. No one could pretend this had been a stellar performance.
    â€œWell, now, that wasn’t bad, considering how difficult it is. Chopin, right? One of the études?” Uncle Simon said.

    She nodded without looking up. She wouldn’t let them see her tears. “I told you,” she murmured. “I told you I didn’t know it yet.”
    â€œAll right, all right, let’s sit down and have something to eat,” said Joseph.
    At the table Uncle Simon nudged her and began making up a limerick about Chopin—“There was a composer named Chopin, who wrote études quite hard for