Free Two-Part Inventions by Lynne Sharon Schwartz Page B

the left hand . . .”—but she couldn’t bring herself to smile.
    As soon as they left, she grabbed her jacket and headed for the door.
    â€œWhere are you going?” her mother asked.
    â€œOut.” She slammed the door before Gerda could say anything more.
    Luckily there were no unfamiliar cars parked in front of Richard’s house. Sometimes on weekends his friends came over with their instruments. But today she found him alone, with an opera coming from the radio.
    â€œ Tosca ,” he said. “Come on in and sit down. She’s just about to throw herself over the balcony, it’s only a few more minutes.”
    To her surprise, she was able to concentrate on the music, and it calmed her. The soprano’s voice was powerful and full of grief, but contained, like liquid poured through a channel. Suzanne wasn’t sure what the grief was about, but it made her own seem much smaller. Afterward, Richard told her how Tosca had been tricked into thinking the man she loved was dead, and so she jumped off a parapet.
    â€œIt’s great to watch it onstage,” he said. “She jumps and vanishes and you really think the singer is dead. That was Maria
Callas. She’s incomparable, of course. What’s the matter? You don’t look too good.”
    As she recounted playing the étude so badly, she wept tears of frustration. If she could sing, she would sing like that woman, proclaiming her fury and wretchedness.
    â€œWhy didn’t you play something else, something you knew? If, as you say, he can’t tell one piece from another.”
    â€œHe wanted that one. I don’t know. I didn’t think of it. It’s like he . . . sort of casts a spell on me. Maybe I wanted it to come out bad, just to show him. I can’t play it yet, but I think I made it worse almost on purpose.”
    â€œIf your father would listen to me I’d tell him to cut it out. But it’s all he can do to say hello on the street. Tell me, why does it matter so much? I mean, it’s your aunt and uncle. You know them. They know you can play, and even if you couldn’t . . . so what if you mess up one time?”
    â€œI don’t know. I just can’t. When I play for people I have to sound good. It’s not just the music. It’s as if they’re listening to me —I mean me the person. If the music is bad, then I’m bad.”
    â€œIf you think that way, you’ll make it all harder. The music is itself—you can’t harm it no matter what you do. You’re only the interpreter. You do your best. If people are judging you—and you seem to think they always are—all they can judge is that you haven’t learned the piece properly yet. It’s not your whole identity.”
    â€œBut it is,” she cried. “It’s all I have.”
    â€œNonsense,” Richard said. “It’s not all you have. It may be your best thing, but it’s not the only thing, believe me.”
    She didn’t believe him. “And anyway, I get scared when people
are listening. I don’t know why. I can’t do it the way I want, the way I hear it in my head.”
    â€œThat’s not unusual. But you can learn to overcome it, if you really want to play, that is. Meanwhile, if you can’t stop your father when he makes you perform, just play something you know well. Something short. And try to remember it’s not the end of the world if you’re not perfect. You’re asking too much of yourself. Christ, you’re just a kid. Now, play something for me. Something you love. You’ll see how good it sounds and you’ll feel better.”
    She was never shy about playing for Richard. He listened like a professional. When he made suggestions, he didn’t seem to be correcting her , but rather trying to help get the music out properly. That was what mattered to him. She played the fourteenth Bach Invention, a piece full of