IL N’Y A PAS, THERE ISN’T
by Vincent Houp
“And then in G Minor…”
The piano plays off key a few times.
“No.”
The man says sternly, he grabs ahold of the boy’s hand and forcibly goes over the desired keys with his fingers over the boys. He can’t break his look at the boy after he does this, his frustration crude and sick but he tries and contains himself before saying.
“Now C Major.”
The boy barely taps on the keys, almost afraid while looking up at the man.
“That’s enough for today, now go into your study, alright?”
The boy’s shoes can be heard tapping in a rush upstairs behind the room empty aside from the piano and the man. His hand covers his mouth, as he sulks looking into the piano, almost motionless, lost in that thought. The room has curved arches on its door openings, the window has a light drape over it, the sun barely enters the room. A telephone ringing interrupts his contemplation. He sits there as he hears it ring and eventually rises to the kitchen where the landline is on the wall adjacent to the countertop.
“Hello?”
“Yes, is Jason in?”
“This is he.”
“Oh wonderful, it’s Mr. Rodrick- “
The man’s face loses all expression as if stolen away from him.
“I’m back from Austria and I’d like to come around and see you sometime, I hear you have a son now? Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure he’s quite the protégé if he’s your son- “
“I’m not sure it’s a good time, he’s come down with something and he better get some rest.”
“Oh, that’s quite unfortunate news isn’t it. Well, I’d like to come around and see you if anything-“
“The doctors say that it’s quite serious, no one should come to the house…”
“Oh, I see, very well…”
“Thanks for calling up.”
And the response is muttered to the man as he isn’t listening anymore and after Mr. Rodrick is done, the man hangs up the phone. He notices the boy peering over the doorway’s edge into the kitchen.
“It wasn’t anybody, go back to your study now, go on.”
He listens as the boy’s shoes tap against the wood of the floors and stairs to his room. The man goes into the piano room and sits down again resuming his gaze at the keys then slowly, like reaching out a handout to touch a wild animal, with both curiosity and fear, he places his right hand on a key and starts pressing it in its singularity. Then the melody adds other notes with his right hand, without much of his own choice, his left hand rases automatically to the bass notes and he’s carried away like swimming, lost in the primal yearning to reach, his body language is ecstatic, to him, he is no longer in a room, there is no sight, the world is sound and the melodies story and his own soul are intertwined, there’s nothing but this tune. Again, the same movement but in hastier time, he’s swimming faster out, out toward the endless sea before him on the evenings start. Again, and again, quicker and quicker like it’s a dance with himself and the song, swimming faster and faster and then all of sudden the crescendo to end the swim, to end the dance, smashes out and he’s left out in the sea, lost without sight of land, breathing heavily and coming out of his trance. He’s still for a moment. Breathing a little loud enough to be heard. It was now dark in the room; the sun had gone down; he hadn’t noticed a thing. He turns and sees the boy standing watching him as if he were an angel or some kind of being above a man. The man gets an idea impulsively and gestures for the boy to come closer with a wave of his hand and the boy comes and the man puts the boy’s fingers on some keys and says.
“Go on.”
And the boy plays and then the man says.
“And then G minor…”
Thinking he’s figured out the magic to it all, through his trance then the piano plays out of key again…
“You can’t tell the difference, can you?”
They can’t see each other in the darkness of the room.
Vincent Houp is a writer from Lexington, KY. He has self-published a poetry chapbook, Red Knuckled Pups With Drinking Problems. He also has been published in the thirteenth issue of the Bluegrass Accolade. For all inquiries: vinhoup@gmail.com.