The piano-accordion

It was unassuming, but that was its hateful trick. While it sat there, a lifeless observer, it gnawed at him. Intolerable thing. He had bought it at a street market about seven years previously. A spur of the moment purchase - the type of transaction that he was shamefully prone to. He had spied it on the rickety wooden stall and in an instant knew that he had to have it. It was impractical, he knew. He didn’t need it. He had no particular reason to want it. God knows, when inevitably asked by his fiancé, he would not be able to form an adequate response as to why he had purchased it.

He did so anyway. Of course.

He was not the musical type. He had briefly tinkled on the piano in his younger years, learnt a few chords on the guitar, he had even caterwauled his way through a scale or two on the violin. Each had been attempted, but inevitably discarded, sold to fund the next spur of the moment purchase. However, he had never lost heart in the search. A man should have a talent. That was his view.

Football would have been his first choice. Something active, done outdoors. Something that prompted on-lookers, and ardent admirers. Effort and achievement that was proved through sweat. This appealed to his sense of manliness. However he was not an athletic person. He needed a talent, and mastering a musical instrument was one that could be achieved (most importantly) sitting down.

So when he saw a small piano-accordion in the middle of the busy market, he knew it was perfect. It was an instrument eccentric enough to draw attention, and yet, with mastery, could become pleasing to the ear. Granted, he had never heard of a piano-accordion played at Carnegie Hall. But then, wasn’t that more of a positive? Wasn’t that indicative of his uniqueness? His dedication? His lack of caring for his own personal image? Surely he would be lauded for such… bravery. Yes, bravery to proudly stand out from the pack. And so the pack must admire him.

There blossomed an image in his head – a fanciful, but utterly enamoring vision. A hall of peers, lounging and sipping champagne. Friends, from the pub, and the office. In this vision, they were no longer bathed in the harsh light of computer screens. Instead they were lit by the soft glow of some expensive candelabra. In his mind’s eye they had been rather innocuously robed in silks and satin. They had on coat-tails, smartly pressed waistcoats and smoked elegantly carved pipes. The scene was reminiscent of Victorian period dramas. Such films he absolutely had not watched, or cried over after each and every break-up in his youth. No sir. The fact that this mode of dress featured in most of his fantasies was absolutely not proof.  

As these elegantly robed peers lay languid, the conversation might eventually turn to music. Others might boast of the instruments they had been trained to play from infancy. Others yet would cry the praises of talented siblings, and bask in the second-hand glow of another’s accomplishment. Those without skill would merely mutter their awe of their superior fellows, and yearn not to be called on to recount their repertoire. He would sit and wait with a subtle smile on his lips. Finally the question would be posed -

“And do you play an instrument sir?”

“Oh yes indeed, I do.”

“What, sir? No, let us guess. You seem a straightforward sort of lad. The piano? The trumpet? Drums?”

Some unlikable fellow with a distinct lack of musical prowess might make a snide and unsubtle remark about it most certainly being a piccolo. But he would just smile and reply with some triumph:

“No, indeed, sir. I have no wish for such predictable and utilitarian instruments. My skill and passion lies elsewhere.”

Here he would pause, just for that extra drama. Then he would smile, humbly.

“I have, through much pain-staking experimentation, mastered the piano-accordion.”

In his mind, this statement would be followed by a chorus of haphazard mumbles of surprised appreciation.

That was the aim, that mumble of acknowledgement. The surprise at the dedication, to acquire such a seemingly eccentric skill. And all self-taught? What an achievement! What unconventional mind would choose to shun the societal norm in such a manner?

In truth, he had tried the more conventional instruments, and had not gotten as far as the first grade standard on any of them. But that wasn’t his fault. It was the instruments. Not one of them had really captured his attention. The handheld piano-accordion had.

He leaned back on his chair and reached out a hand, to lift the hateful thing from its dusty shelf. It gave a sad kind of sigh. He placed it on his lap, and lay his fingers on the keys. Were they keys? He didn’t know. He’d never bothered to find out.

He pulled and pushed, his fingers probed the keys, if that’s what they were. But instead of melody there was a dismal groan. The vision in his head was fading, the smiles and murmurs slipping away. The soft candle light gave way to the brilliant blue of his computer screen. He’d had seven years to practice. He could have been playing Brahms by now, if Brahms had ever written for a handheld piano-accordion. Somehow he doubted it.

But he still had time, didn’t he? He wasn’t even halfway through his life. He could look up whether or not they were keys. He could find out if Brahms had ever lowered himself to write for an instrument such as this. He could practice, and within a year he would be boasting to colleagues that yes, he did have a talent, and no, it wasn’t something boring and ordinary. His talent… was the piano-accordion. He was not just some bland office-worker. He was a musician – not like those stiff-necked orchestra buffoons. Someone original, and talented. Someone who would stand out from the crowd.

He nodded confidently to himself, and placed the accordion back on its shelf.

“I’ll start tomorrow.” He thought.