The Pianist & The Mobster

On a good day, my mother would say she loved my father; but on a bad day, when she was pouring wine down her gullet, she’d say she wished she had never met him at all. As my father had left when I was approximately two years old, any knowledge of him had to come from the two people in my life that knew him: my mother and my grandfather. My mother rarely talked about him, so the most information I could pull out of her was that he liked music and that the locked office in our house was his. It was only after my mother died that my grandfather told me he was a professional pianist who got too heavily involved with the mob, inevitably leaving after getting one too many promotions. I was ten when he told me that, and I suppose that information was what led me to be a professional hitman.

In hindsight, wanting to get into the mafia just on the premise of possibly finding my father was stupid, but I was determined to see my plans through. Well, when I was younger, at least. Over time, after I had gotten quite good at the art of killing someone and leaving no traceable evidence behind, I lost sight of why I had originally started on this path. It just became my form of income, and the trail of bodies that were left behind grew my reputation as Oz "Genie" Stokes. If someone wanted to wish their "problems" away, all they had to do was hire me, and that was exactly what Don Giovi Vittorio did.

He hired me for three months to silence anyone he wanted and requested I stay in the Vittorio family home during this period. It was an unusual arrangement, but Don Vittorio was well known for being a paranoid and unique individual. The only reason I even agreed was because of the hefty sum I was going to be paid. While I didn’t know it at the time, my choice to take that job would become one of the best decisions I ever made in my life.

~~~

I had moved into my room at roughly one o’clock on a Monday and finished unpacking in about thirty minutes. There was nothing on my agenda for the day, so I decided I’d spend my time reading, but my heart just couldn’t get into my favorite H.G. Wells novel about an invisible man. I found myself staring blankly at the pages, rereading lines over and over, and sighing as I slowly grew more frustrated by my lack of concentration. Inevitably, I snapped the book shut and rested my head against the bed frame, closing my eyes as a scowl formed on my face.

For a moment, I thought I was dreaming as the soft sounds of a piano drifted in the air. It was as if I was back at home again when I was just a child, laying down quietly on the couch as my mother played a vinyl record of some famous pianist; but the scratching noise was missing, and the woman who once listened to the songs with me was long gone. I had to strain my ears in order to recognize the song as Erik Sadie’s Gymnopédie No. 1, and a desire to listen more clearly grew with each passing second.

I dragged myself off the bed and wandered through the many halls and rooms until I found the person I was looking for; although, I was not entirely sure what I expected. The drawing room was identical to the others, with the exception of a Steinway grand piano, a beautiful instrument with an extreme price tag. Most pianists could only dream of playing such a piano, but here this man was, playing it as if it was an old friend, and perhaps it was.

What was surprising about the pianist himself was that he looked kind, something rather out of place in the house of a mafia don. He must have been in his sixties, at least, gracefully thin and with the presentation of a long-time butler. His face, while angular in feature, maintained a gentle aura, and the concentrated gaze of his green eyes was somehow softened by the glasses that perched on his nose. I had no idea who he was, and yet, I had felt like I had known him all my life.

My eyes drifted closed as I leaned against the frame of the door, absorbing the sound of a seasoned pianist and his perfectly tuned instrument. How rare it was to find a man who could make the melancholy of that song sound like it was his own, as if he was the creator. There was a story being built in my head, one that I couldn’t know but could certainly feel. It was the soft embrace of a long past tragedy, a tragedy that’s outcome changed everything.

It was beautiful.

I never opened my eyes for the hour I was there listening, and if the pianist had noticed my presence, he never acknowledged me. When I did allow myself sight, he was gone without a trace.

~~~

For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to question Don Vittorio who he was. Instead, I learned the pianist’s schedule. He started at exactly two o’clock in the afternoon and played for precisely one hour, never less and never more. For two weeks, I was there when I had the time, leaning on one of the door frames and silently listening to him play. His song selections were never boring to listen to and drove a variety of emotions through me. Each session felt like one long story, with each song telling a different part of it. Some were happy, some were sad, and others were angry. I wondered what kind of life this man had lived for him to play the piano in such a way. I believed it must have been an adventure.

~~~

On the Monday of the third week, there was a steaming cup of tea on the table when I arrived. It was also the first day he looked at me, even if it was just for a mere second. He removed his gaze from the piano as I settled into my spot, capturing my stare before my eyes closed and drifting pointedly to the beverage. I blinked owlishly at the subtle invitation, entering the room and taking a seat. "Thank you." He only nodded. The tea was surprisingly just to my liking, and as the warm liquid slid down my throat, I was filled with a sense of peace.

~~~

Two weeks later, in the midst of one of his sessions on a Friday, he remarked, "Do you play?" His voice, unlike his perfect presentation, was strangled sounding. Each word sounded painful to be spoken and was difficult to maintain at a normal speaking level. It was then that I finally noticed the bullet hole scar on his throat when he tilted his head to look at me.

"No, but my father did."

"Did?"

"He’s likely dead." He brokenly hummed, his gaze returning to his piano.

"Loss is difficult, living or not." There was no truer statement, and I had a feeling this man had lived that truth both ways.

"Who taught you?"

"Self-taught."

"For how you play, that’s incredible." A smile tugged at the edges of his lips as he nodded gratefully.

When he finished his performance for the day and I went to return my cup to the kitchen, he asked, "Want to learn?" This time I smiled.

"Please." He pointed to his wristwatch and held up a single finger.

"No late."

"Of course."

"Worry not about… schedule." He pointed at himself and then tapped the side of his forehead. I nodded in response, watching him leave before making my own departure.

~~~

Over the following six weeks, I learned that playing the piano wasn’t as easy as the professionals made it look. However, the pianist was patient as he walked me through the basics with little phrases and many hand motions. Thankfully for us both, I was a visual learner, so his teaching style was perfect for me. While our conversations during sessions were usually quite one-sided, I learned a lot about him. He was a quiet man by nature—only made more obvious by his handicap—and passionate about music. I discovered that he wrote his own pieces and was fortunate enough to hear more than a couple of them; albeit, they had the tendency to be more somber in nature. That was another thing; a sense of somberness seemed to follow him wherever he went. I struggled to understand why, but the pieces of his life were beginning to form before me.

~~~

There was one day that he missed his lesson with me: a Tuesday. While disappointed, I assumed he had something to do besides play the piano. After all, he was in this house for a reason, even if I didn’t understand what exactly for. What was strange, however, was that I managed to catch sight of him in the halls for the first time. He was furiously trying to wipe his hands clean as he speed-walked to an unknown destination. On Wednesday, headlines in the papers talked about how "Ghost" had struck again. Ghost, as the press named this individual, was assumed to be a hitman for the mob, characterized by his clean kills—victims were drained of their blood—and zero signs of a second presence. The nickname was fitting; the victims as pale as a spirit, and the murderer "nonexistent."

He was off when I met him for lessons. There was no tea made, and his piano playing was on the verge of erratic as he soared through Prelude and Fugue by Bach in C minor. It didn't take a genius to guess what had happened. I placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him out of his reverie and making him awkwardly hit the wrong note. He yanked his hands back as if he had been burned before looking at me.

I had never seen a man look so lost and distraught in my life.

He sighed before removing his glasses, covering his eyes with his free hand. "... Sorry." I frowned and sat beside him.

"Don’t apologize. There’s no need." He drew his hand away from his face and offered a weak smile. We stared at the keys of the piano for several long minutes, not daring to touch them. "So... ‘Ghost,’ huh?" He grimaced and put on his glasses. "I’m not judging you. I mean, you know what I do. Just surprised. I expected to do all the hits while I'm here." He pursed his lips and pointed to me.

"Small fry." He turned his finger toward himself. "Big fish."

"Should I be insulted?" I asked jokingly, trying to lighten the mood, but his own remained unchanged. If anything, he receded into his mind more.

"Giovi trusts little. Known him years." He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists. Worried, I gently bumped him with my shoulder to make him look at me again and offered a small smile.

"You gonna be okay?"

"Never desensitized completely. Takes a while… for normal."

"Then why keep at it?" In an instant, something in him changed.

"Love." There was a fierceness to his eyes that I had never seen before, and his gentle demeanor was burned away by his determination. For whomever he held his love for, he would do anything. Of that, I was certain.

"That person’s lucky to have someone like you." I barely caught the flash of surprise that passed by him, and by the heartfelt smile that followed, I knew my comment seemed to provide him with some semblance of peace. Leaving the topic there, we began our lesson.

~~~

The last day I spoke with him was the day my contract ended. I spent the morning packing up my things, planning to leave shortly after collecting my payment. However, it felt strange to know I would be leaving the place I had been living for the past three months, and that I would be unable to meet with the pianist at exactly one o’clock in the afternoon. Normally, I didn’t feel anything special when my time with a particular family ended, but I would miss the Vittorio family home, I would miss the pianist.

There was a knock on my door when I was nearly done with my packing. The pianist was there when I opened it, a satchel in hand. He held out the item and said, "Payment." I took the satchel from him and briefly checked through the contents, finding a multitude of envelopes stuffed with bills. Pleased, I gave him a nod.

"Thanks."

"Gift, too." I arched an eyebrow at that, not having seen anything other than envelopes and cash. "Look at home."

"... Alright, thanks again."

“Your plans?" I shrugged, tossing the satchel onto the bed and continuing to fold the rest of my clothes.

"I’ll do what I always do when I finish a contract: set up another one with someone else."

"But wish to?" I hadn’t asked myself that question in a really long time. Did I truly want to keep doing this? Keep killing for cash? It paid well, yes, but there were nights where I woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares of the people I murdered begging for mercy.

"I’m not sure what else I’d do."

"Plenty, I’m sure. You’re clever." I laughed a bit, briefly glancing at him over my shoulder.

"You flatter me."

"Merely truth."

I hesitated before remarking, "I don’t have a degree."

"Neither did I… before this. Did quite well."

"And yet you wrapped yourself up in this gig."

"My consequence." His answer surprised me, making my hand hover over one of my shirts. "I made dangerous… mistakes. Led me here. Must stay to… keep someone safe."

"That sounds rather counterproductive."

"In a way." He let out a huff of a laugh. "It’s complicated." I slowly began to fold the clothing item.

"Are they worth it?"

"More than anything." I didn’t have to see his face to know that same blazing conviction was etched onto it. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought, putting the last item into my suitcase and zipping it closed.

Facing him, I stated, "Good." He returned my smile, and I walked up to him, holding out my hand. He shook it firmly. "I’ll never forget you." His grin somehow brightened, and he clasped my hand with both of his. His gaze was intense but kind, an unusual combination.

"Goodbye, Oz." He left before I could get in another word.

~~~

After I said farewell to Don Vittorio, a song from the pianist followed me on the way out. It was one that I had never heard before, containing a gentle melody with the somberness that clung to him. Although, there was more to it this time. There was a slight sense of hope that followed, as if what was happening had a sweetness to the apparent bitterness. This song was a goodbye that was long coming but accepted nonetheless. He was wishing me well, and I could only pray that he knew I was wishing him the same.

~~~

I returned home with a heavy heart, only sifting through the cash out of habit and obligation to ensure I hadn’t been underpaid. Four envelopes in, I found a skeleton key with a tag that said the following:

The office is yours now.

Practically flying off the couch as my mind ran a million miles per minute, I sprinted through my home to the locked office that had been haunting my mind for all the years I had known it was my father’s. With a deep inhale, I delicately inserted the key, praying that I wasn’t losing my mind and that the pianist was exactly who I thought he was.

I nearly cried when I heard the click.

My father’s office was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen in my life. There were music sheets absolutely everywhere, a desk tucked into the corner, and walls lined with shelves upon shelves of vinyl records. As for the centerpiece of what might be considered a room of pure chaos, there was a Steinway grand piano. It was layered in dust from the many years of unuse, but I could tell that it was once someone’s muse. Carefully stepping over the piles, I made my way to it. I sat down where he once did, lifted the lid, and made my way through the first song he taught me how to play: Gymnopédie No. 1.