Paradoxical

He stepped up to the piano with his heart hammering double-time. He bowed toward the audience and sat down before the old Steinway. It looked back at him equal times intimidating and comforting, a reflection of its past owner. Taking a deep yet shuddering breath, he delicately placed his hands above the white and black keys, closed his eyes, and exhaled.

Water trickled down in parabolic arches, each geyser perfectly spaced down a seemingly never-ending line. The night was warm and cloying but intermittent breezes swept through the palace, as if a decadent cake paired with a glass of cool milk. One could peruse the gardens in comfort, gaze at the century-old architecture in awe, and imagine two lovers dancing around one another in quiet adoration. If time passed quickly and the morning came slowly, one could see how the rising sun filters through the water streams and peeks out from underneath the arches of the palace. How the cool-toned palette of the night gives way to the warmth of day. If one continued through the palace and followed the water channel in the marble floor, the centerpiece of the palace would await you. Twelve lions guarded a large bowl filled to the brim with water. From each lion’s mouth came a stream of water that fed into four water channels. Silence would never touch the palace; the sound of water and movement and life never gave enough room for it to slip in. 

It took him a long time to relearn this song. He hadn’t remembered it being so difficult before. When he sat down before it in preparation of this performance, he remembered being dumbfounded at the sweeping phrases and lively tempo. But he also remembered the first time he had attempted to play this song. His teacher looked at him sternly while he played it for her for the first time in its entirety.

“What is this song Adrian? What is it’s name?” she had asked. “What is this about? You play the notes on the page, so bland! Where is your story?” 

“Generalife? It’s about that palace in Spain, Alhambra or something. It has fountains and stuff. It’s old,” he’d replied. Her lips thinned.

“That’s boring. Give me a story. It helps you play better and makes it interesting to listen to. Appreciate this work of art, appreciate the time Turina spent making it and thinking about it and practicing it.” He couldn’t help but feel that this was aimed at him.

Now, he could see the transition perfectly, from the exposition of the water fountains to the dance-like middle section to the building finale that honored its final rulers of the Nasrid Dynasty. It ended dramatically, as all Spanish songs seemed to have a penchant to do, and the audience clapped.

He quickly stretched his hands before starting the next song. The piano appeared to shiver in anticipation along with him as he breathed in, and exhaled.

From the gardens of Alhambra to the fjords of Norway, one would certainly see a change in scenery. Grandiose buildings turn to quaint cottages. The rugged cliffs of Granada turn to steep mountains that wrap around crystal waters. One would have much to see and do in Norway, but an unexpected delight would be to attend a local wedding near the eccentrically named Valley of Trolls. Sweet, festive music would play for the dancing guests who would congratulate the happy couple. Though quite cold despite spring, the wedding would be held outside where the crisp air would be tinged with the scent of petrichor. If one looked past the scraggly trees, a placid river would stretch across the wide expanses, framed by snowy cliffs tinged with green. Turning back now would lead you to the sight of the married couple holding hands as they say their vows. The music would reflect this gentle love, turning soft as the pair smile and seal their futures together. The chill of the Norwegian weather would settle against their skin and sigh in the wake of their warmth. Upon confirmation, the guests would explode and the music would once again turn merry as they exchanged best wishes and drag the newlyweds to dance. 

“I don’t get it,” he’d said, “why would you ever want this song played at your wedding? It sounds like trolls dancing  around before switching to some sad song then back.”

His teacher rolled her eyes and replied scathingly, “Why’d you pick this song then? Don’t play it if you think it’s stupid.” 

“I do like it! It just doesn’t sound like a wedding song.”

She looked thoughtfully at him. “You are so young. When you get married, you will know.” Her face seemed pensive as she smiled. “Your marriage day is both the happiest day of your life and the saddest. It is the start of something new, and it’s both frightening and exhilarating at the same time.” He gawked as she winked at him. “Maybe I will play for your wedding, we will see.” 

She never did. For one because he was painfully single, and the other? Well, that was why he was here.

He ended the slow middle section and returned to the beginning theme. It was still merry and happy, but there seemed to be something else there in between the expanding chords and increased pace. In the last bars of the song, it began to fade away and instead of playing the last chord sforzando like Grieg intended, he hit the chord slowly but firmly. Through the Steinway’s natural resonance, it reverberated quietly in the room. He could almost hear his piano teacher’s groan but he knew her faux annoyance masked her understanding of his intentions. She had always understood him in a way few others did.

For Adrian, his journey into piano was of parental persuasion and lots of free time. It was a constant in his life, and so was his piano teacher Mrs. Lim. He wouldn’t say that he loved piano, but he did enjoy it. It was his childhood hobby and lasted throughout elementary and high school. After he graduated though, he completely stopped. Generally, his life didn’t change much; he went about his days normally, and when the school work began to pile up, he didn’t think about much else besides that. But sometimes, he would think about piano, like when he passed by the college music building or heard the music students chatter about their classes. When he got a hangnail, which he used to never get because Mrs. Lim would complain, he would absentmindedly think back to the days of short fingernails and sitting at his mother’s vanity using her nail clippers. When his professor talked in a thick Malaysian accent, and reminded him of the way she would playfully scold him.

During winter break, he would return home and sometimes go and visit Mrs. Lim. The days before his visit, he practiced old songs with vigor as to keep up the illusion that he had maintained his practicing, but he knew that she knew. Adrian would show up to her house with various fruits and sometimes his mom’s homemade kueh. She would greet him with a smile and general busybody questions, and then he would play. 

He waited for the applause to be over before shuffling his chair and cracking his neck. The finale was here. Taking a breath, he placed his hands on the keys pressing down slowly as not to actually play the note and exhaled.

In the middle of the night while he was studying for a final, Adrian received a phone call. It was his mom. She sounded sad when he said hello and asked what was wrong. She told him Mrs. Lim had passed away. Peacefully in her sleep. Adrian didn’t remember the rest of that night, only that it felt hollow. The next week went by in a daze, then school was over for that year. Adrian returned home. He was asked to play at her funeral. He said yes.

From Spain to Norway and now to California. The scenery changes from awe of architecture to nature and finally to human existence. The city of Los Angeles draws people in from across the corners of the world with its cosmopolitan reputation. It’s fast paced and a city whose lights seem to outnumber those in the night sky. It’s beaches and shopping malls, sprawling streets and lights, young people and old, a mixing pot of paradoxes and juxtapositions. On Friday nights though, when you head into Chinatown, the noise doesn’t stop, the city doesn’t change, but everything shifts as if under a new filter. Here, Mandarin speaking immigrants gather to celebrate their culture and lives, both old and new, and one can always find something new to discover. When the sun sets behind the Hollywood sign and the streetlights turn on, the street comes alive with restaurants and conversation. For some, the district is an old memory, for others, a new experience. Regardless, there is something intimidating yet comforting about Chinatown. 

Adrian didn’t know where to start with his composition. He had written a bit in high school, but he didn’t write extensively. What he did write was rudimentary and nothing noteworthy. But he enjoyed it. Writing his song for Mrs. Lim was part eulogy and part love letter. Through his hours and days spent at his desk and at the small upright piano he had played on during his childhood, he came to a realization. He loved piano. It was a part of him and would always have a place within his life, just as Mrs. Lim was. For him, the two were so interconnected that he sometimes mistook them for the same thing. In the time of his labor, Adrian grew to love music and piano and grew to recognize that love and the sadness he had felt in its absence. With every page he wrote, he tried to portray the feeling of intense admiration and respect he had had for Mrs. Lim. When he finished, he felt a sense of pride. When he played it for the first time, he could feel the smile that Mrs. Lim would always have for him when she opened up the door. He could remember vividly the first time he saw her play seriously, her normally stern face knit in passion. Within the piece, Adrian found himself, his past, present, and he could see his future like a fierce image conjured by the strains of a song.

The song ended. The audience clapped uproariously. He stood and bowed. There was a trembling within himself that seemed to vibrate with the echoes of the song’s last note, bouncing around in the church. The Steinway piano behind him seemed to wave goodbye at him as he walked away towards his family. It was equal parts frightening and exhilarating, a juxtaposition of a happy moment on a sad day. Adrian looked back toward the piano sitting alone in the center of the room. It seemed to smile back at him.

“Why do you play piano?”

“Because I love to.”