My teacher said that the problem isn’t in my fingers. The problem is, in fact, in my mind. Chopin, you see, is all about the phrase. The melody must rise out of nothingness, crescendo into a soaring climax, and finally fall back down into the keys, only to repeat again and again like waves carrying the music out to sea. It’s not enough to simply play the phrase with your fingers. You have to feel it. You have to believe it. She thought I didn’t understand this point; that’s why she kept drilling it in, but I did. My mind wasn’t letting me down. My fingers were.
Short and stubby, mine are not at all like those of the great pianists I revere. And fastened to my chubby hands, you would be unlikely to mistake them for the tactile, delicate digits of Rubenstein or Gould. No, mine are that of an oversized baby. Sad, fat, and spiritless sausages, barely stretching a full octave. I mean, how embarrassing. A man of my age with paws like these. Make no mistake though, I know I can be great too. Oh for sure, I have it in me, but the first step to greatness is acknowledging your weakness, and I have no doubt about mine.
I had a lesson with Miss Kozlova just yesterday. For weeks, she has been criticising my playing, finding fault with every little thing I do. Of course, I try to explain to her that it’s not my fault I can hardly reach the keys, and that my frigid stumps can’t help but stumble over each other in the faster passages. ‘Nonsense’, she always says in her thick Russian accent. She says that I’m distracted. She says that I’m not practising. But how could she understand? Her hands might be petite, but her fingers are long, delicate, and agile. Graceful. There’s no grace in me.
You know, Chopin used to sleep with wine corks between his fingers at night to widen his hand span. I mean, how else was he supposed to play those études? Well, last night I decided to take some inspiration. Of course, I didn’t just happen to have six wine corks to hand. I’m not some kind of alcoholic. Instead, I dipped into the recycling bin. A few bottle caps later, plus half a reel of sellotape to try and keep the bloody things in place, I was ready for bed. Sure it was a faff, but I’m sure I’ll get quicker at it.
As for the results, I’m happy to report that I can feel improvement already. Of course, a bit of aching is to be expected but success never comes pain-free. As Miss Kozlova says, it’s only through blood, sweat, and tears that we truly know what we’re doing is important. And what I’m doing - what I have the potential to do, it matters. I just know it.
I had five voicemails from Miss Kozlova today. To think, I went 13 whole years without ever missing a lesson, and now I’ve skipped not one but two. She was furious. She kept saying that I was wasting my talent, but it will all make sense to her eventually. It’s true that my ability to practise has been somewhat stunted since I took my handicap into my own hands, so to speak. However, my reach has definitely improved, and after only two weeks I can comfortably manage a 9th! Naturally, water bottle caps will only work for so long. You have to think bigger. Did you know Rachmaninoff could play a 12th? Tonight’s plan is slightly different. I considered using scissors but the ones in the kitchen are somewhat blunt, and let’s not forget, this is my livelihood we’re talking about - these hands are my ticket to greatness. I am simply not willing to take any risks. Instead, I had a hunt through the garage and picked out my smallest pair of garden shears.
I rang Miss Kozlova up this morning and apologised profusely. It wasn’t easy to navigate my phone; my fingers were still recovering from the surgery a few days ago. To my astonishment, I was met with nothing but rudeness. She claimed she hadn’t left me a single voicemail! According to her, I was no longer welcome at her piano as she no longer felt ‘comfortable’ having me as her student.
Needless to say, she was a little shocked when I turned up. To be quite frank, I had felt unappreciated for a long time. Miss Kozlova simply did not recognise my talent as a pianist. What I had to work so hard for, she had practically been handed to at birth - the ungratefulness is truly staggering. She has no idea what I would do for long, slender fingers, like hers. That’s why I came prepared of course.
Miss Koslova has a very nice house at the end of a very long driveway. I think her husband was a banker, or something equally dull. Naturally, she did quite well out of the whole affair. She would always talk about how lovely it was to have a piano all the way out here, with no neighbours, so you can play as loudly as you want without feeling like you’re being judged. I, for one, have always preferred an audience.
The door was just open, as it always was, so that students could wait inside as soon as they arrived without disturbing the lesson in progress. Small garden shears are perfectly suitable for a de-webbing, but I could tell that for this I would need my larger hedge trimmers.
Once I was done, I sat down at the piano and played the piece I had been working on for so many weeks, and let me tell you, it was beautiful. For once, I was not looking down at the grubby mitts of an infant, but at the graceful, dancing fingers of Chopin himself. He was in the room with me - that I’m sure of. The notes fell onto the keys gently as the fragmented melody unfurled, not yet showing its true form. Soft chords and arpeggios brought a sliver of hope until a cascading chromatic scale plummeted the piece into rhapsodic anarchy. With none of the original tranquility, immense, agitated chords sang in beautiful chaos, and in the last few bars, the storm subsided in a grievous conclusion, with the final note striking three times. A funeral toll.
It was perfect. I knew it. Chopin knew it. Miss Koslova knew it, for not until today had my music ever made her cry.