The Gift

It was Sunday night, and Jared Pappas stood in the wings of a small auditorium on the Upper West Side, staring at the Steinway that sat flooded in light at stage center. A beast to be tamed. He’d heard that metaphor, but his experience told him otherwise. Yet, the image always came to him, here, the moment before his life would stop for ninety minutes.

The house lights had dimmed promptly at 7:30, and the audience fell into silence. But now, a few minutes later, they’d begun to murmur. The clock over the stage manager’s head said 7:32. And when Jared met her eyes, she said, “Any time.”

So, Jared straightened his bow tie and felt for the silver cufflinks, a gift from his father, because every concert artist needs some decent cufflinks. He gave each of the French cuffs a tug, pulling them down beyond the sleeves of his tux, then stepped out into the blinding light.

✧ ✧ ✧

“When did it start? When you were on stage?” Kim asked as she placed a cool, damp washcloth on Jared’s head.

“Yeah, during the Schumann,” Jared said. It was as though a shard of ice had been driven into his temple. He moved the washcloth to cover his burning eyes for a moment.

His phone began to buzz in his folio. “See who that is?”

The sound of Kim fumbling. “Hey. Yeah …” Her voice drifted away into murmuring as she walked into the bedroom. What’s so secret that she has to go to the bedroom?

“Paul.” She was back now.

“What’d he want?”

“He said you looked like you were going to pass out.”

“That’s how I feel.”

“He said your playing was transcendent. Like you were a different artist tonight. Out of character. Those were his words.”

“I can never sort out the agent spin from real compliments,” he said. But he didn’t care about any of that; he just wanted the pain to go away.

“He saw a critic there. And he spoke to her afterward. I forget her name. He brought her back to meet you, and you were gone.”

“Hmm.” Jared tried to recall, but something black and massive sat between him and what happened only an hour earlier.

“Let’s get you in bed. Maybe you can sleep this off.”

After making his way into the bedroom, he stripped off his tux and threw it on the chair, then fell into bed and lay there on his back. Kim tossed him a bag of frozen peas that he set on his forehead.

His eyes covered, he listened to her night routine. The running water, the brushing, the gargling, the drawers on the dresser. Each brought a fresh pulse of pain.

“Did you get your grading done?” he asked.

“Never,” she said as she thumped another drawer closed.

Then, when she was lying next to him, she took his hand and held it tight. Her hand was cool from the water, and he imagined it on his forehead, on his cheek.

And there was a voice. He should have told her. A man’s voice. There in the Schumann, the Geistervariationen. It was barely audible. Calling to him. Jared had turned in the middle of the opening theme and looked at the people in the first row, thinking it came from there. But the only thing he saw was their closed mouths and their enraptured faces.

The words he heard. He couldn’t make them out. But now they were gone, and only the throbbing in his brain kept him company.

✧ ✧ ✧

The next morning, the pain was gone, yet the Brooklyn sunlight appeared fuzzy as it shone on the carpet beside the bed. Jared remembered as a boy looking through the backstop at Yankee Stadium. A veil of sorts hung between him and the game.

A buzz. His phone was on the nightstand.

Paul: You awake?

Jared closed his eyes and set the phone on his chest. No.

Now it was ringing.

Jared picked it up, and Paul started right in, the words tumbling out. “Have you seen the review? In the Morning Star? This is epic. And I’m quoting, ‘A new Schumann exponent is born: Queens native makes poetry at the piano.’”

“I finished with the Geistervariationen.”

“I know. I was there. But the audience—if you could have seen their faces, and I know you couldn’t—they were bewitched.”

Jared cleared his throat. “It was a throwaway—a nothing. A poor choice.”

“But as a recital closer? It was a prayer! From the ghost of Schumann himself! Okay, I gotta go. I have three messages to return already, and somebody’s calling now. You’re going to get some gigs outta this.”

Jared sighed. After two years of struggling on the B circuit to gain some traction, he couldn’t imagine anything but more half-filled cultural centers and library stages.

“Hey, Jay. How’s your head?” Kim asked. She sat on the bed next to him and kissed his forehead.

“Better.”

“You gonna teach your lessons today?”

“Do I have a choice? We need the money.”

“Cancel them. You need to get checked out. I’m in parent-teacher conferences all week, so I need you to do this.”

“Paul’s got some stuff in the works. Let’s wait till he gets the dates settled, then I can schedule an appointment.”

Kim stared at him for a moment, then put her hand on his cheek. “Okay, but promise you’re not going to let this go. And take it easy; practice here this morning—rather than at school.”

Jared preferred the grand at school, but nodded slowly.

Then Kim was gone, off to her third-grade class.

As soon as the apartment door clicked closed, he was up and in at the old Steinway upright in the living room, but it was the only thing that would fit in their garden apartment.

His leather folio was set on top of the piano. Kim must have put it there last night. After unzipping it, he saw the program on top. At the bottom of the pile was the Schumann score. The steel-blue cover looked back at him as though asking a question.

Schumann. Urtext. Thema mit Variationen (Geistervariationen).

Geistervariationen was in parentheses because Schumann never gave it that title. It was added afterward by some earnest editor.

Jared turned through the score, page by page, trying to recall the performance, but nothing came. It was as though that portion of his life had been lifted from existence. But at variation three, something made him pause. Yes, here is where he’d focus today. The grace notes in the right hand. They need more elegance, less precision. Because he said. The voice.

And despite the veil, his mind seemed perfectly clear.

✧ ✧ ✧

His first lesson that afternoon was a favorite: a twelve-year-old playing a Mendelssohn scherzo. The youth’s fingers skittered around the keys, and for the first time, Jared found his concentration flagging. The student was two pages ahead, and Jared had to flip quietly to find the place.

The Schumann. The third variation still needed work. Despite two hours of practice, the grace notes still sounded like a ratchet in his ears. What could he do that he hadn’t already tried?

Jared looked up. The young man had finished and was staring at him.

Jared applauded. “Well done, Nick. Bravo!”

Nick’s nose crinkled. “But what about the coda?”

Jared’s breath caught for a moment. “Nice. It’s come a long way.”

“You said it was messy last week.”

“And now?”

Nick shrugged. “It’s come a long way.”

“Let’s go to the Bach.”

Three hours later, Jared had stopped pretending to follow along in the music, and he’d resorted to the Socratic method that he hated. “What do you think we need to work on?”

What kind of practice will help that passage?

Are you happy with your performance? I’d have to agree.

But the grace notes. Still, they weren’t right. The sound he wanted, it was in his ear, in his head. Now, to get his fingers to do it.

After a final student, a sulky teenager with no interest in Haydn, it was 8:33 p.m. Just a few minutes of practice. Kim would be holding dinner.

He sat down at the Bechstein, a rebuilt grand he inherited from his mother, along with the weight of her dreams. It took a legal document for the school to allow a personal instrument in their building, but it was too big for their apartment.

He ran his hand along the fallboard, a deep walnut color with a rich patina. His first memory was playing under the piano while his mother taught. In a few years, he moved up to the bench and became her student.

So, he took a breath, opened his score, and waited for the noise in his head to quiet when the singing started.

✧ ✧ ✧

When he walked in the door, Kim was standing in the living room, her arms folded. “Where have you been?”

“I was teaching.”

“It’s after ten. I texted … called. What’s going on?”

Jared pulled his phone from his jacket. “My phone was off.”

“Since when do you turn your phone off?”

He doesn’t turn his phone off. He never turns his phone off. The screen lit, then the messages started to load.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to fix this one passage, but I …” There were three texts from her, and two calls. And earlier, something from Paul.

“You what?”

“Oh, sorry. I guess I forgot to stop.”

“Do you hear what you’re even saying? You never forget. And you’re never late!”

Kim shook her head and walked into the kitchen. Jared followed a few steps behind.

She’d left dinner on a covered plate on the stove. Souvlaki. His favorite. A basket of pitas sat next to it. When he took the plastic wrap off, its pungent scent filled the kitchen.

“Let me reheat it,” she said.

“No. I’m good.” He grabbed the dishes and sat at the table.

She sat across from him, watching him eat. “Paul’s been trying to get you. He texted me. He has something big for this weekend.”

“This weekend?”

“You better call him.”

Jared looked at his phone. 10:25 p.m. His head ached. Every part of his body ached. “Tomorrow.”

“Did you call the doctor?” she asked.

“I didn’t have any issues today. I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m telling you I am!”

He loaded up one of the pitas with a skewer of meat and veggies. Taking a spoonful of tzatziki, he drizzled it on top.

“We’re going tomorrow. I’ll cancel my conferences, and we’re going to … to urgent care. Something.”

“And tell them I had a headache?” He was shouting now, moving his arms, the fork in his hand. “Don’t cancel your conferences. I’ll schedule something for next week.”

Jared rolled up the pita and took a bite. Perfectly seasoned. He almost took a second bite but paused. “I’m hearing this voice—when I play. But only during the Schumann.”

He hadn’t meant to tell her.

Her face was expressionless, almost rigid.

“What do they say?” she asked, her voice cracking. “These voices.”

“He. Not a they.”

“He,” Kim said quietly.

“The words—I don’t understand them—but I do. He tells me how to play.”

Kim reached out and set her hand on his. “Jay. We’re going to get through this. I promise.”

Jared pulled his hand away. “There’s nothing to get through. You heard Paul! This is good!”

Kim finally looked away, her eyes reddening. Then she stood and slowly walked to the bedroom, and he almost stood to follow, but took another bite of his souvlaki.

✧ ✧ ✧

Jared always chose the restaurant, and Paul always paid. Today, he chose a small sandwich shop near his studio. He planned to spend a few hours practicing before his first student showed up.

“This is big, Jared. Krzeskovsky is trapped in Croatia with some visa issues, so he’s out for Sunday at the Lamberte. In the big hall!”

“They called the wrong guy.”

“No. They read your review! And I spoke to their artistic director, and they have a thing for young, talented kids on the way up.”

“I’m not a kid anymore.”

Paul pretended to choke on his sandwich. “At twenty-five, believe me. You’re a kid.”

“Well, I can’t sub for Krzeskovsky. People will be expecting Chopin!”

“You can do the same program—no, do whatever you want! I don’t care. Your agent believes in you, so just do your thing. And end with the Schumann.”

“I’m putting the Schumann on ice for a while. It needs some time to mature.”

Paul leaned forward, waving his arms. “Why would you do that? That piece is your ticket to the grownups table. You been eating with the kids long enough.”

Paul had finally stopped gesticulating. In moments like this, Jared feared for the glassware.

“Kim’s worried about me.”

“What? Worried how?”

“The headache. The blackout.”

“You never mentioned a blackout,” Paul said, and paused. But then he began looking impatiently around the crowded restaurant. “Well, you look fine to me. And you don’t look worried. If you’re not, I’m not.”

Jared looked at his Reuben. His appetite had left him. “When do they need the program?”

✧ ✧ ✧

The next day, Wednesday, he sat at the old Steinway, staring at the cover of the Schumann. Kim was off to school. No students this afternoon. All day. Jared didn’t look at the piece yesterday. After lunch with Paul, he tightened up the rest of the program. He’d use most of last Sunday’s program, but he’d sub out the Haydn Sonata for a Chopin Scherzo he knew, reaching for something to connect with Krzeskovsky’s audience.

But today was about Schumann.

He set his laptop on a chair next to him and turned the webcam on. Recording.

He turned to the opening theme. His right hand was shaking. Holding it up before his face, he willed it to stop. But it didn’t, so he set it on the E-flat chord that began the piece.

He took a breath and closed his eyes. And began to sing.

When Jared opened his eyes, he was lying on the couch opposite the piano. How long had he been here? His hand went to his forehead. The pain was more intense than he remembered. He looked at his watch. Three hours had passed.

Jared hurried to the laptop and played the video. He was looking at his hand. It was shaking. He remembered that. And then he played the first chord.

Initially, Jared was humming with the melody, then with a countermelody from the left hand. Not unusual. He sometimes sang as he practiced; it helped him find the shape of the melodic line. But today, the voice was different. He couldn’t quite say how, but it didn’t sound like his voice.

After twenty minutes, the voice changed, and words began to emerge. His body was swaying to the undulations in the music; his arms seemed to float effortlessly. It was Jared at the piano, but the sound … He understood Paul’s words now. Out of character. Someone else’s character. Him.

The words, they weren’t a language he recognized. But they were words.

“Hey.” Kim had just walked in. “I have a two-hour break in my conferences, but I have to go back tonight.”

Jared closed the lid of his laptop.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You’re on the couch.”

“Just taking a break.”

She unpacked her bags from school into the cubbies by the door. Jared watched, his head pounding, his eyes watering.

She turned and looked at him. “Alright, enough. You’re not okay.”

Jared sat up and moved over, so she sat next to him.

“Watch this.” Jared started the video, and he fell into the music like diving into a pool.

“Jay!” Kim had his arm and was shaking him.

He blinked as the recording stopped. She’d shut it off.

“Did you hear it?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“The voice! It wasn’t mine.”

She began moving her head side to side. “All I heard was you, and it scared me. You’ve got to stop this. Call Paul and tell him you can’t do it.”

“I have to do it.”

“You don’t. I won’t let you.” She took his laptop from him and stood. She was crying now. “You have a problem, Jared. You don’t get it, but it’s not good.”

“It’s a gift.”

She laughed. “Not for me, it isn’t.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Jared canceled his lessons for the rest of the week and stayed at his studio. There was no way he could get the work done at the apartment. He needed a decent instrument. And the apartment rules said no noise after nine, and with Kim in and out …

So he grabbed his folio, his toothbrush, and walked the ten blocks to the school. Of course, he spoke to the school’s director, explaining the situation, and after a prolonged silence, the woman nodded. But no sleeping in the building.

But he did. On the worn couch across from the piano where his students and their families sometimes waited. At closing time, he’d lie perfectly still on the couch and turn out the studio light. In his sweep of the building, Ray, from maintenance, would come by and try the door. Locked. And move on. After another half hour, he’d get back to work.

Then, about Friday—Jared wasn’t sure—there was a knock on the studio door. He’d taped a piece of paper over the small window in the door to keep prying eyes off him. He’d also hung a note on the door in case some student didn’t get the message: No Lessons This Week for Mr. Pappas.

Another knock. He waited. They’ll go away.

But on the third knock, he rose and opened the door.

Paul.

“Hey, Jared. Can I come in?”

“I’m in the middle of some good practice right now.”

Paul pushed the door open and walked in. He handed Jared a paper bag. “Some groceries. Just a few things to keep your strength up.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Kim said you were here.” He slowly sat down on the couch.

“Oh.”

“She’s worried. You’re not answering your phone … You’re sleeping in your office … Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just that Sunday’s coming too fast.”

“You don’t look fine.” Paul’s face softened. “I’m worried about you. We need you in tip-top shape for Sunday.”

Jared sat on the piano bench facing Paul. “I won’t play if I’m not ready.”

“Whoa, there, cowboy. My reputation’s on the line here. And so is yours. We committed, and there’s no second chances after this.”

Jared didn’t move; he hardly breathed.

“Kim tells me you’re hearing voices?”

Jared blinked. “A voice.”

Paul’s arm was draped across the back of the couch, and his finger was tapping on the cushion. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Jared turned to the piano and grabbed his notebook. “Look, see? I’ve been writing it all down, but it’s not in English. I haven’t figured it out yet, but still I … I think I know what he’s trying to say.”

“He?”

Jared held out the notebook, but Paul didn’t take it, so he pulled it back and closed it.

“Well … yeah. I know a man’s voice when I hear it.”

Paul looked around the studio, and Jared followed his gaze. At the shelf of scores under the window. At the picture of Carnegie Hall. At the poster of Baroque composers.

“I think you should talk to somebody about—this voice. To help you understand it.”

“Like a shrink?”

Paul sighed. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

“And stop that,” Jared said. “The tapping.”

Paul brought his arm down and set it in his lap, crossing his legs. “So is it comfortable here at night? Looks kinda rough, like my college days.”

“It’s fine. I’m not supposed to be sleeping here, but I think they know.” Jared leaned forward. “They have people watching me.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’m not deaf. I can hear him behind the wall—Ray, the maintenance guy.”

Paul stood and looked away at the ceiling, then the walls. “Hey, I need to get going—but I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to.”

“For Kim, so she doesn’t worry … and turn your phone on. People are trying to call you!”

“Oh, sure.” Jared pulled the notebook to his chest, and Paul walked out the door, his head down.

Jared slammed the door and sat. If he could only get the right tone in the fourth variation, then he might be able to see the thread that connects them all. He set the notebook down on the piano, but then picked it back up and made a few notes.

✧ ✧ ✧

Later that day, another knock came to his studio door. He paused for a moment, but then went on with his practice. The raps became more insistent. The lock jiggled, then the door swung open. Ray and Kim.

“Mr. Pappas, Kim’s looking for you,” Ray said.

“I found the problem. It’s right here where you have to keep the busyness of the left hand under control.” Jared demonstrated the pattern. “Come here. Take a look.”

Kim stepped over to the piano.

“You going to be okay?” Ray asked Kim.

She offered him a tight smile and nodded.

“Look here, see? It’s like he’s purposely trying to hide the most important thing.” Jared repeated the pattern.

Kim’s mouth fell open. “How can you read the music with that writing all over it?”

Jared closed the music but continued to stare at the steel blue cover. “It’s not important.”

Kim moved to the couch. “They won’t let you stay here anymore.”

“Did somebody complain?” Jared’s hand went for his notebook, but he stopped when he noticed Kim’s expression.

“Jay. There’s not going to be a concert Sunday.”

But the theme still isn’t right. So Jared opened the score again. What had he said about it?

“Paul found someone else. He didn’t think the timing was right for you.”

Jared turned to the main theme and read the words someone had written on the page, something about art and mystery and surrender. He began playing the right hand.

“Stop!” Kim was standing next to him now and grabbed his hand. “It’s over. The concert. The gift. Whatever. We need to go home and figure out what’s next.”

“None of it fits together.”

“Then you have to decide who you’re going to trust—but you can’t stay here.”

He ran his hand over the walnut and looked at her. She was upset. Why was she upset?

“We need to go home?” Jared asked. He looked to the door and saw Ray waiting in the hallway, watching.

“… to figure this out,” Kim said.

She got his coat, but still Jared sat on the bench.

Kim waited a moment, and then said, “Come on. It snowed last night. You’ll need this.”

“What day is it?”

“Friday.”

Jared closed his eyes. “Yes, Friday. I’m sorry.”

She held up his coat. And finally he stood and slipped it on, giving each shirt sleeve a little tug.

“My music!” Jared reached for the folio.

“It’ll be safer here … for now. Ray knows about the gift, and he’s helping us.”

On our side. Good.

Kim held out her hand, her smallish, pale hand. Her hand.

And Jared took it, their fingers interlocking. At first his grip was tentative, and then he held tight, as she led him into the bright hall, past Ray, and out of the building to walk the ten blocks home.