With only the first notes played the maestro could sense the room. It had suddenly grown still. He knew this moment well. These people were actually capable of recognizing the purity of musical genius. The maestro felt the melody smother those in attendance. He could feel the intensity of the performance. Every sound coming from this piano was absolute magic captivating every ear. The notes swirled through the auditorium like leaves in a whirlwind. Truly this was a night that all in attendance, including the maestro, would never forget. Never again would such musical perfection and beauty fill these walls. And then… silence. Applause erupted. The crowd was on its feet. Cheers rebounded from the walls as fast as the authors could scream them. The adoration was not lost on the maestro. Yet he did his now automatic bow with crossed hands and feigned his humility. He joined Fuller at the exit thanking all for attending and bathed in the attention. The moment dissipated as the last member of the audience departed. Fuller and the maestro were alone.
The maestro prepared himself for the apologies that he knew would be forthcoming for the insult bestowed on him by Fuller in failing to introduce him as the maestro. Fuller praised the maestro for the intricacy of his composition and could not stress enough how it had been such a genuine honor and pleasure to listen to the maestro’s performance. Nevertheless, the apology did not come.
Deciding the adulations were sufficient, the maestro opted to forgive Fuller anyway. Besides, he had to know why such a talent was in this burg and just where Fuller had been schooled. The answers would be revealing and yet, reveal nothing.
#
Bill Fuller had been a prodigy. As a youth he studied piano and received lessons from the best teachers in the area. In college he discovered just how musically skilled he was and quickly surpassed his instructors. He earned his masters in music and headed to Odessa, Ukraine, where he spent five years at The Odessa Conservatoire. His abilities and innate drive gave rise to recognition and offers to conduct prestigious orchestras in every corner of the world. “Wait a minute,” spoke the maestro. “You are William Fuller! I know of you. You had it all right there in front of you and disappeared. Why?”
“See the seat by the East door-–how it is shadowed? I want you to leave and come back in two hours. Sit in that seat--no other. Depart when you have your answer.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“You trust nothing but your abilities. Trust in my abilities now and come back in two hours.” With that said Fuller left.
The maestro had to know why one of the greatest orchestral talents of our time would walk away from his destiny to teach high school music. He would do as instructed.
#
When the maestro walked into the auditorium, the house lights were off. Only the Exit signs illuminated the seating arena. A solitary stage light faintly highlighted the Steinway, which now rested center stage. All of the orchestra chairs were gone. Silently, a bent and solemn figure entered the stage from the shadows. The maestro knew this had to be Wallace. Taking the seat as Fuller had said to do, the maestro watched as Wallace clutched a broom in his bent and twisted fingers, sweeping the floor. Watching intently he recognized the passion and determination glowing in Wallace’s dark eyes. This was a man who was giving all he had to complete this menial task. Even bent in deformity, unable to speak, this man commanded respect. Clearly, Wallace was his mother’s son. Fascinated in the evident pride being displayed on the stage, the maestro watched. When the entire stage had been swept, Wallace walked to the Steinway, laid the broom on the floor, and sat down on the bench. Wallace’s twisted left hand then punched a few notes on the keyboard indiscriminately and then his right hand joined the left.
The maestro attempted to stand to stop the young man from hurting this majestic instrument, but found he could not rise from his seat. He opened his mouth to shout, but the words would not leave his throat. Panic set in for the first time in his life. “What is happening to me?” he wanted to scream, but only hushed breath passed his lips. He had no choice but to sit in unvoiced terror and pray Wallace would discover him and somehow call for help. But Wallace’s full attention was on the task before him.
Concentrating, Wallace plinked notes on the piano with his cone shaped fingers. Then one note at a time became two in harmony. The prisoner in the audience of one had no alternative but to listen to the repetitious sounds of the two-note chords. Then the maestro’s ears detected that a third note had joined the two, and then a fourth. He couldn’t comprehend how the young man was somehow negotiating the keys to strike four notes into a chord from fingers that quite obviously were permanently twisted into spears. As abruptly as the notes started, they stopped. The first notes, as static as they had been, stuck in the maestro’s mind. They were familiar, ‘but why?’
This whole time Wallace’s eyes had been darting around the stage seeing all, but focusing on nothing. Now they stopped their random journey. As Wallace’s right hand rose in the dim shaft of light, his eyes became transfixed on the disfigurement. Penetrating eyes focused on each finger and in response each single digit began to move as if gaining life independent of the body. Slowly, finger-by-finger, the mass became a hand-–each finger free from the other, moving in the whisper of light like reeds in a twilight breeze. Then the left hand rose and when his eyes focused on that hand, the process repeated itself. Wallace gazed upon the black and white keys in front of him and his fingers struck the board hard. A ten-note chord resonated, echoing from the walls, billowing into the depths of the auditorium like a circus calliope. He struck another and another and still another, each louder than the one before it. Wallace then placed his hands on the keys with tenderness unknown to the maestro. This could only be described as the touch lovers share in that moment before passion. Wallace’s fingers seemed to liquefy into the keys and become indistinguishable. There was no longer definition between the fingers and the keys; they were one. Wallace repeated the notes the maestro had heard come from the piano when Wallace sat down. Only this time it was music, but more than that. The sounds cooed from the Steinway as if it were a kitten purring under its mother’s loving touch. And the music became a dervish. The composition didn’t envelope the room; it seduced it. The auditorium joined with the piano to become a single instrument. The maestro did not feel the music; it swarmed through him becoming part of him. For a moment the maestro swore he saw the music dancing as a living being, each note flying around him singing the praises of its maker. And as this melodrama of life continued, the maestro felt his soul come alive and embrace the passion soaring through his body. For indeed this was passion. It was music in a form the maestro had never known to exist. The room was alive and so was the maestro. Tears rolled down his cheeks, his smile was distorted in absolute rapture. Music was everywhere and life became light flowing around the room engulfing everything in its path with brilliance never before seen. It was euphoric and the maestro did not want it to end. But end it did-–abruptly.
Looking to the stage the maestro froze as Wallace’s eyes locked with his--but only for a moment. Those mysterious chasms of black began to drift aimlessly about the room. The hands, which had created a world apart from this world, began to twist and turn until once again they were useless cones capable only of holding a broom handle. Wallace rose, picked up his broom, and slowly left the stage disappearing into the darkness.
#
Able to once again control his body, the maestro stood and quietly left the auditorium. Outside in the cold night air he finally recognized the notes he heard. It was his concerto that he had written and performed for the first time. But it wasn’t his anymore. It had become something he would never be able to duplicate and certainly could never share. He knew he would never play it again-–it now belonged to a small bent man with hands that could do nothing but hold a broom.
#
The next morning the maestro went to the front desk to check out and ask Ginny about her son. The man at the counter said Ginny had taken Wallace to the hospital-–something about some kind of spinal attack and exhaustion, but that he was recovering and would be okay… this time.
Phil was waiting--it was time to leave.
#
“Hello,” Richard