in your brains.”
“Who was that?”
“You mean on the record?”
She raised her head, dizzy, and nodded.
“You liked that?”
“It’s the best music I’ve ever heard.”
“Then I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow morning, look in the record cabinet. Filed under B for Bowie.”
She listened to all of
Hunky Dory,
but especially “Life on Mars?,” again and again. Uncle Kevin walked her through the basics, about sharps and flats, scales and counting beats. She listened more. She listened harder. The music echoed inside her mind and came out through her hands, one note, one chord, one measure at a time. She went straight to the piano when she got home from school. She spent every Saturday and Sunday dancing her fingertips down and over and across the keys.
She begged and pleaded with her parents for lessons, real private lessons. Uncle Kevin mentioned he’d seen a conservatory student play a piano concerto to a standing ovation, and Natalie knew, as soon as she heard her name—
Viola Fabian
—that this woman would be her teacher.
Had
to be. Her mother caved first. It was her mother’s mother’s piano, after all, and Natalie had only been two when her grandmother passed away. The drive from Millbrae to San Francisco to meet Viola Fabian was etched permanently in Natalie’s brain: how the rolling brown hills gave way to long blocks of pastel row houses, to city stoplights and street corners and crowds of people, and how Viola could be in any one of them.
Viola met with Natalie and her parents in one of the practice studios at the conservatory. They compared calendars, discussed fees. Natalie eyed the twin baby grands with greedy joy. She ached to show this strange and beautiful young woman—younger than her parents, maybe even younger than Uncle Kevin—how talented she was. How alike they were.
Viola asked Natalie’s parents to step out of the practice room while their daughter played for her. “Having you around makes us that much more nervous,” she told them, and winked at Natalie. The room, soundproof and close, felt like a secret clubhouse as soon as they were alone. Viola asked her to run through her scales, major, minor, and chromatic. She asked her to play a prepared solo, and Natalie played, of course, “Life on Mars?” Viola gave her a handwritten sheet of music to sight-read. Natalie knew she hadn’t performed perfectly—sight-reading wasn’t her strength, to say the least—but she knew she’d played well. She’d felt that sweet rush of weightlessness she always felt when she played, when the music lifted her high on its back. Through it all, Viola had said nothing beyond an instruction. She paced the small room (which felt smaller as time went on), winding the end of her white-streaked ponytail around her index finger, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed.
Natalie laid her hands in her lap and waited, hopeful.
Viola smiled at her with all her teeth and said, “You were sloppy on all your scales, but especially the full chromatic, which was pretty goddamn awful. That was the worst pedal work I’ve ever seen in my life, frankly, but it was still better than your sight-reading, which was a goddamn disaster. It’s laughable that you thought to audition with
that
piece of pop trash, but it’s not your fault; no one ever told you what to play. You taught yourself, and it shows. You aren’t ever going to be great, but if you want to try to be good, I can help you. Learn this,” she said, offering a sheaf of music. “All of it. By next Tuesday.”
Natalie didn’t know what else to do, so she smiled. Decades later, she would tell Dr. Danny that at that moment she knew, she
knew
—instinctively, deep in her gut—that Viola Fabian was dangerous.
But she didn’t listen to her gut. She hadn’t yet learned how.
Natalie is sick with the coincidence of it all. For them to have last seen each other on the other side of the country—seventeen years have passed since that sweltering
“Who was that?”
“You mean on the record?”
She raised her head, dizzy, and nodded.
“You liked that?”
“It’s the best music I’ve ever heard.”
“Then I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow morning, look in the record cabinet. Filed under B for Bowie.”
She listened to all of
Hunky Dory,
but especially “Life on Mars?,” again and again. Uncle Kevin walked her through the basics, about sharps and flats, scales and counting beats. She listened more. She listened harder. The music echoed inside her mind and came out through her hands, one note, one chord, one measure at a time. She went straight to the piano when she got home from school. She spent every Saturday and Sunday dancing her fingertips down and over and across the keys.
She begged and pleaded with her parents for lessons, real private lessons. Uncle Kevin mentioned he’d seen a conservatory student play a piano concerto to a standing ovation, and Natalie knew, as soon as she heard her name—
Viola Fabian
—that this woman would be her teacher.
Had
to be. Her mother caved first. It was her mother’s mother’s piano, after all, and Natalie had only been two when her grandmother passed away. The drive from Millbrae to San Francisco to meet Viola Fabian was etched permanently in Natalie’s brain: how the rolling brown hills gave way to long blocks of pastel row houses, to city stoplights and street corners and crowds of people, and how Viola could be in any one of them.
Viola met with Natalie and her parents in one of the practice studios at the conservatory. They compared calendars, discussed fees. Natalie eyed the twin baby grands with greedy joy. She ached to show this strange and beautiful young woman—younger than her parents, maybe even younger than Uncle Kevin—how talented she was. How alike they were.
Viola asked Natalie’s parents to step out of the practice room while their daughter played for her. “Having you around makes us that much more nervous,” she told them, and winked at Natalie. The room, soundproof and close, felt like a secret clubhouse as soon as they were alone. Viola asked her to run through her scales, major, minor, and chromatic. She asked her to play a prepared solo, and Natalie played, of course, “Life on Mars?” Viola gave her a handwritten sheet of music to sight-read. Natalie knew she hadn’t performed perfectly—sight-reading wasn’t her strength, to say the least—but she knew she’d played well. She’d felt that sweet rush of weightlessness she always felt when she played, when the music lifted her high on its back. Through it all, Viola had said nothing beyond an instruction. She paced the small room (which felt smaller as time went on), winding the end of her white-streaked ponytail around her index finger, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed.
Natalie laid her hands in her lap and waited, hopeful.
Viola smiled at her with all her teeth and said, “You were sloppy on all your scales, but especially the full chromatic, which was pretty goddamn awful. That was the worst pedal work I’ve ever seen in my life, frankly, but it was still better than your sight-reading, which was a goddamn disaster. It’s laughable that you thought to audition with
that
piece of pop trash, but it’s not your fault; no one ever told you what to play. You taught yourself, and it shows. You aren’t ever going to be great, but if you want to try to be good, I can help you. Learn this,” she said, offering a sheaf of music. “All of it. By next Tuesday.”
Natalie didn’t know what else to do, so she smiled. Decades later, she would tell Dr. Danny that at that moment she knew, she
knew
—instinctively, deep in her gut—that Viola Fabian was dangerous.
But she didn’t listen to her gut. She hadn’t yet learned how.
Natalie is sick with the coincidence of it all. For them to have last seen each other on the other side of the country—seventeen years have passed since that sweltering
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