were. Fingers that would get lost playing the
difficult octave spans that Dearbhla was to show me, though I could not know that at
the time.
It was my father who first suggested that Dearbhla play something.
She smiled, but looked uncomfortable at the suggestion. “Oh David. Should I,
really?” I could tell from the tautness of her body, still holding mine, that she
longed for it, but did not dare say yes. Not openly. Not yet.
But my father,
his voice queer and rough, said, “Yes. Play. Play!” His command was heavy with a
weird ache.
“Well,” Dearbhla said. “If you insist.”
My mother’s eyes
widened. The pupils in them had shrunk into tiny black dots and they were all iris.
She stood up in a jerky, unlovely movement, walked over to Dearbhla’s chair, and
pulled me out of her arms. I squeaked with alarm.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dearbhla
said good-humouredly, getting out of the chair.
I could tell my father was
about to say something to my mother, but then Dearbhla sat down at the stool, her
fingers running lightly over the keys without pressing them. I shuddered as they did
so, imagining them clinging hard to me, even though her touch on the keyboard was
delicate. I looked over at my father. His eyes were closed, lips parted open. Now it
was he who looked as if he were in a trance.
“What shall I play?” Dearbhla
asked gaily.
“Anything,” my father whispered.
I did not look at my
mother.
After what seemed like an age, Dearbhla hit two black keys and then
let loose. I was later to learn that the piece was a Fantasie-Impromptu in C sharp
minor by Chopin, but at the time it was just a roaring tumble of notes, all pouring
out sweetly and asynchronously into the air. The energy in the room changed as she
played. Her eyes glazed over as left and right hand concentrated on maintaining the
difficult cross signatures the composer demanded.
My limbs were stiff with
awe, almost rooted, though I felt the urge to pee. I’d barely shifted when my father
placed a hand on my shoulder. He shook his head briefly, curtly. I stayed to listen
to Dearbhla play.
It ran down my leg. I felt the trickle seep through my red
cord dungarees, warm, burning, immediate. The music enraptured me so that I felt no
shame. Dearbhla and my father remained oblivious also. But Mother was not of that
world, and saw.
“That child.” She pointed at me. “Look at those wet pants.
Look at them.”
Dearbhla stopped playing.
“David,” my mother continued,
glaring at my father. “Are you going to do something? Look at those wet pants.
They’re disgusting.”
I was embarrassed, not for myself, though my thighs were
beginning to chafe with the urinous sting, but for my mother. Even at that young
age, I sensed that she, not I, was in the wrong, that her motives for humiliating me
were suspect.
“Ah, don’t worry, Lily,” Dearbhla said, getting up. “It was an
accident. It could happen to any child.”
My mother stood up too and faced
Dearbhla. For a moment, it looked as if she were going to hit her. My father sat
down, crossed his legs, and folded his arms. The moment seemed interminable. Then my
mother crossed over to the piano and sat on the stool, breathing
heavily.
“Lily, for God’s sake.” My father was angry now.
Ignoring him,
my mother breathed in a sob, pulled her hair ever more fiercely into a ponytail, and
launched into—yes, you guessed it, same old same old—the Gymnopédie. Her playing it
all wrong made it even worse. As she made mistake after mistake, she started to cry
openly. At the major seventh chord that resolves into the final D, she made the
worst clanger of the lot, hitting an F sharp and then going to the wrong place in
the bass. I prayed she would stop, but no, she kept going. Dearbhla, to give the
woman her due, kept her face an emotionless cast as the whole miserable,
cringe-inducing ritual dragged
difficult octave spans that Dearbhla was to show me, though I could not know that at
the time.
It was my father who first suggested that Dearbhla play something.
She smiled, but looked uncomfortable at the suggestion. “Oh David. Should I,
really?” I could tell from the tautness of her body, still holding mine, that she
longed for it, but did not dare say yes. Not openly. Not yet.
But my father,
his voice queer and rough, said, “Yes. Play. Play!” His command was heavy with a
weird ache.
“Well,” Dearbhla said. “If you insist.”
My mother’s eyes
widened. The pupils in them had shrunk into tiny black dots and they were all iris.
She stood up in a jerky, unlovely movement, walked over to Dearbhla’s chair, and
pulled me out of her arms. I squeaked with alarm.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dearbhla
said good-humouredly, getting out of the chair.
I could tell my father was
about to say something to my mother, but then Dearbhla sat down at the stool, her
fingers running lightly over the keys without pressing them. I shuddered as they did
so, imagining them clinging hard to me, even though her touch on the keyboard was
delicate. I looked over at my father. His eyes were closed, lips parted open. Now it
was he who looked as if he were in a trance.
“What shall I play?” Dearbhla
asked gaily.
“Anything,” my father whispered.
I did not look at my
mother.
After what seemed like an age, Dearbhla hit two black keys and then
let loose. I was later to learn that the piece was a Fantasie-Impromptu in C sharp
minor by Chopin, but at the time it was just a roaring tumble of notes, all pouring
out sweetly and asynchronously into the air. The energy in the room changed as she
played. Her eyes glazed over as left and right hand concentrated on maintaining the
difficult cross signatures the composer demanded.
My limbs were stiff with
awe, almost rooted, though I felt the urge to pee. I’d barely shifted when my father
placed a hand on my shoulder. He shook his head briefly, curtly. I stayed to listen
to Dearbhla play.
It ran down my leg. I felt the trickle seep through my red
cord dungarees, warm, burning, immediate. The music enraptured me so that I felt no
shame. Dearbhla and my father remained oblivious also. But Mother was not of that
world, and saw.
“That child.” She pointed at me. “Look at those wet pants.
Look at them.”
Dearbhla stopped playing.
“David,” my mother continued,
glaring at my father. “Are you going to do something? Look at those wet pants.
They’re disgusting.”
I was embarrassed, not for myself, though my thighs were
beginning to chafe with the urinous sting, but for my mother. Even at that young
age, I sensed that she, not I, was in the wrong, that her motives for humiliating me
were suspect.
“Ah, don’t worry, Lily,” Dearbhla said, getting up. “It was an
accident. It could happen to any child.”
My mother stood up too and faced
Dearbhla. For a moment, it looked as if she were going to hit her. My father sat
down, crossed his legs, and folded his arms. The moment seemed interminable. Then my
mother crossed over to the piano and sat on the stool, breathing
heavily.
“Lily, for God’s sake.” My father was angry now.
Ignoring him,
my mother breathed in a sob, pulled her hair ever more fiercely into a ponytail, and
launched into—yes, you guessed it, same old same old—the Gymnopédie. Her playing it
all wrong made it even worse. As she made mistake after mistake, she started to cry
openly. At the major seventh chord that resolves into the final D, she made the
worst clanger of the lot, hitting an F sharp and then going to the wrong place in
the bass. I prayed she would stop, but no, she kept going. Dearbhla, to give the
woman her due, kept her face an emotionless cast as the whole miserable,
cringe-inducing ritual dragged
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