The Piano Student by Lea Singer

Author:Lea Singer
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781939931870
Publisher: New Vessel Press
Published: 2020-10-06T00:00:00+00:00

By the time Kaufmann opened his eyes, removed a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket, and joined Donati in gazing at the portico above the steps, the head-shaking passersby had already moved on. They’d have questioned the soundness of their own judgment to hear the old nutcase now drily explain that, back in 1938, the Zurich Opera House was still known as the Stadttheater. This was not the utterance of a nutcase when made in front of the opera house that had, indeed, once been known as the municipal theater.

Kaufmann turned to Donati. I am in good spirits again! Horowitz had written, not two weeks earlier. He downright demanded I come to Bern immediately, take up lessons again, stay with him, at his expense, then return to Zurich together in his car. With your teacher, with your master, he wrote. We both knew why he emphasized that. Just as I knew why he needed to tack on a P.S. I nearly played a Brahms piece last night and remain extremely aroused! Fantastic! Napoléon supposedly suffered from his infatuation with Joséphine, a woman whose reputation preceded her. Sexual power dynamics are often reversed. The master becomes the slave.

Donati commented that he had recently heard several accounts of top executives frequenting dominatrices in Kreis 4.

That, said Kaufmann, is something altogether different. I call that atonement therapy. Shall we move on? Perhaps toward the Bellevue?

At the very last moment, Donati hesitantly, almost apprehensively, turned around and froze at the sight of a figure like an exotic insect: legs spindly, head encased in a glossy black helmet of hair, neck long and golden, in a voluminous coat like iridescent wings that shifted between bougainvillea and Caribbean blue. This curious creature had presumably emerged from the stage door. Donati called out a name, but too quietly. He called out again, a bit more loudly. The creature paused, appeared to be listening without allowing its gaze to wander, then buzzed away.

Well? Kaufmann asked.

Nothing, said Donati.

His gaze remained fixed on the empty space where the insect had just appeared.

Kaufmann tore Donati away by putting an arm around his shoulders and nudging. They ambled north and Kaufmann resumed his story, almost in time to their steps.

Horowitz felt free in Bern, but above all, invulnerable. Wanda was in preventive detention—he’d sent her to Paris to retrieve his tuxedo, which he hadn’t worn in almost three years. I joined him at the Bernerhof, a grand hotel in which time passed as slowly as Bern locals talk. It’s no wonder it no longer exists. Do you know anyone with cash—which you really did need to stay there—who embraces such a slow pace these days? The Bernerhof had the discretion of a sanatorium for hysterical or irascible aristocracy. They had white lacquered double doors, the outer door padded on the inside, while the walls between rooms were covered in fabric. He sat at the Steinway in his suite and played what would be the centerpiece of the concert at the Stadttheater

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