It took me a moment to realize the kid in a dingy puffer jacket, beanie hat, and salt-stained boots, playing like he’d invented the instrument, was Matteo.
The tune was something I’d heard before somewhere, and the name eluded me but that ceased to matter as I watched him essentially make love to the piano.
He was elegant in his movements, his slim fingers sliding across the keyboard effortlessly, the dramatic twitches and ticks of his body a sensual dance. He wasn’t just playing with his hands, but his entire body.
The pure joy on his face captured me. He went from hitting the low notes of the keyboard, to the high keys at a break-neck pace, drawing a few claps before the piece climaxed, his perfect hands jumping across the keys, his whole body moving.
I tried to recall all the times in my life when I’d stopped to admire something and revel in its beauty. The kind of elegance and grace that dug up all sorts of emotions, made your throattight, and brought a tear to your eyes. Those occasions were few and far between.
A single, unwelcomed thought slammed into me:I could fall in love with him.
Whispers ofwowandhe’s really goodfiltered around me while the waiters stood off to the side watching along with everyone else. Someone snapped a photo. Still he played as if nothing else existed in the world except himself and the piano.
The piece ended, the cords still vibrating. A round of applause started and he got up, caught off guard that he had an audience. He spotted me and quickly rushed for the exit, one of the waiters holding the velvet rope open for him as if he were a guest of honor.
“Hurry, let’s get out of here before I get us both banned,” he whispered.
When we were away from the crowd, I pulled him into a quiet corner. “When you said you played the piano, I thought you meant it as a hobby. That, in there isn’t playing piano, that is proving to the world that heaven exists, and it is fucking beautiful, Matteo.”
A little blush started in his ears. He shrugged as if he hadn’t impressed hundreds of people that held strict standards and fine tastes. “I was born with music inside of me and if I don’t let it out I feel like I’ll die. It’s been hell not being able to play these last few years. My parents took a lot from me, but I refuse to let them steal my music.”
“Well, damn, I don’t know what to say except that I’m seriously impressed.” I wrapped my arm around his shoulders and shook him playfully. “Who knew such beautiful music could come from such a frustratingly annoying person?”
He smiled, his cheeks plumping, his eyes catching the light. I wanted to tell him how beautiful he looked playing. How the lovely sounds he’d created brought a little tear to my eyes,but I didn’t want to come off as a sap. And knowing him, he’d twist my words to make fun of me, which wasn’t a bad thing anymore. When had that happened?
We hopped on the bus to take us home and sat in the back where it was quiet. He leaned against me, resting his head on my shoulder as he tapped his fingers against his thigh as if he were back in the Walnut Room and in front of the piano again, hearing a song only he could. I leaned in just a little and inhaled the scent of his hair.
It was only four in the afternoon. The sun had set behind the skyscrapers and it was getting dark, but everything seemed bright and warm.
“Did you enjoy yourself today?” I muttered.
He nodded against me. “It was nice getting out. Thanks.”
“We will go out again sometime soon if you want to,” I said and rested my cheek against the top of his head. “Just let me know what you want to do, and we will do it.”
I tried not to think about how this whole thing made me feel like we were closer than we were. I was sure the word I was looking for wasboyfriends, but it was dangerous to pretend so I told myself it was because it was cold outside and he was warm. We dozed, the gentle rocking motion of the bus lulling us, the piano song he’d been playing echoing in my mind. I was so comfortable against him I nearly missed our stop.
When we were inside my apartment, Matteo collapsed on the couch, looking happier than I’d ever seen him before. There was a peace reflected on his face, one that few ever found.
“I don’t feel like cooking. Want to order something?” I asked and set the shopping bags down.
“Sure, I’m not picky so whatever you want,” he said, his fingers moving over his jeans, his gaze distant.
As I placed an order for a pizza, I watched him sitting on the couch, staring into the distance as he tapped his fingerson his thighs as if he were back in the Walnut Room, playing for everyone. I remembered the serenity in his expression as if playing was the only thing that made him happy. I couldn’t help wondering if I could make him happy.
I plopped my butt next to him and lifted his legs onto my lap. I motioned to his hands. “Tell me more about piano. How long have you been playing?”
His expression lit up. “All my life. My grandmother played for a blues club and when I was three years old she taught me a simple cord for fun. I picked it up instantly. By five I was playing classics, so she hired a piano teacher. I performed my first public solo for a church charity event at eight. Every waking second I am consumed with playing and when I can’t physically, I play in my head. I don’t know how to describe the feeling of having this music inside of my soul to someone that doesn’t have it, but I’m convinced I’ll die if I can’t express it.”
“So, you’re a prodigy?”
“No, I'm too old now. Maybe once upon a time, but…” he said and massaged his fingers. “My piano teacher agreed with my grandmother that I was top tier. She tried to convince my parents to let me join a junior concert, but they were against the idea because it would take away from my bible studies and schoolwork. I learned at a young age to never disobey them. One time when I was ten, I skipped out on a bible study meeting to practice “La Campanella”. They barred me from playing piano for a month.”
“I’m sorry, that’s terrible.”
He shrugged, rubbing his palm with the knuckle of his thumb. “I learned to expect terrible from them. Anyway, my grandmother and I came up with a plan to ensure I followed my true path. I was to remain obedient and complete everything I was supposed to so I could continue piano lessons. When I turned eighteen my teacher would get me into a concertoso I could apply to Curtis and Julliard. They have very strict standards and by the time I turned eighteen, I’d be behind because they only took in the type of kids who practiced eight hours every day with the top musical teachers in the world and had played in junior concerts for years. It was our hope that by the time I was twenty-one, I’d make up for the deficiency and be accepted to a musical school.”
He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and stared at his hands. I wasn’t sure why, but I slid my palm into his, remembering how his elegant hands looked working the keyboard like an expert lover.
