I arrive at the Pavilion at 7:30pm in my best maroon suit. Stressing about my fingers.
I’ve parked, engine’s off. Unfurl my fingers, staring, and thinking, they’re not broken anymore, and there won’t be an accident tonight that changes that. So, I go inside.
The Pavilion is one of those old and grand buildings that’s been here since my grandmother was a little girl. They once held balls here, but now it’s just an expensive bistro, and function halls and polished men lounging and smoking. I see Mr James and he waves.
“It’s our piano player,” Mr James tells his associates, who smile and nod, twirling their cigars, straightening their ties. One says, “Excellent. We need a pianist.”
I shake their hands and sit. They want to know how long I’ve been playing. Twenty years. They want to know what my usual practice hours are. Four hours on average, every day. They want to know influences. Bach, Debussy, Chopin – I’m a classical connoisseur. I can hear piano playing now from another room and say “sounds like Satie.”
Mr James is impressed, and he remarks that he’s thrilled to see my fingers are in working order after my accident.
I find myself at ease with these good men. I order a Chardonnay and Mr James tells me about how the Pavilion has spent a good deal of money on the grand piano in the adjacent function room. They appreciate and value their music, and the return is that the music brings the parties. Satie fades into silence, interspersed with sounds from the kitchen and soft chatter from guests.
“What happened to your previous pianist?” I ask, taking a sip.
There is a lull, and Mr James gives a strange smile. “I suppose you could say he reached his retirement.”
“He… just died, right?” one of the men asks.
Mr James pauses, and I tilt my head, curious. Mr James takes a swig of his rum, then stands. “Come with me, sir. I’ll show you. It’s time to become acquainted with the piano, regardless.”
I follow Mr James into the function hall. It is a dark room, cosy, lit with candles. I see the grand piano in the far corner. She is a lovely ivory white, and platformed off the carpet.
“Wow,” I mutter, approaching to gaze at the keys. Pristine. “May I?” I look at Mr James.
He is standing at a distance with the other men. They watch me coolly.
He gestures. “Well, of course. It’s yours now.”
I sit at the stool and place the pads of my fingers on the keys, in awe at the cool touch. I breathe in its wooden scent. It occurs to me just now that Satie had stopped at some point, and that surely, it came from here… from… these keys, that I no longer feel just on my fingers.
My eyesight has narrowed and blurred into darkness. When I try to turn my head and find the men, there is nothing to turn. I feel myself expand into coolness. I try to open my mouth – and I hear myself make notes.
Morbidly, with sharp horror, I think, at least I won’t have to worry about breaking my fingers.
*This was originally published in the ‘Tertangala: Horror Issue’ (2023)
Image credit: Johannes Plenio/Unsplash