The Piano Room

The Piano Room

Petrov liked to let the noises ring out; they were tinny and out of
tune, which made them sound even sadder. When he pressed his foot down
on the right pedal, they were more so. Over the months, he had learned
to play simple tunes, bit by bit. In the unhappy room, walls stripped
of paper and constant smell of urine circulating, Petrov had learned to
play. While he learned, every day without fail the rain came down hard
outside. Every day the sky was grey, and every day he heard the rumble
of thunder in the afternoon, warning of the oncoming lightning, which
arrived always at the same time, just after five. He fumbled with the
black keys, and the noise of the thunder competed with the music. When
he looked out of his window, though it was dirty, he could see some of
the village.

Again, Petrov rose out of his bed and made his way to the window. It
was the first day of summer. His eyes were bleary, and his vision not
yet in focus, but in the fug of the morning, he noticed something
different in outside world. He hovered by the window, leaning on the
beam, not able to understand. 'What feeling is this?' he thought. 'What
strangeness on my skin today?' He noticed the beads of sweat running
down his face, and his T-shirt clinging to his skinny frame. Also, a
bright yellowness blocked his usual view, where grey used to be. He
decided to open the window, and as he did so, immediately a gust of
fresh morning air rushed into the room. A shiver of excitedness ran
deep in his being, making him want to shout something to the outside
world. In his mind, he saw himself throwing the window wide open and
shouting 'HELLO!'

Petrov had been living in the Piano Room for many months, only in that
room, never leaving, not for a single thing. He washed and dressed, ate
and slept in it, and also, undignified as it was at first, he had
relieved himself there too. He had been doing it so long he could no
longer remember what it was like to do anything else, to live with
privacy. But as the wind of the new day freshened the dank room, the
first real change in months arrived. And it was a warm change. Petrov
smiled at the guards, who laughed.

Why was it called the Piano Room? Because despite the darkness, the
gloom, the dim prospects for a real future, there was music. In the
corner of the room by the window where Petrov lived was the piano. And
though it was old, out of tune and damaged (missing keys and
mistreated), it was living. He had he rhythm, or musical inclination of
any kind. But the piano was a great source of joy. Even the guards
seemed to not mind him playing, though they would never say it. He
played simple tunes, often only with one finger, but to Petrov it was
the beginnings of a wonderful symphony in his head.

After studying the notes, he realised that some keys sounded happy, and
some sad. Certain combinations of the keys made bright sounds, mainly
white keys, and combinations of the black ones, in general, were
melancholic. It seemed right that he should play only the black keys,
until such time, (that he believed would come), where he would be free
again. Until then, black keys only. Once, a guard asked why he did
this, but from Petrov there came no answer. During his time captive, he
spent hours every day at the window, and the rest of his time at the
piano, sitting on his bed or exercising. Rocking on the mattress, he
watched the guards talk in their strange language, guessed what they
might be talking about.

When there were raised voices, as there often were, Petrov decided that
the two must be discussing the work of a great writer in depth, arguing
over the tiniest possible meanings. And when they were quiet, they were
drawing up secret plans, to blow up the Parliament buildings and kill
the President. He could always hear them talking, even when he was at
the window, they were part of the furniture, and he had created whole
lives for them, wives, children - he felt like he knew everything that
happened to them.

That day was the first day of summer, and each shaft of light that came
through the window made Petrov feel a little better. It was not enough
yet for it to be called pleasure, but he was starting to remember
warmth again, and it pleased him to feel it, gave him back a part of
himself. His fingers started to play with some of the white keys. He
thought, maybe freedom is near.

Just then, Petrov got something of a shock. Another man joined him in
the room. When the guards came clattering up the stairs at the usual
time, he heard what sounded like thousands of footsteps, not four, and
he backed into the corner of the room. He started clambering at the
walls, afraid, confused at what then appeared. A blind man was lead
into the room, with a gun touching his skull. He was wearing clothes
similar to Petrov's, but his shirt was not bloodied and the sleeves not
torn. The man walked steadily. Accompanied by a dog, he came in, with
the guards either side of him, one keepng an eye on the door, the other
with the gun. Petrov had never really thought about the guns before,
and it struck him that this one was nearly the size of the man's head.
The four stumbled in, with the guards trying to lead the man to the
piano, and the guide dog, trembling, unwilling to go anywhere. In the
end, though, they made it to the instrument; the blind man appeared to
understand. For the first time, a stool appeared from another room. I
have been playing standing all these months! - Petrov wanted to say,
but didn't The man sat down on the stool, which was old and
unsteady.

The dog caught Petrov's eye. They stared at each other, animal to
animal, just looking, while in the background the dog's owner wiped and
polished the top surface of the piano, preparing it, saying hello.
There was no emotion between the two when they looked. The dog cocked
its head, and Petrov did the same. The dog lifted a paw, and Petrov
offered a hand, both putting theirs down at the same time, copying
movements - he saw a bruise under the dog's belly when it reached up to
him. A tuning fork was heard while the sun shone in on the piano room,
and beside the window, one of the guards looked knowingly at Petrov,
holding a finger to his lips, smiling.

The man was in the room for a few hours, tuning the piano, and doing a
good job of repairing what he could with his few tools, but the whole
time he said nothing, perhaps on the instructions of the guards, one of
whom was always pointing the gun at him. Always touching, so he knew
what it was. Petrov, who lived in his imagination for most of every
day, could hardly believe what was happening. So much - the sunshine,
the warmth, the mysterious new man. He played marvellous sounds while
he worked, testing the notes. It was like all five were in a field, not
a cell, as the more the music played, the hotter it seemed to become,
not humid, but glowingly hot. Petrov wanted to kneel at the man's feet
and learn. Could he have forgotten about the gun? Surely not. But he
was so calm. And the question was, after all of this, would the man
stay?

He was finished, and with as little announcement as when he arrived,
the man was gone. Petrov wasn't even sure if he could speak, or if he
knew that Petrov had been there watching and breathing the whole time.
He had just cowered on the bed with the dog at his feet, silent but
wanting to reach out. When the time came for the man to go, the guards
let the dog stay where he was, nuzzling the iron bedpost, looking the
other way. Just like that, master and servant were separated, though
the man seemed to be searching for the dog, sensing him rather, while
being ushered out. The beast looked sadly up at the guards but made no
move to the door, and then he averted his gaze to his new companion,
licking an injured paw. The door closed, and both of them wondered how
much longer they would stay silent.