The Stolen Child (6 page)

When I showed my paper to Smaolach later that afternoon, he took me by the hand and made me run with him to hide behind a wild riot of holly. He looked around in all directions to make sure we were alone; then he carefully folded the paper into quarters and handed it back to me.

“You must be more careful with what you draw in them pictures.”

“What’s the matter?”

“If Igel finds out, then you’ll know what’s the matter. You have to realize, Aniday, that he doesn’t accept any contact with the other side, and that woman         .         .         .”

“The one in the red coat?”

“He’s a-scared of being found out.” Smaolach grabbed the paper and tucked it into my coat pocket. “Some things are better kept to yourself,” he said, then winked at me and walked away, whistling.

Writing proved more painful than drawing. Certain letters—B, G, R, W—caused my hand to cramp. In those early writings, sometimes my K bent backward, S went astray, an F accidentally became an E, and other errors that are amusing to me now as I look back on my early years, but at the time, my handwriting caused me much shame and embarrassment. Worse than the alphabet, however, were the words themselves. I could not spell for beans and lacked all punctuation. My vocabulary annoyed me, not to mention style,
diction, sentence structure, variety, adjectives and adverbs, and other such matters. The physical act of writing took forever. Sentences had to be assembled nail by nail, and once complete, they stood no better than a crude approximation of what I felt or wanted to say, a woebegone fence across a white field. Yet I persisted through that morning, writing down all I could remember in whatever words I had at my command. By midday, both blank sides of the paper contained the story of my abduction and the adventures as well as the vaguest memories of life before this place. I had already forgotten more than I remembered—my own name and the names of my sisters, my dear bed, my school, my books, any notion of what I wanted to be when I grew up. All that would be given back to me in due course, but without Luchóg’s letters, I would have been lost forever. When I had squeezed the final word in the last available space, I went to look for him. Out of paper, my mission was to find more.

•                    CHAPTER 7                    •

A
t age ten, I began to perform in front of ordinary people. In appreciation of the nuns who allowed me use of the school piano, I agreed to play as prelude to the annual Christmas show. My music would usher the parents to their seats while their children shed coats and scarves for their elf and wise-man costumes. My teacher, Mr. Martin, and I put together a program of Bach, Strauss, and Beethoven, ending with part of “Six Little Piano Pieces” in honor of Arnold Schoenberg, who had passed away the year before. We felt this last “modern” piece, while not overly familiar to our audience, displayed my range without being overly ostentatious. The day before the Christmas show, I went through the thirty-minute program for the nuns after school, and the choices brought nothing but frowns and scowls from beneath their wimples.

“That’s wonderful, Henry, truly extraordinary,” the principal said. She was the Mother Superior of the gang of crows that ran the joint. “But that last song.”

“Schoenberg’s?”

“Yes, very interesting.” She stood up in front of the sisters and paced to and fro, searching the air for tact. “Do you know anything else?”

“Else, Mother?”

“Something more seasonal perhaps?”

“Seasonal, Mother?”

“Something people might know?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

She turned and addressed me directly. “Do you know any
Christmas
songs? A hymn? ‘Silent Night’ perhaps? Or ‘Hark! The Herald Angels’—I think that’s Mendelssohn. If you can play Beethoven, you can play Mendelssohn.”

“You want carols?”

“Not only hymns.” She walked on, hitching down her habit. “You could do ‘Jingle Bells’ or ‘White Christmas.’ ”

“That’s from
Holiday Inn
,” one of the other nuns volunteered. “Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire and Marjorie Reynolds. Oh, but you’re too young.”

“Did you see
Bells of St. Mary’s
?” the third-grade teacher asked her fellow sisters. “Wasn’t he good in that?”

“I really liked that
Boys Town
—you know, the one with Mickey Rooney.”

Rattling the beads on her rosary, Mother Superior cut them off. “Surely you know a few Christmas songs?”

Crestfallen, I went home that night and learned the fluff, practicing on a paper-cutout keyboard fashioned by my father. At the show the next evening, I trimmed half my original program and added a few carols at the end. I kept the Schoenberg, which, needless to say, bombed. I played the Christmas stuff brilliantly and to a thunderous ovation. “Cretins,” I said under my breath as I accepted their adulation. During my repeated bows, loathing swelled over their loud clapping and whistling. But then, looking out at the sea of faces, I began to recognize my parents and neighbors, all happy and cheerful, sending me their sincere appreciation for the holiday warmth generated by the vaguely predictable strains of their old favorites. No gift as welcome as the expected gift. And I grew light-headed and dizzy the longer the applause went on. My father rose to his feet, a real smile plastered on his mug. I nearly fainted. I wanted more.

The glory of the experience rested in the simple fact that my musical talent was a human one. There were no pianos in the woods. And as my magic slowly diminished, my artistry increased. I felt more and more removed from those who had taken me for a hundred years, and my sole hope and prayer was that they would leave me alone. From the night of the first performance, it was as if I were split in two: half of me continuing on with Mr. Martin and his emphasis on the canon of classics, pounding out the old composers until I could hammer like Thor or make the keys whisper under the gentlest pressure. The other half expanded my repertoire, thinking about what audiences might like to hear, like the ballads crooned on the radio adored by my mother. I loved both the fugues from
The Well-Tempered Clavier
and “Heart and Soul,” and they flowed seamlessly, but being adept at popular song allowed me to accept odd jobs when offered, playing at school dances and birthday parties. Mr. Martin objected at first to the bastardization of my talent, but I gave him a sob story about needing money for lessons. He cut his fee by a quarter on the spot. With the money we saved, the cash I earned, and my mother’s increasingly lucrative egg and chicken business, we were able to buy a used upright piano for the house in time for my twelfth birthday.

“What’s this?” my father asked when he came home the day the piano arrived, its beautiful machinery housed in a rosewood case.

“It’s a piano,” my mother replied.

“I can see that. How did it get here?”

“Piano movers.”

He slid a cigarette from the packet and lit it in one swift move. “Ruthie, I know someone brought it here. How come it
is
here?”

“For Henry. So he can practice.”

“We can’t afford a piano.”

“We bought it. Me and Henry.”

“With the money from my playing,” I added.

“And the chickens and eggs.”

“You bought it?”

“On Mr. Martin’s advice. For Henry’s birthday.”

“Well, then. Happy birthday,” he said on his way out of the room.

I played every chance I could get. Over the next few years, I spent hours each day at the keys, enthralled by the mathematics of the notes. The music seized me like a river current pushing my conscious self deeper into my core, as if there were no other sound in the world but one. I grew my legs an inch longer than necessary that first summer in order to better reach the pedals on the upright. Around the house, school, and town, I practiced spreading my fingers as far apart as they would go. The pads of my fingertips became smooth and feather-sensitive. My shoulders bowed down and forward. I dreamt in wave after wave of scales. The more adept my skill and understanding grew, the more I realized the power of musical phrasing in everyday life. The trick involves getting people to listen to the weak beats and seemingly insignificant silences between notes, the absence of tones between tones. By phrasing the matter with a ruthlessly precise logic, one can play—or say—anything. Music taught me great self-control.

My father could not stand to hear me practice, perhaps because he realized the mastery I had attained. He would leave the room, retreat into the farthest corners of the house, or find any excuse to go outside. A few weeks after Mom and I bought the piano, he came home with our first television set, and a week later a man came out and installed an antenna on the roof. In the evenings, my father would watch
You Bet Your Life
or
The Jackie Gleason Show
, ordering me to keep it down. More and more, however, he simply left altogether.

“I’m going for a drive.” He already had his hat on.

“You’re not going drinking, I hope.”

“I may stop in for one with the boys.”

“Don’t be too late.”

Well after midnight, he’d stagger in, singing or muttering to himself, swearing when he stepped on one of the girls’ toys or barked his shin on the piano bench as he passed. Weather permitting, he worked outdoors every weekend, replacing shutters, painting the house, rewiring the chicken coop. He was absent from the hearth, unwilling to listen. With Mary and Elizabeth, he played the doting father, still dandling them on his knees, fussing over their curls and dresses, fawning at the latest primitive drawing or Popsicle-stick hut, sitting down at the table for tea parties and the like. But he regarded me coldly, and while I cannot read minds, I suspect he felt at odds with my passion for music. Maybe he felt art corrupted me, made me less a boy. When we spoke, he would chastise me for a neglected chore or chide me for a less than perfect grade on a test or essay.

As he drove me home from the trolley station one Saturday, he made an effort to engage and understand. On the radio, a football game between the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame and Navy unfolded. One of the teams scored a touchdown in a spectacular fashion.

“How about that? Did you hear that?”

I looked out the window, tapping out with my right hand a melody on the armrest.

“Do you even like football?” he asked.

“I dunno. It’s okay.”

“Do you like any sport at all? Baseball? Basketball? Would you like to go hunting someday?”

I said nothing. The very thought of being alone with Billy Day and a shotgun frightened me. There are devils out in the woods. We let a few silent miles pass beneath us.

“How’s come it’s nothing but the piano night and day?”

“I like music. And I’m good.”

“You are that, but honestly, did you ever stop to think you could try something else for a change? Don’t you know there’s more to life than music?”

If he had been my true father, I would have been eternally disappointed in him. The man had no vision, no passion for life, and I was grateful that we were not actually related. The car passed through the shadows of trees, and the glass in the window darkened. I saw in my own reflection the mirrored image of Henry’s father, but I only appeared to be his offspring. Once upon a time, I had a real father. I could hear his voice:
“Ich erkenne dich! Du willst nur meinen Sohn!”
His eyes danced wildly behind his owlish spectacles, and then the phantom memory disappeared. I sensed Billy Day was watching me from the corner of his eye, wondering what on earth happened? How did I get this for a son?

“I’m thinking that I’m starting to like girls,” I volunteered. He smiled and tousled my hair. He lit another Camel, a sure sign he was content with my answer. The subject of my masculinity never came up again.

A basic truth had escaped by accident. Girls hovered on the surface of every situation. I noticed them in school, ogled them in church, played to them at every concert performance. As if they jumped from the shadows, girls arrived, and nothing was ever the same. I fell in love ten times a day: an older woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties in a gray coat on a gray street corner; the raven-haired librarian who came every Tuesday morning to buy a dozen eggs. Ponytailed girls jumping rope. Girls with charming accents. Girls in bobby socks and poodle skirts. In the sixth grade, Tess Wodehouse trying to hide her braces behind her smiles. Blondie in the funny pages; Cyd Charisse; Paulette Goddard; Marilyn Monroe. Anyone curved. Allure goes beyond appearances to the way they grace the world. Some women propel themselves by means of an internal gyroscope. Others glide through life as if on ice skates. Some women convey their tortured lives through their eyes; others encircle you in the music of their laughter. The way they become their clothes. Redheads, blondes, brunettes. I loved them all. Women who flirt with you: where’d you get such long eyelashes? From the milkman. Girls too shy to say a word.

The best girls, however, were those who liked music. At virtually every performance, I could pick out from the crowd those who were listening, as opposed to the terminally bored or merely disinterested. The girls who stared back unnerved me, but at least they were listening, as were the ones with their eyes closed, chins cocked, intent on my playing. Others in the audience would be cleaning their teeth with their nails, digging in their ears with their pinkies, cracking their knuckles, yawning without covering their mouths, checking out the other girls (or boys), or checking their watches. After the performances, many in the audience invariably came up to have a few words, shake my hand, or stand near me. These post-performance encounters were most rewarding and I was delighted to receive compliments and answer questions for as long as I could while unmasking the enthusiasms of the women and girls.

Unfortunately, the concerts and recitals were few and far between, and the public demand for my performances of classical music at parties and shows diminished as I neared puberty. Many aficionados had been interested in a ten-year-old prodigy, but the novelty died when I was all elbows and acne as a teenager. And to be honest, I was sick of the Hanon and Czerny exercises and the same insipid Chopin étude that my teacher fussed over year after year. Changing yet again, I found my old powers ebbed as my hormones raged. As if overnight, I had gone from wanting to be just a boy to wanting to be a grown man. Midway through my freshman year in high school, following months of soul-searching and sullen fighting with my mother, it hit me that there was a way to combine my passion for music and my interest in girls: I would form my own band.