Moonlight Sonata, a Bach minuet whose ritornello is all I remember, and Chopinâs
Prelude Op. 28, No. 4
, whose first part with its soft descending chords filled me with a piercing melancholy. But the one that became my favorite was unquestionably
Un sospiro
by Franz Liszt, with which Marianna reached the height of her virtuosity and the most evident interpretative intensity. She had already turned fourteen and was preparing for a presentation, her first real performance as a musician after an eternity of solitary study. Dorothy had arranged a student recital in a small Baroque church in the city center.
Marianna practiced the étude ad nauseam, since the piece involved several technical intricacies, including crossing the arms in the complicated opening arpeggio: the left hand, after skimming over two octaves, passed rapidly over the right to complete the melody on the high notes. It was a piece that was almost more beautiful to see than to hear and sometimes, while Marianna practiced, I opened the door a crack and watched her fingers moving gracefully, caressing the keyboard, closely monitored by her constantly shifting pupils. The movement was so swift that you couldnât believe she was really touching the keys, her right pinky extended so that it stood out from her palm.
But the critical passage came further on when, approaching the languendo, the score launched into a dizzying descending scale. Marianna stumbled at that point; the tiny muscles of her fingers couldnât sustain the speed and she would stop, letting the sharp clacks of the metronome tick on. Undeterred, she would resume playing from a few bars back and tackle it again, once, twice, ten times, until she thought she had acquired the correct fluidity. Often, however, sheâd stumble again the following day and then sheâd get angry and slam her hands on the keyboard, leaving behind a mournful rumbling.
Nevertheless, by a week before the recital she had achieved complete mastery, and it was time to worry about what she would wear. Nini took her to a shop under the arcades and together they chose a sleeveless sheath with matching pumps. For me, a pair of navy blue pants and a salmon shirtâa color that dominated my wardrobe before disappearing entirely to avoid inopportune reminders of my psoriasis-inflamed neck and face. Meanwhile, on tiptoe, I tried to see as much as possible of my figure in the bathroom mirror. I was at least as excited as my sister, probably even more, or so I tell myself today.
The church was cold and the audience members, about fifty in all, did not take off their coats, making the event seem somewhat temporary, as though everyone might rush out at any moment. Dorothy was dressed at her most elegant and was greeted by warm applause, despite the fact that as of September she had increased the cost of her private lessons by nearly twenty percent. Her daughter sat in the front row, a little to one side, her deformed mouth tightly sealed.
Marianna was scheduled among the final players, since she was one of the proficient students. I curbed my impatience by focusing on the music. I recognized many of the pieces played by the little girls who preceded her, because Marianna, too, had studied them in the past. None of them seemed to be on her level, or at least as precocious as she had been. Each time a girl took the stage, I held my breath, afraid I might find that she was more talented than Marianna or that she might perform a more impressive piece. But there was no one as gifted as my sister, nor a piece more impressive than Franz Lisztâs
Un sospiro
.
Nini was sitting next to me; each time she took my hand and squeezed it. She too was nervous. Silently she studied what the other young pianists were wearing, gauging if by chance she had overdone it with Marianna. She responded politely to the smiles of other mothers seeking complicity, but as though to say: Wonderful, of course, but I canât wait for it to
Prelude Op. 28, No. 4
, whose first part with its soft descending chords filled me with a piercing melancholy. But the one that became my favorite was unquestionably
Un sospiro
by Franz Liszt, with which Marianna reached the height of her virtuosity and the most evident interpretative intensity. She had already turned fourteen and was preparing for a presentation, her first real performance as a musician after an eternity of solitary study. Dorothy had arranged a student recital in a small Baroque church in the city center.
Marianna practiced the étude ad nauseam, since the piece involved several technical intricacies, including crossing the arms in the complicated opening arpeggio: the left hand, after skimming over two octaves, passed rapidly over the right to complete the melody on the high notes. It was a piece that was almost more beautiful to see than to hear and sometimes, while Marianna practiced, I opened the door a crack and watched her fingers moving gracefully, caressing the keyboard, closely monitored by her constantly shifting pupils. The movement was so swift that you couldnât believe she was really touching the keys, her right pinky extended so that it stood out from her palm.
But the critical passage came further on when, approaching the languendo, the score launched into a dizzying descending scale. Marianna stumbled at that point; the tiny muscles of her fingers couldnât sustain the speed and she would stop, letting the sharp clacks of the metronome tick on. Undeterred, she would resume playing from a few bars back and tackle it again, once, twice, ten times, until she thought she had acquired the correct fluidity. Often, however, sheâd stumble again the following day and then sheâd get angry and slam her hands on the keyboard, leaving behind a mournful rumbling.
Nevertheless, by a week before the recital she had achieved complete mastery, and it was time to worry about what she would wear. Nini took her to a shop under the arcades and together they chose a sleeveless sheath with matching pumps. For me, a pair of navy blue pants and a salmon shirtâa color that dominated my wardrobe before disappearing entirely to avoid inopportune reminders of my psoriasis-inflamed neck and face. Meanwhile, on tiptoe, I tried to see as much as possible of my figure in the bathroom mirror. I was at least as excited as my sister, probably even more, or so I tell myself today.
The church was cold and the audience members, about fifty in all, did not take off their coats, making the event seem somewhat temporary, as though everyone might rush out at any moment. Dorothy was dressed at her most elegant and was greeted by warm applause, despite the fact that as of September she had increased the cost of her private lessons by nearly twenty percent. Her daughter sat in the front row, a little to one side, her deformed mouth tightly sealed.
Marianna was scheduled among the final players, since she was one of the proficient students. I curbed my impatience by focusing on the music. I recognized many of the pieces played by the little girls who preceded her, because Marianna, too, had studied them in the past. None of them seemed to be on her level, or at least as precocious as she had been. Each time a girl took the stage, I held my breath, afraid I might find that she was more talented than Marianna or that she might perform a more impressive piece. But there was no one as gifted as my sister, nor a piece more impressive than Franz Lisztâs
Un sospiro
.
Nini was sitting next to me; each time she took my hand and squeezed it. She too was nervous. Silently she studied what the other young pianists were wearing, gauging if by chance she had overdone it with Marianna. She responded politely to the smiles of other mothers seeking complicity, but as though to say: Wonderful, of course, but I canât wait for it to
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