The Player at the Keys (Pianist)

Lyrics

[Intro]
Reverend Goss's parlor.
Temperature, sixteen degrees Celsius.
Time, 16:30.
The light is failing.

[Verse 1]
The specimen is a Baldwin upright, circa 1923.
Mahogany finish, scratched.
The ivory keys are yellowed, like old teeth.
Middle C has a chip in the north-east quadrant.
A quantifiable flaw.
The velvet on the stool is worn through to the webbing.
It smells of dust and old hymnals.

[Verse 2]
My copy of 'Principles of Piano Technique' is open to page one.
Horowitz said the keys are soldiers.
My soldiers are asleep.
Each press of a key is a transaction.
Force applied, hammer strikes string, sound is produced.
But the sound is sour.
A G-sharp that whines.
A faint squeak from behind the back panel, an unlisted variable.
Perhaps a mouse, as the manual on antique instruments suggests.

[Chorus]
I calculate the angles of my wrist.
The velocity of my fingers.
It is a problem of physics, of leverage and resonance.
But the equation yields no music.
Just a series of isolated, disappointing events.
The title is Pianist.
The data does not support the claim.

[Verse 3]
She enters without a sound.
Mrs. Patterson.
I anticipate a correction, a pointed cough.
She brings the scent of lavender and stale shortbread.
She sits beside me.
Her hands, which I have only observed holding teacups and marking my work with red ink...
they find the keys as if by memory.

[Bridge]
She doesn't strike them.
She coaxes them.
There is no calculation.
Her posture is imperfect according to the diagrams.
But the sound...
The sound is warm.
It fills the sixteen-degree air.
It tells a story for which I have no record, no primary source.
She plays the chipped Middle C, and it doesn't sound broken at all.

[Chorus]
I calculated the angles of my wrist.
The velocity of my fingers.
It was a problem of physics, of leverage and resonance.
But the equation was missing a variable.
It was never about a series of isolated events.
The title is Pianist.
The data is now irrefutable.

[Outro]
She stands up.
Smooths her skirt.
Nods once.
And leaves me with the cold air.
The scent of lavender.
And the echo of a note that made sense.