The Grey Area

Virgil, trying over and over to master the intricacies of the famous Fur Elise. He moves his hands over the keys over and over and his pinky slips and hits an extra note and he begins again, starts over again, because the only way to do it is to do it again.

Virgil being given an electric keyboard with a headphone jack because, in the words of his father, “we’re glad you’re passionate, but we need to sleep.” He ruffles his hair, something Virgil doesn’t like, and observes him as he examines the present, something he does like. It’s a full fledged keyboard with 88 keys. Virgil plugs it in and sets it on the stand and finds himself speechless, unable to express his thanks, walking over to his mother and giving her a hug.

Virgil playing piano so his sister can sing along. He knows she has a beautiful voice but she isn’t sure, asking him to play the note again, matching herself to it. He does so, fingers delicately placed, wrists and posture straight, and she hits the note every time. On rainy afternoons he plays “Hey Jude” and, quietly, sings along with her, whispering every na-na-na, shouting “Judy-Judy-Judy-Judy-Judy!” It’s so out of character that his sister stops singing and they laugh until they have tears rolling down their faces.

Sometimes at one in the morning he gets frustrated and pounds the keys, slamming down his fists and putting his head in his hands, unable to play faster. He has to play faster for the music school audition, he has to find something tangible to give the judges. How do you bring to life something so intangible, something so … real?

He wears makeup the day of the audition. His mother clicks her tongue at his mascara and his sister shows him that she has more in her bag if it runs.

He steps onto the stage. Bows. Adjusts the bench. Feels silence pressing down on him, weighing on his hands. He sits up, wrists straight. He begins to play.

It begins slowly, deliberately, a build up of soft, high keys. He thinks of his sister singing, her voice reverberating off his bedroom walls. He notices that at least one note is out of tune, shakes his head, hands flying faster, faster, body engaged, everything pouring from him, the sound echoing through his chest and skull. He’s dancing with the keys, he’s ignoring if he’s missed a note. He is fluid here, he is sound, music and he know not where one ends and the other begins. He feels the force of the dynamics and hits the last note and pauses, letting it hang, before taking his foot off the pedal, letting it die away.

He stands, mascara running, thoughtless. He almost forgets to bow again. He exits the stage, shaking, and walks out of the auditorium.

Two weeks later he receives a letter.