entering first, the right hand entering three notes later, descend in whole tones. Then reverse the process. Claude particularly liked the sensations attendant to playing different scales simultaneouslyâF major in the right hand against D-flat major in the left, for exampleânot so much for the sound, although it was fun to split his mind in half and listen to both of them, or to hear them converging and diverging harmonically, but for the physical feeling in his hands, the slow-wave feeling that emerged from the various patterns, different kinds of waves with different pairs of juxtaposed scales.
The perception of the waves, and the nodes of the waves which gave his hands, while they were in motion, a series of home bases, quite different from the root notes themselvesâthis perception led him to realize that there were thousands of interesting scale exercises, perhaps tens of thousands, waiting to be played. Thus the finite eighty-eight-key reality of the Bechstein contained a possibly infinite number of different wave forms concealed within its configuration. Claude enjoyed catching the waves and riding them. It just felt good.
He noticed that Franz would occasionally leave the big sliding doors partly open. Was it an oversight, or was someone listening? Eventually they were left partially open almost all of the time.
And then one day as Claude went through the doors into the foyer on his way out, Franz appeared out of a dark corridor. "If you could just wait a moment," he said. "If you could just stand here, please." He indicated a particular spot on the parquet and retreated into the corridor.
After a few moments the boy discerned movement in the distant darknessâshapes, a low dark shape gliding from one of the rooms into the hall. A wheelchair? Low voices. Franz re-emerged. "The maestro wants to get a look at you. Please hold your hands up like this." Claude held his hands up, palms forward. "Yes, that's it," Franz said. "Now stretch them wide. Excellent."
Was that a head? A shoulder? Claude strained to see.
"How much do you weigh?" Franz asked.
"I don't know."
"You can put your hands down now. Thank you." Franz gently led him to the door. "Until next Monday, then."
One afternoon, in his room, Claude sat at the white piano working on "The Choo-Choo Boogie," one of a number of blues and boogie tunes he'd found in the bench. His left hand pounded out repeated fifths and a little figure with his middle finger while his right hand ran up and down doing some complicated but entirely symmetrical variations on the simple melody. The beat was as powerful and relentless as the locomotive on the front of the sheet music. He'd used up the half hour when his mother came in.
"Claude!" she shouted. He stopped immediately. "I need you."
He got up and followed her through the apartment and up the iron stairs to the cab. "I almost had it," he said, getting in the back.
"Had what?"
"That tricky part where it sort of curls around."
"What are you talking about?"
"When it goes back to F. That part."
"We're picking him up and going to the docks," she said, pulling away from the curb.
He was waiting on the corner of Twelfth Street, dressed in a suit and tie and wearing a topcoat that looked brand new. He carried a small leather suitcase, which he placed on the floor as he got in beside Claude.
"Mr. Eisler, is that all you're taking?" she asked.
"It is more than I arrived with."
"So this is it."
"I have no choice."
They drove across town in silence. When she got to the pier a cop waved her through the gates to the embarkation area. She pulled up behind another cab.
The boat was enormous, a gray wall with portholes looming high over everything. Claude pressed his face against the window and looked up to see the banked railings, the bridge, the huge smokestacks, the boom crane pulling up great rope nets filled with cargo. The pier was crowded with stevedores, sailors, cops, ship's officers, workers
The perception of the waves, and the nodes of the waves which gave his hands, while they were in motion, a series of home bases, quite different from the root notes themselvesâthis perception led him to realize that there were thousands of interesting scale exercises, perhaps tens of thousands, waiting to be played. Thus the finite eighty-eight-key reality of the Bechstein contained a possibly infinite number of different wave forms concealed within its configuration. Claude enjoyed catching the waves and riding them. It just felt good.
He noticed that Franz would occasionally leave the big sliding doors partly open. Was it an oversight, or was someone listening? Eventually they were left partially open almost all of the time.
And then one day as Claude went through the doors into the foyer on his way out, Franz appeared out of a dark corridor. "If you could just wait a moment," he said. "If you could just stand here, please." He indicated a particular spot on the parquet and retreated into the corridor.
After a few moments the boy discerned movement in the distant darknessâshapes, a low dark shape gliding from one of the rooms into the hall. A wheelchair? Low voices. Franz re-emerged. "The maestro wants to get a look at you. Please hold your hands up like this." Claude held his hands up, palms forward. "Yes, that's it," Franz said. "Now stretch them wide. Excellent."
Was that a head? A shoulder? Claude strained to see.
"How much do you weigh?" Franz asked.
"I don't know."
"You can put your hands down now. Thank you." Franz gently led him to the door. "Until next Monday, then."
One afternoon, in his room, Claude sat at the white piano working on "The Choo-Choo Boogie," one of a number of blues and boogie tunes he'd found in the bench. His left hand pounded out repeated fifths and a little figure with his middle finger while his right hand ran up and down doing some complicated but entirely symmetrical variations on the simple melody. The beat was as powerful and relentless as the locomotive on the front of the sheet music. He'd used up the half hour when his mother came in.
"Claude!" she shouted. He stopped immediately. "I need you."
He got up and followed her through the apartment and up the iron stairs to the cab. "I almost had it," he said, getting in the back.
"Had what?"
"That tricky part where it sort of curls around."
"What are you talking about?"
"When it goes back to F. That part."
"We're picking him up and going to the docks," she said, pulling away from the curb.
He was waiting on the corner of Twelfth Street, dressed in a suit and tie and wearing a topcoat that looked brand new. He carried a small leather suitcase, which he placed on the floor as he got in beside Claude.
"Mr. Eisler, is that all you're taking?" she asked.
"It is more than I arrived with."
"So this is it."
"I have no choice."
They drove across town in silence. When she got to the pier a cop waved her through the gates to the embarkation area. She pulled up behind another cab.
The boat was enormous, a gray wall with portholes looming high over everything. Claude pressed his face against the window and looked up to see the banked railings, the bridge, the huge smokestacks, the boom crane pulling up great rope nets filled with cargo. The pier was crowded with stevedores, sailors, cops, ship's officers, workers
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