When Jonathan got the job at the theater—a job he already begrudged, for his wife earned enough to support the two of them, but he needed something to do—he had no intentions of looking after an elderly woman on top of everything else. But the retirement home in the nearby neighborhood had made some strange requests.
“It’s this former pianist. Anya Ladanov is her name, and I suppose she used to be quite a star in the classical world,” Jonathan’s boss had told him. “She can’t perform at all anymore, she’s much too impaired by dementia. But she can still play, and her caretakers say she insists on playing on stage. They said she says her public needs her, that she can’t give up. So the plan is that you’ll be here early every Thursday afternoon and open up the building for her, and you can be her stage manager and her audience.”
His boss had delivered this news with an amused chuckle that only made Jonathan grumble more. Of course, he tried to erase his displeasure from his face every Thursday afternoon when he opened the theater doors and the old woman hobbled in, her caretaker bidding her goodbye with a relieved smile. But he couldn’t keep from wrinkling his nose as soon as he closed the door and the scent of Anya’s generously applied perfume washed over him.
She was a small and stooped woman, with a gentle voice that mumbled on indefinitely, yet she still unnerved Jonathan, with her piercing blue eyes and the questions she repeated anew every time she came as he escorted her up to the stage, where the piano stood waiting.
“What’s your name? Jonathan? Oh, that’s a fine name. I played with a man named Jonathan Lurini once, he was an excellent tenor. You know, this stage is much smaller than what I’m used to but it’ll work well enough. I used to play for audiences of thousands quite regularly, you know, and I realize we’ll have—a few less people than that tonight—” Jonathan reluctantly held on to her arm as they came up the stairs to the stage. “But I’m excited to play for them in any case. Let it never be said that Anya Ladanov left her audience dissatisfied, however small!”
After that, the old woman needed hardly any supervision. Once she sat down at the piano, she was completely absorbed in the music. So although Jonathan knew the retirement home would disapprove, he often slipped out of the building for a smoke, where he could simmer in his own thoughts and daily annoyances. The side door he left propped open, of course, in case Anya called for assistance—he did not enjoy the music that came wafting through, but he practiced tuning it out and thinking only of his own concerns .
So on this particular Thursday afternoon he tried to hide his annoyance, when his solitude was interrupted by the sight of his wife Abigail, coming down the sidewalk with a smile. She came down the alleyway, skipping slightly.
“I got off work early. Just thought I’d come visit you,” said Abby brightly. “How is the esteemed Anya?”
“Well enough. I’ll go back in soon— I only stepped out for just a minute.”
“Oh! Some news—Mother’s not doing well at all, and Sean wonders if she could stay with us for a few weeks, while he’s gone for work—”
Jonathan sighed but nodded his assent, knowing that Abby would not let him say no. He was frustrated, though, at the thought of his mother-in-law’s long rambles, her forgetfulness just as bad as Anya’s, her racking coughs and endless stares. “Well, I guess we’ve got two elderly folks to take care of between the two of us—” he stumbled over his words. An old lady who played piano every week was one thing, a sick mother-in-law was another.
But Abby didn’t seem to mind the equivocation. “I’m sure she’ll be all right, really. She’s my mother, I know how to care for her…” She trailed off and looked at the sky, which was just starting to turn golden with evening above the city. “If I may confess… It’s hard for me to worry much about her on an evening like this. Just feel the breeze!”
Jonathan grunted. “Fine, well—” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, I’d better get inside. Her hour’s up. I’ve got to go get her off the stage and drive her back home.”
“May I come with you? Just to see her?”
“Sure, but she’s probably stopped playing. She gets worn out after just an hour.”
But as they entered the auditorium, they found that Anya had not stopped. She sat upright at the piano, music pouring forth with such force that Abby gasped in delight.
“Well, good grief!” As they ascended the stairs that led to the stage, even Jonathan could not help but feel impressed, but he walked up to the piano with the intention of silencing her. Anya did not notice him—her bright blue eyes stared straight ahead, entirely caught up in the music.
“Wait, no, don’t do anything,” said Abby breathlessly. “Just let her play.”
Jonathan sighed, but he conceded. Whatever the piece was—he would never know the name— it contained many shifts of emotion and pace, many varying landscapes for Anya to explore as her fingers swept over the keys. Jonathan had never realized before how much music without words could feel so familiar and so inscrutable at the same time. It was another language, but with words that had no equivalent in any spoken tongue. And he also realized now that he hated it, how that mysterious beauty dared stir his heart without his consent.
The piece finally rippled softly to an end under her hands. As the music faded, she keeled forward slightly, almost resting her forehead on the piano. Jonathan stooped to look at her face and realized that her eyes were still open, unblinking.
“Good grief…” He looked at his wife. “Abby! Abby, she’s… she’s gone…”
Jonathan realized in consternation that his wife did not seem to be disturbed, as he was, but was rather standing spellbound in wonder. The woman’s entire life and death seemed to be reflected in his wife’s eyes, a woman who never had had much time for music.
“Abby! This is ridiculous, I mean, I died while someone—I mean, someone died while I was in charge—how am I even going to explain this?”
Kneeling there by the piano bench he began to quake. Soon someone would come in and find the three of them, the dead woman and him and his wife who didn’t even work here, all arranged around the piano on the stage like a scene out of some twisted play.
“It’s all right, Jonathan.” His wife helped him get to his feet. “You ought to be thanked. I think she went exactly as she was meant to.”
Cover image is “The Sonata” by Irving Ramsey Wiles, found here
Awww I love this :) The way you described Jonathan and his thoughts was funny. This is a beautiful story
Beautiful! So rich. And perhaps prophetic?