He sat at the keyboard and tucked the stool in, eyeing the gloves lying on the keys.
They were thin and dainty and so white as to be almost translucent. He’d never seen them before, definitely hadn’t put them there the previous night. They weighed very little and certainly weren’t made from a material he was used to, no synthetics, ever so slightly coarse to the touch. No label or distinguishing marks. Even the stitching didn’t look right; when he folded it inside out a little he could see it was fine but slightly uneven, like it had been done by a human, not a machine.
He tore his eyes away and breathed deeply. On the stand was a book of etudes Paul had bought him ages ago to refine his technique. He’d called it his “vegetables”. “Got to eat your vegetables,” Paul had said. “Can’t get by on crisps.”
He’d said, “Thelonious Monk isn’t crisps. Dave Brubeck isn’t crisps. They’re, what, single malt whiskey and a steak.”
“All the more reason to watch your diet,” Paul had said.
He’d hardly touched the book. The band did everything by ear.
He flipped to a random page. Liszt. C minor. Lots of fancy twirls in the right hand. The kind of thing he was crap at. He preferred playing by instinct, wandering impulsively around the piano, rather than ultra-precision.
The gloves sat neatly folded.
Marlow took a breath and picked up the right glove. He pulled it on. It fit perfectly. No stretching, no gaps. He flexed his fingers and found he could move them perfectly easily, like there was nothing there at all.
He pulled on the left glove too, knitted his fingers together. They didn’t muffle his sense of touch. The only change was that they felt very slightly cold.
He placed his fingers upon the keys and began to play –
– and with a final flourish he let go of the pedal and released his fingers from the keys.
What?
He looked from the sheet music to his hands and back again. The Liszt was turned to the final page. That’s what he’d just played. Wasn’t it? Four octaves of B naturals, right down in the far left of the keyboard. He had an overwhelming sense of the sound of those Bs echoing around the room, but the keys themselves were silent.
He flicked back through the pages. Yes, there was the gentle bit in the middle, when it went into B major and the left hand had to constantly jump between the very bottom of the keyboard and a conversation with the right hand in the middle. And before that, the E major section with all the time signature changes. He remembered playing all of these. Even just reading it he knew what it sounded like. How funny, that he’d forgotten. Must’ve been in the zone.
What’s more, he knew he’d played it perfectly. When he looked at a passage his fingers reflexively tapped it out on his knee. He could do this with his eyes closed.
He slowly pulled the gloves off and laid them on the keyboard again.
His phone went off.
It was Kim. Hey – ready for tonight? do you want a practice run you sounded a bit on edge yesterday. will be @ c&hp from 3
He pushed the piano stool out and stood.
Before he left he shoved the gloves in his pocket, just in case.