F =chapter five

The Piano Teacher
by
Kim West

Chapter 5

As they had grown closer in their musical world, Denise loved to hear
Edward talk about his own learning:

"A piano is made from one piece of wood. Hence its name "keyboard".
This means that each key is a partner to its neighbour. Hence their
compatibility. It is an impeccable art. This compatibility is at the
heart of the piano and a fine player will themselves become compatible
with a fine instrument.

My own musical talent sprang early. My parents, both music lovers,
tried to satiate my quest for knowledge, but there soon came a time
when they realised that I needed a good teacher. I was very young. So
one day mother said to me.

"Edward, you are coming with me today to visit someone special. Daddy
and I think that you will enjoy learning to play the piano if you are
taught by a good teacher. Mummy and daddy only know a little about the
piano and we have shown you all we can. You are a very clever little
man Edward, very clever. Now I will take you to meet a new teacher who
can show you much more about the piano."

I stared incredulously at her through huge, puzzled tears.

"But will you leave me with him?" I stammered. "Mummy, will I have to
stay with him?"

"Edward, he is to be your teacher. This is very important. Of course
you will stay with him. Why not?"

"But you are my proper teacher mummy."
"No Edward. I am not."

So now I became convinced that my wonderful mother was going to abandon
me to this teacher man. That, because I was a clever boy, it was
necessary for me to leave home and stay with the piano teacher. I felt
terribly sick and frightened but my darling mother was so sure this
course of action was correct that I tried to be brave. Maybe I would be
allowed to see my family again if I was good. Eventually of course, I
realised my mistake, but even so I can still feel the fear of that
small child when, clutching his music case, with his initials boldly
emblazoned upon it, he was finally persuaded to meet and stay with his
piano teacher, Giovanni Basti.
I can remember arriving at his house as though it was yesterday. There
was a long flight of steps up to his front door and a gloomy porch to
wait in until his little old mother answered the door.

"Ah, you must be Edward. Come in."

As I recount this to you Denise, I can feel the palpable terror of that
frightened child clutching his precious music case under one arm and
gripping his mother tenaciously with his other hand. His shiny shoe
caps refusing to budge.

"Now Edward. Let's go in," and with a struggle, my mother guided me
into the hallway and we followed Mrs. Basti into her son's music room,
where he sat with a small dog on his lap, by the side of an old dark
piano.

"Ah Mrs. Stenton and Edward. How do you do?"

"Now Edward, shake Mr. Basti's hand."
"I don't want to."

There I was in my starched white collar and little professor chequered
bow tie, pursing my lips and swallowing hard.

"I prefer not to mummy," I managed with great dignity.

Imagine my terror, as, all at once Giovanni Basti jumped from his seat,
sending his dog flying into the corner, yelping.

"That's quite alright Mrs. Stenton. Just leave now."

Giovanni Basti gestured dramatically with a sweep of his hand to the
door.

My own hand became glued to my mother's. It was some difficulty that
she prized herself free.

" I will be back in an hour Edward," she called over her shoulder as
Mrs. Basti escorted her out. The door closed with a click and
everything fell silent in the room, apart that is from the dog settling
itself into a basket under the window seat, ostentatiously licking at
hurt pride.

I stood there by the door for what felt like an age, with my knees
locked and my music case fiercely clenched to my side. I bit hard at my
tongue to hold onto the tears. Nothing happened. I could neither hear
nor see the little stranger, so I allowed myself a small movement of
the head to spy his whereabouts. I could not locate him in the room,
even though I knew he was there. I wanted to rush out, but could not. I
thought that he would grab me. I dare not move. So when there was a
grinding sound from somewhere behind me and another one, followed by
clanking and crashing I was terribly startled. I turned towards the
sounds, which were coming from behind an old rattan screen in the far
corner of the room. The piano teacher's head popped out from the
side.

"Come here Boy. Come and see," he called, beckoning me excitedly.

Denise, I have never witnessed such a difference in the behaviour any
human being. This moment comes back to me so vividly. Behind his
screen, the little piano teacher had an exclusive collection of wind up
toys; a monkey who madly chattered and bashed his cymbals, a family of
whizzing wind up mice, a frog who hiccuped and leapt about the place, a
brightly coloured tin train that chuffed awkwardly round and round in
circles and a beautiful ballerina, pirouetting on a drum. These were
colourful tin toys, probably made in Germany at the turn of the
century. I had not seen such things before. I think that they must have
been his own childhood toys.
So I can tell you of the sheer relief and delight that I felt at this
first glimpse of his magical fairground world. Giovanni Basti sat by
his toys, cross-legged like a pixie. He was dapper, immaculately
groomed with a pinstriped suit and dark tie. His moustache was
elegantly twirled. His fingernails perfectly arced.

As a teacher, his demands upon my concentration and dedication were
very considerable. Yet, when the lessons were over, he would allow me
into this other world behind the screen, where he would sit with me
happily playing with his toys. His measure of delight at their antics
was plainly equal to my own.

I came to know these toys as characters. At night I dreamt of them.
Sometimes they were dancing for me and sometimes they sat and listened
to my piano playing, always cheering loudly at the end.

It was this secret world that allowed my extraordinary piano teacher to
capture my imagination at such a tender age and nurture my early
promise, as though it were itself a child.

"Now then young professor, you must think of your fingers as athletes.
What we are doing is training them to be really fit and strong. We must
exercise them carefully. We must take great care of them, great care
indeed. Your scales and arpeggios are essential, so don't ever let your
fingers trick you into thinking that they are ready until they have
completed their warm up. Only then will you find that each one becomes
a great sportsman and plays its part in your fantastic musical team.
Look at them. Some are tall, some short and those thumbs are such
characters. You must be good to them. They must be trained to be as
good at the task of playing music as they possibly can.

I was so proud of my hands and so careful with them. I dreamt of my
fingers running marathons over fields of piano keys and I became more
closed in and private through such fantasies, as I engaged with this
intense and poetic musical world. I was fascinated by those keyboard
patterns of black and white and by the synthesis of sound, colour and
touch. This was a world that I could not aptly describe by speaking. It
had to be through the expression of music and, for me, it had to be the
piano.

My parents had purchased an old Bechstein grand, which they housed in
our living room. The presence of such a hugely entertaining piece of
furniture of course precluded other more practical items, such as
chairs and tables. So, my parents were relegated to the kitchen. It was
their belief that the precocity of their son deserved this space. I
know it gave them great pleasure to hear my practice and I soon became
known as "The Prodigy" in our street. Giovanni Basti's lessons
entranced me as a young child.

"Now Edward, think about that keyboard. Once it was a mighty tree. Each
key is well known to its neighbour, because they are after all brother
and sister. You must get to know this family intimately, learn about
the colours of each one's personality. When you touch a key, you are
touching part of a great family. This family has been created to sing
and you can give them their voice. It's your job to teach them."

But as I grew older, the toys were forgotten behind the screen and the
intensity of my lessons with Giovanni Basti grew.

"Edward. Edward. Stop! Stop! Stop that goddam noise. What are you
playing me? What did I say to you? Sotto Voce: like a voice. You must
sing to me. You play like a bad tempered elephant today. You insult me.
You deride me, destroy me. How many years I teach you? Eh? How
many?"

At times, the passion of this man would craze me. As the years went by
he became more and more demanding.

"What kind of rubbish you playing today? Who you think you are? You
play like your fingers are made of lead. Don't do this to me. Don't do
this. I who teach you since an infant should sit here and have to
listen to this. Go away. Go away from me."

He took my weaknesses so personally. He was like a spurned lover if I
stumbled and could not conjure up perfection. The tasks he set me
became harder and harder.

"You coward boy! You cowardly devil, You came to me an infant. Now you
are a young man and look at you. You know no shame and you cannot play
as well as you could at 10 years. You do not practise for me. You do
not know the meaning of it. Now play me this bar twenty times. Go on.
Go on."

At the end of each tempestuous lesson, he would heave a huge sigh and
simply dismiss me.

"Thank you Edward. Nice lesson."

Later, he took to using a small cane to beat time on the edge of his
chair and this was sometimes like being drilled by the devil. But I
never questioned him or shirked from my duty to my teacher, despite his
frenzies. The harder I tried the angrier and more frustrated he became.
Long gone were those days where he would transform into my play mate at
the end of the lesson and those precious toys were left still and
neglected, for I was too old. Without this release, I was left
pandering to my teacher's every whim; entire Bach suites to memorise in
a week, three Beethoven sonatas to study simultaneously. My life was
obsessively revolving around the constant round of practise.

Then came the shocking day when he announced out of the blue that he
would teach me no more.

"Edward, I am disappointed in you. You have not fulfilled your early
promise. I can do no more for you. Goodbye. Please leave now and ask
your mother to forward the cheque."

There was no time for me to look around and gather my thoughts and no
time to tell him how I felt. He allowed me no time. I was out in the
street and as I stood there in a daze, my music case barely closed, my
jacket dangling my arm, he banged harshly on the window.

"Go away. Go away. Go on clear off!" he yelled through the glass, his
moustache twitching and his cheeks puce.

And that was that. I heard that he retired from teaching soon
after.

Of course, now I can look back and guess that the man was well out of
his depth. I do not recall for instance, him playing any of the music
that he expected me to, not in years. I think that he could take me no
further and his pride would not let him admit this to me, so he had to
send me packing before I found out for myself. But initially losing him
felt like a bereavement to me. My parents were deeply embarrassed. He
would not speak to them. I was amazed at his behaviour. I knew that I
was playing brilliantly. I always knew that. I knew he was wrong and I
had never doubted my own ability. I had thrived on his iron discipline.
So it was then that my next phase of learning took place. In place of
his war-like lessons, I resolved to take full days of practice. I was
now inseparable from my piano. Days and days became weeks, became
months. And then I was sure: I wanted to play to others. My playing had
been until then, a private affair between me and my eccentric teacher,
but now I wanted desperately to make more expressive musical
relationships.

I won a scholarship to the Royal College of Music."