Play for me
It was well past midday, and the opalescent hues of the ever cloudy, ever cold London skies had given way to the heavy darkness overhanging the spires and the roofs. It was only an hour ago that the clatter of hooves was heard, and the guests arrived, and the silvery clink of the dishes came to his ears from the dining room, echoing through the bare-walled halls. It seemed mere moments ago, and yet, when he finally asked his butler when Honourable Charles Barnwell and his wife had left, the answer was, 'About six hours ago, sir.'
It often happens that the flow of time is fast when one is occupied and slower when one is not, but it is the truly bored and tired whose mind and senses it escapes entirely. It might have been a week or a month. He would not know.
'Play for me,' he asked, and behind the chaise longue that he was occupying, something shifted. He stared at the window and listened to the soft rustle of his companion's clothes.
'And one hoped you had forgotten his existence,' came the reply, spoken in a hushed tone somewhere from behind.
'The air is stifling, and the smell of your cigarettes is quite unmistakable.'
'Well then, what do you want me to play?' the other asked, and there came a few steps and the sound of a body settling down at the piano.
'Something lingering, yet not heavy on one's mind. Something lovely.'
'And by "lovely," you always mean Schubert.'
'Are you tired of Schubert?'
'Quite so.'
'Then play whatever you like.'
He turned to the other side, now facing the back of the chaise, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead against the slightly coarse tapestry upholstery.
The first notes came rapidly, accompanied by lower tones, which crushed against them, making the melody indistinguishable in the echoes of some hurried, violent hammer blows. Rather than groaning and asking his fellow to stop the assault on his leaden head and worn nerves, he could almost imagine a dance, one of those boisterous, cheerful dances when the heels clink and merry laughter rings.
The memory of the evening from a decade ago was as clear as if it were yesterday. He could see the face of his friend, flushed from the dance, her sparkling eyes and awed expression. He wondered then where the girl he used to play with went and how fast and inevitable the change happened. He realized, bitterly, that she had become a young lady, and it was her first evening out, and from then on she would have suitors calling on her, giving cards and offering marriage prospects. And young women, in general, did not care much for the boys they played with in childhood. It was too many years ago, and it was something he desperately tried to forget also.
'You are silent,' the voice came, and above the back of the chaise appeared a pair of scrutinizing eyes. 'Did you like the piece?'
'I do not know. I wish you played Schubert,' he answered, and with a smile on his lips, glanced up at the face of his friend.
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Also available in Russian with slight changes here.