Perceval and Karina

 

I once met a man at Harvard when I was pretending to be a woman from France. He was a third generation attorney named Perceval Harkness Granger the third.  It was the actress in me, looking for something more interesting from life than the hand I’d been dealt. While he told me about himself, I got busy assembling a French accent and history to match. I was just back from France so my clothes reflected the culture.

Yes, this is my first trip to America, I told him, I’ve come to study music.

 I was without shame. Unfortunately, the more we talked, the more I liked him and by the end of lunch we’d made arrangements to see each other again. Now I was really stuck. If I wanted to be with him, I needed to continue to be the person he’d met, which would be an on-going challenge.

The show-down came when he gave me a surprise birthday party, decorated his apartment like a street in Paris and invited all of his friends who spoke French.

 I wanted to make you feel at home, he told me.

 How dear. The only problem was that I didn’t speak French. I just had a great accent from spending my summer there. I walked cautiously from guest to guest, like a swimmer in shark infested waters telling them my latest lies.

I’ve promised that as long as I am in the United States that I will speak only English. That’s what I am here to learn, forgive me if I don’t join you.

It had taken everything I had to maintain my charade with Percy, but convincing a group pushed me over the edge. I decided to end the game. We’d dated for the better part of the school year, when I asked him to join me on a park bench to discuss ’some things of common interest.’ I drank in his image for the last time. He was a handsome young man with dark wavy hair, his eyelashes, thick brush strokes executed with precision. He had opened my eyes to the world of art films, coffee houses, Harvard University and what it felt like to stand on a solid family base.

 My voice sounded flat and ordinary, as I let go of my French accent and explained what I had done. Everything felt different as I did, colors, textures, the light, the very air smelled different. When I finished, he got up and walked away, feeling angry, embarrassed, and used. That was the last I ever heard from him, except for a book he mailed to me written by Eric Fromm, called, The Art of Loving. He wanted me to read it, but the title was enough. I got the point.

Last year I decided to Google him and found he had died. Percy decided not to become a lawyer after all. He migrated to writing instead, leaving a creative legacy for television, theater and the screen. Maybe I inspired him. You think?

The Recital

I entered the Longy School of Music as a singer, but could not read music. I faked it by getting classical records out of the library and learning songs by ear. I was an exceptional student until I could not locate the recording needed, then my voice teacher would shake her head in wonder at my apparent lapse of ability.

Giving a recital on an instrument was a requirement of the school, but I didn’t play one. To comply, I sat next to an overweight man who smoked cigarettes and wiped bored sweat from his brow. He tried to teach me piano and how to read music. I had only been playing for three months when the concert rolled around. The public was in attendance and so was the faculty. Grades were issued accordingly. I went to the dean.

Surely, you can’t expect me to perform on the piano when I’ve been playing such a short time. I’d only make a fool of myself.

It’s a requirement of the school, he said, there are no exceptions.

The afternoon of the recital I was escorted across a grand stage amidst enthusiastic applause to a piano fit for a master student. Positioning myself I said a silent prayer and began to play. This was a student’s time to shine, to show the community and faculty that they held professional status. Naturally no sheet music was allowed. I was sick with nerves, knowing full well that I possessed no skill whatsoever. If only I could sing for them, I thought, everything would be fine.

I played for ten measures before my memorization collapsed.  Determined not to fail, I reached into my bag and pulled out the forbidden sheet music, praying for a miracle of comprehension. I envisioned red ink marks being splashed across my report by the faculty seated in the back row, but no longer cared. This was an exercise in survival. The notes on the page ran together, while restless whispers from the audience amplified. I stopped to gather courage, took a deep breath, and straightened my posture. A vast landscape of black and white ivory lay before me. I had only to place my fingers on the right tract to make my way to safety, but I could not. I missed the mark over and over again.

Finally an authoritative voice from the back of the auditorium rose and called out to me.

Miss Banfield, may I make a suggestion?

Yes, please sir. I was in desperate need of a lifeline.

Try playing a D with the third finger of your left hand, instead of an F. I think you’ll find it gets you back on track. I changed my fingering and it momentarily eased the pain.

Dear God, can someone tell me how a gentlemen in the back row could indicate which finger was amiss, while I, giving it my full attention was completely lost?

I played on, being guided by whatever saints take mercy on inept musicians. When I finished, I closed the sheet music and returned it to the bag. I pushed back the piano bench with what dignity remained and prepared to leave. The same man stood again at the rear of the concert hall.

Miss Banfield, I have a question for you before you go.

A renewed sense of panic filled my body.

I’d like to inquire, do you enjoy playing the piano?

Shielding my eyes from the glare of the spotlight, I probed the sea of faces before me, searching unsucessfully for his.

No sir, I answered, I hate it.

He made some marks in his book and dismissed me by saying, it shows.

Be Mine

We did a fund-raiser before we left Alaska. After the theatrical performance I hid behind the set as long as possible, hoping to avoid being social. It had been a long day and I didn’t know if I could smile at any more strangers. Eventually, hunger got the best of me and I ventured toward the food table.

Oh, Miss Banfield, a voice called out, I’ve been waiting for you. Would you join me please? 

I had to. It was my job.

Just one moment, let me get some food and we’ll talk.

I was in the mood for prime rib and potatoes, but settled for the crackers, cheese and bite-sized vegetables offered. I peered back at the circular table that was tucked in the corner, and quietly assessed the gentleman who had spoken; middle-aged, businessman, reliable, somewhat dull. A rapid evaluation, I concluded, and probably unfair.

Balancing an abundant supply of food on a tiny paper plate, I approached his table. He stood to pull out my chair, reached into his briefcase and placed a file on the table. Miss Banfield, I have figures I’d like to show you.

I blanched. Oh dear, I thought, he’s from the Internal Revenue Service. I stopped eating.

Don’t be alarmed. I have a list of assets I want to go over with you, just take a minute.

I slowly began eating and studied him again. He must be the bookkeeper from Pacific University, I thought. They were our financial host. Perhaps he needed me to take figures back to the main office.

I ate and listened, while he spoke of land, houses, machinery and cars. He disclosed his personal income and many of his intimate tastes. When he finished I was completely baffled, without a glimmer of comprehension. I wiped my mouth with a small green napkin and looked blankly into his eyes.

I don’t understand a word you’ve told me. What’s your purpose?

He straightened his back and became very formal.

I was wondering if you would consider marriage. As you see, I am a very stable man, well employed and respected. I own a great deal of land and have been looking for the right person to share it with. There is a shortage of women in Alaska, so I don’t have a bursting selection. Would you consider my proposal?

I was completely taken back, tried to be gentle, wished him luck and made a hasty exit. What a girl has to go through to have a meal in Alaska.

The Crush

Business began at Storefront Theater with daily gatherings to write music and a script about energy conservation. I became the Energy God Mother on roller skates, and propelled myself across countless school auditoriums teaching children how to conserve energy so they could, have a brighter tomorrow. I also made a special guest appearance near the end of the show as a pink satin washing machine. Not the career in opera I had trained for, but I was having fun.

Unfortunately, I developed a terrific crush on Charles, the piano player. Men were the ones to make advances in my world, like the wedding proposal I received from a complete stranger between shows in Alaska, so I had no skill for initiating. When the time came to speak to Charles about anything but work, I was silent, tongue-tied, frozen.

Did you want something, he’d ask?

No, no, I’d lie, as I disappeared quickly behind the stage. Just wanted to say you played well.

Finally I’d had enough. I was standing in the lower hallway after rehearsal and saw Charles making his way to the elevator. Do it, I told myself. For God sake put an end to this and ask him. Ask him what? I couldn’t remember. He was getting closer to the elevator, running for it. Each step brought him nearer. If I didn’t speak he would run right past. I had to do it. It was now or never. I would not let him go by without settling this. It was essential I speak, but nothing was coming out of my mouth. He was getting away. I couldn’t let it happen.

In frustration I reached out and grabbed his belt loop. He kept going, never even slowed down as it ripped completely off his pants. He heard the rip, felt the tug. He ran to the elevator, leaned against the back wall, looked down at his torn pants and out at me. There I stood with dazed eyes, his belt loop wrapped around my finger, long threads dangling in space. He gave me a look that said, oh my God, it’s you. I should have known. I winced, sorry Charles, sorry.

We worked together for the next six months, and neither of us mentioned the belt loop incident. Charles fell in love with another woman, which was just as well.  I’d decided I wasn’t in love with him after all. It was just too darned hard.

Madame Schinnerea

At boarding school I traded gym class for music and went into town to study with the worldly Madame Schinnerea. She was accomplished, rigid, expensive and formally trained.  The woman managed, all by herself, to remove any joy I had ever felt for music. Under her training, music became cold and technical. If, at any time, she felt my work was less than perfect, she would cancel whatever engagements had been scheduled.

The minister from the Congregational church was especially put out by this. During my lesson he stopped by and demanded to know why my performance had been canceled.  Madame Schinnerea replied, she does not sing the piece as Handel intended. I won’t have a student of mine doing sloppy work.

The minister pleaded; couldn’t she just sing a simple hymn? It’s the beauty of her voice we love, not the sound of her jumping through classical hoops. She glared at him with all the impatience of a superior mind, dealing with the hopelessly ignorant. No, not even a simple hymn. It was over. I was to be perfect or not open my mouth. I tried; I pushed and pulled myself to become a gifted musical acrobat. I sang arias I didn’t understand in Italian, French and German - still not good. She gave me Hamlet to recite, in the hope of elevating my mind and thus my voice, but I could not please her. Finally I rebelled and joined the cheerleading squad where I screamed for hours in damp weather.  She was furious and informed my mother that I could have had a career on the concert stage, but lacked ambition.

I never had such lofty ideas. I was full of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, never Maria Callas.  Defying her further, I went to church every Sunday and sang hymn after hymn in the choir. I was their soloist, the only dormitory student, and was regarded with curiosity by the white haired ladies. We’ve never had a boarding student take an interest in the choir before. What an unusual young woman you are.

My best friend during those years was a beautiful Lebanese woman named, Susan. She was a townie, as distinguished from a boarding student. The academy was attended by local students, which saved it from being elitist or intolerably over run by the behavior problems of the wealthy. When I spent the night with Susan, I’d put on classical music and delight in the beauty of Chopin’s Piano sonatas, but she’d have none of it. I keep telling you, I don’t like that stuff. Put on something good, like Joni Mitchell or Bob Dylan. I didn’t know who they were, so she educated me. When Susan put Dylan on the record player I was very glad Madame Schinnerea was no where around, because I knew she’d die of a heart attack on the spot. I could imagine her gasping for air and clutching her heart at the sounds he produced. Why wasn’t somebody canceling his performances?

Multiple Personality

Today I was a:

Housekeeper

Bed maker

Shower taker

Laundry woman

Therapist

Psychic

Dream consultant

Safe place for children

Typist

Correspondent

Care taker for dogs

Care taker for cats

Burial person for a bird

Radio audience

Motorist

Library patron

Grocery shopper

Check writer

Postal patron

Mother

Ashram visitor

Dinner Guest

Friend

Gift receiver

Student

Artist

Writer

Traveler

Chef

Wife

Listener

Sleeper

written May 28, 2008