This is the project I've been working on for the past few days. It consists of three short stories all centered around Raymond Simmons. This is by no means acceptable even to my own eyes, but due to the sheer length of the entire project, I'm letting you guys rip it apart.
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To a pianist, a love affair could mean nothing more than simple notes on a page, scrawled in buried layers of rich text, staves and notes to form music. A love affair with music is nothing more than a way to express one’s ability to recognize and hear the music—not just listen. Listening and hearing are two completely different activities. When one listens, not only does he hear the unspoken lyrics in the melody, but he feels powerful feelings evoke his imagination to create and alter the music altogether.
To Raymond Simmons, he knew his love affair was different than the rest. It may have quite possibly been his music that kept him alive in his despair. Music could be puzzling that way—mysteriously powerful, yet riddling with excitement.
The year happened to be 1933. Snowflakes, shivering with delicacy, shimmered down from the December sky, landing on the road right outside of the beautiful dé la Concerto Hall. The building was tall, but not a skyscraper by any means, like the ones that surrounded it in downtown Chicago. People were crowded around the doors, breathing fog into the night sky. Coats buttoned up, gloves pulled on and spirits soaring with anticipation, the crowd waited. Above the seven main doors into the concert hall ran a banner from left to right that read “Raymond Simmons: Classical Pianist of the Century”.
Down the street a bit, a black car pulled up to the curb and a man named Marley Hugo stepped out of the back seat and hastily turned around to help his wife climb down. When they were both situated, Mr. Hugo shut the door and tapped on the window, signaling the driver an OK to go.
Mr. Hugo was a very large man with a very short neck. Currently, his apparel consisted of a rather green bow tie, a tuxedo, and a top hat. His appearance would have been comical at first sight, and as he strode up the street with his wife’s arm around his, he received many glances from people shivering in their inexpensive coats. Once they reached the dé la Concerto Hall, Mr. Hugo quickly strode up through the thickening crowd to the door and knocked five times with his knuckle. A young boy of sixteen or thereabouts opened it for him, smiling warmly.
“Good evening, Mr. Hugo. Right this way,” he said, shaking Mr. Hugo’s fat hand. He quickly glanced a look through the glass doors at the crowd, but then diverted his attention back to the VIP.
“Good evening, young man. What’s your name?” Mr. Hugo replied with a white smile.
The young man’s cheek’s flushed. “Edwin, sir. Edwin Black. Let me show you to your seats—they are the best in the house, of course. We wouldn’t have you sit anywhere else.”
“Right, right,” Mr. Hugo said, nodding his head. As they went through the lobby, a portrait caught his eye. It was one done by an unpopular, but very thorough, artist named Emile Macintyre. Mrs. Hugo squeezed her husband’s arm as she smiled. The portrait was of the two of them. She had been sitting in a rocking chair, and her husband was standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder. Mrs. Hugo remembered posing for long, dreadful hours for this portrait, but she could honestly say it was well worth the effort. It was magnificent—her pride and joy.
Edwin Black led the way to the chamber hall, where the performance would be. They had seats right in front of the stage, about four rows back. A large piece of tape had taped the two seats off, marking it a VIP seat.
“Right here,” Edwin said, pointing to the two chairs. “Comfortable and a very nice few. I do hope you enjoy the show.”
“Oh, I’m sure we will, son,” Mr. Hugo replied, and winked. Edwin bowed and walked back down the aisle, heading back to the main doors to let the rest of the crowd in.
Back in the hall, Mr. and Mrs. Hugo had a quiet conversation.
“Classical pianist of the century?” she asked. “I really must meet him one of these days. Why don’t you ever bring him home for dinner?”
“Ray always says he’s busy. I’m sure he would, Constance, but he’s got better things to do than sit around with a couple of old people, I’m sure.”
“Well, invite him again. And again. Is he single? You know Meredith is looking for someone. She’s our grandchild and she’s going to be twenty soon,” she said as some guests entered the room. She eyed them as they began to take their seats.
“He isn’t single, dear. He’s been engaged for over a year now.”
“Oh, well…”
“Listen, I better go check up on him. I’m hosting the show, and I need to make sure I’ve got everything covered,” Mr. Hugo stated as he rose from his seat. “After some beginning remarks, I’ll come back and join you. Goodbye.”
Mrs. Hugo nodded and waved as he left her alone. She watched him cross the front row, and opened a door on the right end of the hall and disappeared through it. She sighed and slid her gloves off her fingers.
It was about a half hour later when the lights in the room began to dim, and the audience quieted. By now, the room was completely full. Mrs. Hugo remembered the concert had been sold out—a rarity at concerts like these. But, then again, this was Raymond Simmons’ world premiere of his piano concerto Lydia, Sweet Child of Mine. Her husband had quite expressively told her is beautiful, just beautiful. He told her it reminded him of when they had both met, those many, many nights ago under the stars.
A symphony orchestra took their places onstage. At the front of the stage was a beautiful grand piano, its keys glistening and anxious. Mrs. Hugo had played piano once, a long time ago. Her sister and her had taken piano lessons for about seven years until they moved from New York to Chicago, where she met Mr. Hugo. She had never really been much of a player, although she did enjoy a great pianist every once in a while.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to present our sponsor of the evening, Mr. Marley Hugo!” the conductor of the orchestra spoke loudly, his voice bouncing off the walls. There was thunderous applause and quite a few whispers of recognition. Her husband burst onto the stage with high energy, generating even more applause. His face was bright red, contrasting sharply with his green bow tie. With what little hair he had left, he had managed to comb it over to the side and it gave his large face an even larger glow.
The conductor gave Marley Hugo the floor, and the applause died down.
“Ladies and gentlemen. It’s been twenty-one years—twenty-one years this building has been giving performances you wouldn’t want to miss for anything. I am proud to have opened this building to the public in 1912. When I sold it four years later, I became the leading sponsor and have attended most every event. Ladies and gentlemen, nothing—nothing, I repeat—will ever compete against the performance we are going to experience tonight. This will be unlike anything. Raymond Simmons is a piano genius, and I can honestly say he has been a great friend to me. We have known each other for over nine years, and he is the sweetest thing you’ll ever meet. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Raymond Simmons!”
Deafening applause broke as a man stepped out from left stage. Mrs. Hugo had poor eyes, but even through that, she could tell something was wrong with this man. His eyes, oh Lord, his eyes were bright red as if he had been crying for the past hour. What could have caused this? Nerves? Anxiety?
As Raymond Simmons took center stage, he gave a brief nod to the cheering audience and then glanced to the conductor, who nodded back. He then sat at the piano and waited for the audience to hush up.
There was something unnerving about his eyes. Mrs. Hugo could definitely tell there was something terribly wrong. Had Marley, her husband, done this to him? What could he have said to make him cry?
The conductor raised his arms, and the orchestra began to play.
At the current moment, and from stealing a quick glance at her program, she knew Raymond was playing Tchaikovsky’s breathtaking Piano Concerto No. 1. He did not come in for a few seconds, but when he finally did, she took a breath and sank into her chair, next to her husband who had recently joined her.
For a few minutes, she was transported back fifty or so years to Tchaikovsky’s age. Near the end of the first movement, she noticed Raymond’s eyes were still red and rather puffy. She leaned into her husband’s ear and whispered:
“Is it just me, or does he look like he’s been crying?”
Her husband made tiny noise like a “mmph”, which was his universal sign for agreeing with something.
“Poor thing. He looks like a tragic mess.”
“Mmph.”
Even though Raymond had a hard time keeping his eyes open, his fingers seemed to open his soul. The music was beautiful—beyond any of their expectations. His long and slender fingers seemed to slide over the keys. Mrs. Hugo was jealous because he made it look so easy.
After the Piano Concerto No. 1 was finished (to a very loud applause), Raymond stood from the piano and took a deep breath. One would have to be stupid to not see how painful his eyes looked. To Mrs. Hugo, it made her want to cry.
What had happened?
“The next piece I’m going to be performing is titled Lydia, Sweet Child of Mine. I started it at the beginning of this year and finished penning it about mid-October. It is, as they say, my baby.” He paused for a moment, and wiped his eyes quickly. “This song is a description of the night I asked my Lydia to marry me.” His face fell. He went to the piano and took the score in his hands.
“I know you’re all expecting me to play it. And I know you’re expecting something amazing, but in all seriousness, I cannot play this tonight. I am sorry.”
As if on cue, gasps were heard throughout the hall. Even a small one escaped the lips of Mrs. Hugo. Mr. Hugo only nodded, as silent as could be.
“I am so sorry. I’ve failed myself. I cannot play this song ever again. I am sorry,” Raymond spoke, on the verge of tears. It took him a few moments to walk off the stage, the same place he had come on. People began standing in their seats, yelling and hollering.
The Hugos sat and waited, but nothing ever came. Raymond Simmons, the classical pianist of the century, had done the unthinkable. Bailing out on a concert—a very expensive concert—was simply unheard of.
Constance Hugo, in all of her glory and wealth, began to cry out of sheer pity.
Four hours ago
“Lydia, you look absolutely beautiful tonight,” Raymond said as she approached him. She smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Thanks, Raymond. For everything. For coming here on such short notice, especially when your concert is in a few hours,” Lydia stated in a breathless manner. Raymond asked himself if she had been running a few moments earlier. The blush on her cheek may have suggested it, and the way her dark bangs were stuck to her forehead in sweat.
Raymond, however, laughed.
“Raymond? You never call me Raymond.”
“Yes, well, that’s your name, isn’t it?” she replied quickly. “Let’s go inside. I’m freezing.”
“Oh, yes!” Raymond muttered, and opened the restaurant door for her. As she went inside, Raymond felt terribly awkward and alarmed. There was definitely something wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
“There’s two of us,” Lydia told the waitress, who then nodded. Ray and Lydia stood there for a moment, a short distance apart. He was trying to look in her eyes, but she kept them hid.
“Ugh, my hair’s a mess,” she complained, and Ray took the opportunity for a compliment.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Yes, well. Thanks.”
“Is something wrong?”
“What do you mean, is something wrong? Everything’s wrong, Raymond.”
He took her arm and stared into her eyes.
“Lydia.”
“Let go of me. Please. Please, let go of me.”
He let go of her.
“Right this way,” the waitress said with a red smile. She directed them over to a shabby table for two. Raymond sat on opposing sides of his fiancée and took her hand in his.
“What’s going on, Lydia?”
“Not now,” she whispered as the waitress returned. They quickly ordered their meal and the waitress hurried off in the other direction.
“Lydia?”
“Raymond, I can’t marry you anymore.” She spoke as soft as a snowflake.
“Lydia.”
“Please stop saying my name. I’m sorry, Raymond. I really, truly am. I—I’ve come to the decision that it would be best if we stopped seeing each other.”
It was like a punch to the gut for Raymond. He had been steadily dating her for over a year before he proposed. Everything had been going exactly as planned. Sure, he hadn’t set a wedding date yet, but everything in their own time, right? What was the cause of this madness?
“Can I ask why?”
“No. Please, Raymond, you must understand that I can’t tell you why.”
As soon as she said that, she took out a letter from her handbag and set it on the table. She slid it across to Raymond, and he caressed her hand softly.
“Don’t do this,” he replied, tears forming all too quickly.
“It’s done. Please, don’t come looking for me,” she whispered as she stood up. They stared at each other once more before she turned away and abruptly walked off, out of the restaurant. Through the glass windows, he watched her hail a cab and climb in. She stole a glance back at the restaurant before slamming the door shut.
“Here are your drinks,” the waitress said, putting two glasses of water on the table. Raymond looked at her, sick to his stomach.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and whisked herself away.
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Part two will be coming later today or tomorrow. Thank you for reading. It's terrible in its current condition, but I hope your comments will help make it better.
-Jared
Sorry I don't have any real nitpicks but I hope that helps.
and I can just be lazy like I usually am. It's a really great story, I'm a pianist myself and I love music romance. I did have one question though, why is the title called pianoissimo? Isn't that very soft? I think it would make more sense if your title was something like doloroso, sadly, sorrofully. It sort of gives a hint about the mood of the story. But that's just me being curious, it's an awesome story!
