Two-Part Invention Number One - A love story set at Bates College

I dialed the number and thought about green. Green as new grass. Green as an avocado. Green....

"Sir, Dr. Monroe will be finished with her session in about fifteen minutes. I suggest you try calling back when...."

"Excuse me," I said. "My name is Paul Bradshaw. Please have her call me." I gave my number and hung up.

"She was reading a molecular biology text. She has dark blond hair and speaks with a English accent."

"I know who you're talking about. She's the one with the viridescent tektite eyes."

"Viridescent: an adjective meaning green. Tektite: glass-like objects believed to be formed when a meteor strikes the earth."

I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it. My room mate is the only person I know who would come up with something like viridescent tektite to describe a girl's eyes. But I liked the part about meteors hitting the earth.

He hung up. I put the phone down and opened Norton's Anthology of Poetry, but I couldn't focus on Yeats. My attention kept drifting inward to this morning.

On the second floor of Chase Hall there is a lounge where groupings of furniture divide the space into living-room-like settings. Persian and braided rugs are scattered about for effect and the walls are hung with Latin American relief carvings. Coffee tables and end tables with lamps complete the divisions. There is a large, brick fireplace which sometimes is lighted by the staff, but mostly stands cool and handsome, adding to the rich atmosphere of the room.

The reason I come here is the grand piano. During the day few people use this room, so I stop in once or twice a week. If the lounge is empty, I play for a while. If people are there, I sit and read till they leave. Then I play. This morning the room was vacant, so I went to the huge, black Mason and Hamlin and sat on the bench. I reached into my backpack and pulled out music. It was new copy of Bach's Two-Part Inventions. Oops. Wrong music. I slid the manuscript back in and pulled out the other: a worn copy of Beethoven. Actually, I had it half out when I saw I was not alone. Not eight feet away was a girl lying on her side on a couch. She was reading. She looked up at me and smiled.

She sat up. "Are you preparing to play?" She sounded like a young Julie Andrews. The word play was spoken in two syllables that went up and then down in pitch. Are you preparing to pla-ay.

"No," I said quickly and stuffed Beethoven back into the bag. I fished about, caught hold of a paperback, and pulled it out. It was a Penguin edition of Shakespeare. "I'm going to read," I said. "Shakespeare."

I didn't know what to say, so I asked a question of my own. "What are you reading?"

Her eyes were an amazing shade of green. I had never seen anything like them. "Excuse me?"

I looked at the cover of my book. It was a copy of Romeo and Juliet. It had been in my bag since last year. "Romeo and Juliet."

A smile lit up her face. "That's my favorite play. Would you read me some of it?"

Her eyes. What were they were the color of? New wheat? The tender coverings of young corn?

I looked about the lounge. There was no one else there. "What part would you like to hear?"

"You do sit on a piano bench and read Shakespeare," she said. "Amazing. If one is going to read aloud, one really should stand, don't you think?"

The Prologue is only fourteen lines long, and I got through it with hardly a stumble.

"How was that?" I said when I was finished. I looked at her and was shocked to see that she was crying. Instinctively I sat down by her side. "Are you okay?"

She smiled bravely through her tears. "What an old silly I am. I'm fine. Really, I am." She wiped her fingers across her cheeks. "Please read some more. I'm okay. Really. Please read a bit more."

If she had asked me to dive head first into the piano, I'd have done it. I stood up and read to the end of the scene. She gave me a small ovation.

I pawed about inside my backpack and came out with a collection of Kipling's verse. "How about this? Would you read some Kipling?"

"The Young British Soldier," she announced, as if to a full house. She guttered up her accent and let me have it.

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit to serve as a soldier
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts.
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts,
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier ...

I could hardly breath. I had never heard anything so wonderful. And it only got better as she went along.

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier ...

She sounded very much like an old sergeant. And the more she read, the more I felt like a young British soldier. I hung on her every word.

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier ...

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old ---
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest, I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier ...

The advice continued on through loosing your wife to a comrade, problems with your Martini rifle, what to do if fired on by cannon, and how to act if your officer's dead and the sergeants have gone pale. Then came the final shocking advice:

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

She finished the poem by executing a step in place on the last "of" and a sharp British-style salute on the word "Queen." I was stunned.

"That was GREAT," I said. "THAT WAS GREAT!" I applauded. She curtsied, then blew kisses.

"Do another," I begged. "Please. Do Tomlinson. It's... there should be a marker. Yes. That's it."

Tomlinson is my favorite. Tomlinson dies and an angel grabs him by the hair and flies him past the Milky Way, clear to Heaven. However, standing at the Pearly Gates, Tomlinson can't think of a single good deed that he's done, so St. Peter won't let him in. Since he can't get into Heaven, the angel grabs him by the hair and flies Tomlinson down to Hell. He would really like to get into Hell, but he can't seem think of any bad things that he's done, so the Devil doesn't want him, either.

...The Devil blew on a brandered soul
And set it aside to cool.
"Do you think I'd waste my good pit coal
On the hide of a brain-sick fool?"...

At the end of the poem, the Devil sends Tomlinson back to earth until he can manage to do some evil or some good. It's a long poem and she read every word of it wonderfully. I gave her another ovation. She curtsied again and gave a smile of thanks.

I got the Two-Part Inventions out of my backpack, sat down at the piano, and loosened my fingers by wiggling them in the air.

"Okay. Number Five it is." I turned to the correct page, loosened my fingers again, and carefully adjusted my posture. I poised my hands over the keyboard, then removed them.

"Okay," she said laughing. "Number One. Actually, Number One is my favorite. I don't know why I said Number Five."

I turned to Number One, went through my preparations again, and began to play. From the first note it was obvious that I was pretty terrible. By the eighth measure I had to stop because my fingers were hopelessly out of control. She was laughing too hard to listen, anyway.

"Oh, you're the one, you are." Her laugh had a light, musical quality. It was a pleasant laugh that resonated off of a soul that was rich and fine and alive. I suddenly realized that I didn't ever want a day to go by without hearing that laughter.

She put her hand on the piano. "And I want a grand piano like this. And I want a husband who will play Bach for me every day."

She removed her hand from the piano and laid it good-naturedly on my shoulder. "I guess you're not much of a prospect," she said, and again she laughed.

Her eyes rose to the clock on the wall and her laughter turned into a small cry of horror. "I'm late for class," she cried. She quickly gathered her things and headed for the door. As she rushed out, she turned and smiled and waved. "Ta!"

I sat on the piano bench, not yet recovered from her comment about my prospects. As I waved back, I suddenly realized I didn't even know her name.

"Well...uh...I'm inquiring about the possibility of having you teach me to play Bach's Two- Part Invention Number One."

"No, Ma'am. English major. Though I am taking Professor Ingraham's music appreciation course."

"No, Ma'am. Wait. It's you I want to talk to. I know this is irregular, but I really need your help. I need you to teach me."

"Hmmm. And what sort of playing do you do now? I mean, what do you consider your best pieces?"

"I'm afraid my best pieces at this point are Chop Sticks and Heart and Soul, but I can play some Beethoven. Fur Elise. And most of Moonlight Sonata."

"Yes. Well. Mr. Bradshaw. We do offer level one piano instruction for non-music majors, but of course you'd have to wait till the new semester to sign up."

"But, Dr. Monroe. I don't want level one piano instruction. I want to learn Bach's Two-Part Invention Number One and I'm afraid this can't wait till next semester."

I didn't know what to say. My mom insists that honesty is the best policy and it's easier if you just blurt it out. So I blurted.

"This is probably going to cost you more than you can imagine, Mr. Bradshaw. But I think that for the most part, love is worth it."

"I know what you meant, Mr. Bradshaw. Please understand. I am the chair of the Music Department. I teach level four piano majors. There is a waiting list of students from all over the country who want to study with me. A session of instruction costs $35 - that's for one hour. I don't teach beginning students."

Good grief. $35. And who knows how many sessions it would take. As if my job at the library would provide that kind of money.

"Dr. Monroe. I'm a scholarship student. I work fifteen hours a week at the library to help pay my way. I don't have that kind of money. But this is really important to me."

"Dr. Monroe, in high school I dated some, but I never had a steady girl friend. The two years I've spent here at Bates, I've dated a few girls, but none of them seemed that special. But this morning, something happened. It's wasn't even a date, it was just a chance encounter. She's English. Her eyes are green like meteors. We read to each other. Shakespeare and Kipling."

I felt I was making as absolute fool out of myself, but I couldn't seem to stop. "She said that she wanted someone who could play Bach for her and that I didn't seem like a prospect. Dr. Monroe, I don't know if I have a chance in the world with this girl, but I intend to learn to play Two-Part Invention Number One and I want to do it soon."

"I am sixty-three years old. Would it surprise you to learn that I, too, am in love?"

"Well, I am in love, Mr. Bradshaw. I am in love with teaching music. And it so happens that right now I am running a special on Two-Part Inventions. For a flat fee of twenty dollars, I will teach you the Two-Part Invention of your choice."

"Number One," she agreed. "However, there are three stipulations to this special offer. First, I want the twenty dollars in advance. Second, this special is only available at noon. Are you willing to sacrifice your lunch for Bach and for Miss Boman?"

"And thirdly," she continued. "And this is important. If for some reason your relationship with Miss Browman or Brewman does not blossom as you plan, you will, nonetheless, continue your noontime sessions with me until you are able to play Bach's Two-Part Invention Number One to my satisfaction. Do you agree to this?"

"Very good. I will see you tomorrow. Olin Arts Center, room 243. Twelve o'clock. And, Mr. Bradshaw, it is a very big irritation to me when people are late. Don't be late."

According to Oakie's alarm clock, which was just visible amid the chaos of his desk, I had twenty minutes before Lit class. I closed Norton's and started to get up when the phone rang. I plopped back down.

"Not when it's Jennifer's last name. It's spelled B-R-O-U-G-H-A-M, but it's pronounced Broom."

"Right. She goes by Jennifer, but her real first name - Are you ready for this? - is Genevieve. English father. French mother." This last was said in a manner that implied the repeated raising and lowering of eyebrows.

"Some sort of disaster at home - financial, I think. She lives in London, but she's come to the States and is staying with an aunt till things get sorted out."

"She's enrolled in two classes: Molecular Biology, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at ten o'clock and Plant Physiology, Mondays and Wednesdays at one."

"Uh, nothing on that, yet. But check this out: the aunt she's staying with is a professor here at Bates. In fact, she's the chair of the Music Department."

The phone slipped from my hand, bounced off the edge of the desk, then hit the floor head first like an unlucky bungee jumper. It bounced up six inches, then hit the floor again. Then it hung by its cord, head down, swinging back and forth.

"Right. Thanks. Oh, wait. Oakie, do you suppose you could loan me twenty bucks? I'll give it back to you payday."

Oakie's clock was the only one we had. It was an ancient plug-in he'd bought for a quarter at a yard sale, and it tended to get lost in the clutter on his desk. My nightly ritual was to unbury it and make sure it was set. It had also become my ritual in the mornings to stumble across the room, shut it off, and wake Oakie up.

I had trouble getting to sleep that night. I tossed and turned as I thought about Jennifer. And Dr. Monreau. And Bach. And Kipling. And Shakespeare. And Mrs. Brown. And Yeats. Finally, around midnight I drifted off.

I usually wake up five minutes before the alarm and lie in bed till it buzzes. This morning it seemed to take forever. As I waited, my thoughts picked up where they left off the night before. I should never have called Dr. Monreau. Even with her help, I doubt I could play anything by Bach well enough to impress the likes of Jennifer Brougham.

Genevieve Brougham. English father. French mother. I purposely moved my eyebrows up and down.

I turned over on my side and pulled the covers up to my neck. Suddenly, a horrible realization sank in: last night I had been so preoccupied, I had neglected to check the clock.

I jumped out of bed, went to the window, and looked through the blinds. I was afraid the sun was long up, and that I would see everyone-but-us on the way somewhere.

But, no. To my relief, it was dark. Not a soul was stirring. I flipped on a lamp and went to Oakie's desk in search of the clock. I pulled it by its cord from under a handful of papers, two Moon Pie wrappers, a book on Sumerian tablet writing, and a tee shirt that said "Don't Stridulate. Confabulate." I feared the clock must be hot enough to melt, but when I gave the casing a quick touch, it was barely even warm. I checked the time. It was 2:37 a.m.

I made sure the alarm was set, put the clock on top of the pile, flipped off the lamp, and went back to bed.

I should never have called Dr. Monreau. She must have known I was talking about her niece. Why didn't she say anything? Probably she was getting too much enjoyment out of how big a fool I was making of myself. I rolled over onto my side.

The more I thought about our phone conversation, the more I was convinced that Dr. Monreau wasn't anyone I wanted to learn piano from. She had sounded pretty cold. Instead of giving me a piano lesson, she was probably planning on wringing my neck.

But Dr. Monreau has my name and phone number. If I didn't show up, she would probably come looking for me. I could see her dragging me, screaming and thrashing, out of Lit class, down the steps, and across the campus.

I rolled over onto my back, pulled the pillow down, and snuggled my neck protectively into it. Maybe I should call her office and cancel the lessons. I'm sure whoever had answered the phone before would be more than happy to relay the message.

I rolled back over onto my side, getting my arm pinned in the covers. I struggled with the sheet and blanket, trying to get free. I finally got loose and got out of bed. I put on sweats and a tee shirt, and grabbed my flip flops. I went over to look at the clock. 2:53. I pulled the Two-Part Inventions out of my back pack, made sure I had my room key, and went down stairs to the first floor lounge.

I sat at the ancient Bogart upright and put the music on the stand. The lid to the keyboard was closed and I left it that way. It was, after all, three o'clock in the morning. I opened the music to Invention Number One and sat staring at it. The only music I could play was stuff I had learned back in grade school. As I had proven to Jennifer Brougham, I wasn't much of a sight reader. I placed my fingers on the closed lid and pretended to play, thumping my fingers against the dark wood as if I were hitting the keys that lurked beneath. I didn't do this long. I had no idea what I was doing. It seemed hopeless. And just wait till Jennifer Brougham found out I had talked her aunt into giving me lessons. It would look all wrong. It will look like I was being conniving, like I knew Dr. Monreau was her aunt. Nobody has much of a sense of humor about anything these days; if Dr. Monreau doesn't choke me, Jennifer probably will.

English father. French mother. I raised and lowered my eyebrows several times, grabbed the music, and went back upstairs.

I'm convinced that, even if they parked the cannons next to his bed, Phil could sleep through the 1812 Overture. He didn't stir as I came in, put the music away, undressed, and crawled forlornly back into my bed. It was 3:30 a.m.

But I knew it was impossible. When you try to shut your mind off and you try to force yourself to sleep, what you get is the opposite. Maybe I should try to think and to not go to sleep. Sure. Right. That'll work. I rolled over onto my side.

I managed to drag myself to my morning classes, but got nothing out of them. The clock seemed to slouch toward twelve. For all its slouching though, before I knew it, it was 11:30. I went back to the room.

I had missed breakfast and was starving. I choked down one of Oakie's endless supply of Moon Pies. At a quarter of twelve I slide Bach's Two-Part Inventions out of my backpack.

I had told him the truth, that I needed the twenty because I was going to take piano lessons at noon, but I didn't tell him anything else.

I checked my pocket to make sure I had the twenty, then left, feeling like I was headed toward doom. Our room was on the third floor of Parker Hall over-looking the quad and the Chapel. I walked downstairs to the ground level and out the back door. I went past Pettigrew Hall and Page, then started around the puddle. As I walked along the path, I was tempted to jump into the shallow water. The absurdity of the idea made me smile. A death leap into Andrews Pond. It reminded me of the scene in Robin Hood, Men in Tights when Little John, who can't swim, is floundering helplessly in an inch and a half of water. I smiled again. I walked up the steps of the Olin Arts Center and the smile faded.

As I walked down the hall, it was 11:55, and Dr. Monreau was standing outside of room 243. I thanked my lucky stars I wasn't late. When she saw me, she smiled and extended her hand.

Her hand was strong and she shook firmly. I could imagine that strong hand on the back of my neck, shaking me like a doll.

She looked like she could be 63 years old, yet there was something very young about her. Maybe it was her smile or the look in her eyes or the way she stood. Maybe it was how she seemed genuinely pleased to see me, as if I were a good friend who had been away for a month. Her blue eyes were pale, bright, and intelligent. She was ... well the word that comes to mind is willowy. Willowy, but not in the unhealthy super model sense. As afraid as I had let myself become of her, I had to admit she didn't seem so bad in person. Maybe it was how much like Jennifer she looked.

She opened the thick door to the practice studio and ushered me in. This wasn't a tiny practice rooms with an abused upright; it was a spacious studio with a Chickering grand, several chairs, and shelves which held hundreds, maybe thousands, of pieces of music. The chairs were wooden and padded and looked like they belonged in an elegant dining room. They were sit-and-listen-to- someone-play-piano kind of chairs.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out Oakie's tired-looking twenty. Dr. Monreau closed the door, and when she turned, I held the money out to her.

"Thank you," she said and took the twenty. She walked over to her purse, which sat on a low table, and put the money away, then took out a fountain pen and piece of paper and wrote what turned out to be a receipt. She put her fountain pen away and returned, waiving the receipt and blowing on it as she came. She handed it to me. It said "Received of Paul Bradshaw twenty dollars for Two-Part Invention Number One learned to my satisfaction". The image of her dragging me out of Lit class flashed through my mind.

I put my music between my legs, holding it with my knees, so I could fold the receipt, and put it in my shirt pocket.

I retrieved my music, which had slide down to my shoes, and set it on the piano's music stand. Then I sat down at the keyboard. I had bought the Schirmer edition of Bach's Two-Part Inventions at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. There it had been, brand new, for only twenty-nine cents. I'd had no thought of playing two-part inventions at the time, but for twenty- nine cents it had seemed like a good buy. I suddenly noticed that there was a white, 29� sticker on the cover of the book. I quickly opened to Invention Number One, hiding the thrift shop price from Dr. Monreau. I fixed the open pages under the pivoting wire page holder on the piano's music stand, then looked up at the Doctor.

"On the phone when I asked what were your best pieces, you said Chopsticks and Heart and Soul. Play Chopsticks for me."

This probably wasn't my most embarrassing moment, but it was up there. Imagine having to play Chopsticks for the chair of the Music Department.

I concentrated, trying to play Chopsticks with as much expression as one is able to play Chopsticks. I somehow managed to get through it. Relieved, I said jokingly, "Now do you want to hear Heart and Soul?"

I chose the bottom part and began the familiar bump-ba-da-da, bump-ba-da-da that every kid in America knows. I did the four chords and stopped.

I started again to bump-ba-da-da and she joined me on the piano bench, sitting on the treble side. I skooched over to give her room and, to my amazement, she began to play the top part of the Heart and Soul duet. She played the same old melody people always play, but there was a poise and grace, even exquisiteness, to the movement of her fingers that was very pleasing to watch. We played through the song twice. At the end, she laughed.

And there it was. It was Jennifer's laugh. The same musical sound with the same underlying resonance that had made me fall in love only the day before.

"It's not a great piece of music," I told her, "but it sounds great when you play it."

"Oh, but it is a great piece of music," she insisted. "Listen. It starts out with a marvelous theme consisting of three notes - da, da, da - followed by three pairs of notes - di da, di da, di da.

Then it repeats the theme a third higher. Da, da, dah. Di da, di da, di da. Then comes the Mad-ly part: two notes, the dominant and the tonic."

"Then it repeats the dominant to tonic combination, but throws in an elegant variation by giving us those two notes as part of a downward scale starting a note above the dominant." She sang, "Di da, di, da da dah."

"It's a beautiful and well-formed melody. It was written by Hoagy Carmichael, but it's a melody Mozart would have been proud of."

"I'm not kidding. I'm absolutely serious. Play the bottom part again, but do it with arpeggios, like this." She demonstrated.

I played the chords, rippling the notes like she had shown me. At first she played the regular melody, but at the repeat she began to decorate the melody, playing it in the style of Mozart. We played it four time through before finally coming to a stop. We both laughed.

I was reluctant to leave the piano. I had paid twenty borrowed bucks and wanted to learn some Bach.

"Mr. Bradshaw, you'll learn your Invention. I promise. But first we feed the body, then the spirit."

We pulled two of the chairs over to the low round table. She had a large, canvas, L.L.Bean bag from which she pulled two real plates, cloth napkins, a loaf of uncut bread, meat, Swiss cheese, a jar of Grey Poupon, a tomato, two glasses, a bottle of Perrier, and a lime. She also took out a folding knife with a round wooden handle, which she opened. The knife had a metal ring where the blade met the handle. She turned the ring and it locked the blade in place. As she made sandwiches, cut wedges of lime for the Perrier, and poured the sparkling water, we talked.

"Mrs. Brown. She was our next door neighbor. She taught piano for years and years. I think my mom took lessons from her when she was little."

"Well, apparently Mrs. Brown knew her stuff. You have good form, your fingerings are correct, and you know how to pedal."

"Yeah, she was a pretty good piano teacher. But I only studied with her two years."

"No. In the middle of the night. She was the only piano teacher in town, so when she died, a lot of kids stopped lessons."

"No, in the middle of a lesson. I want to explain something to a student like, 'That phrase should be more legato with a lighter touch.' and when the student is playing it again - correctly - my heart will stop and I'll be gone."

She laughed. "Probably. But one thing's for sure: I'll always be thought of when that piece is played."

"Why do you play piano? Mrs. Brown has been dead for a long time. Why do you still you play the things she taught you?"

Dr. Monreau stood up. "Leave all this," she said, indicating the dishes and the remains of lunch. "Come to the piano."

I felt like I should come up with some deep and meaningful reason, but my mind was blank. "I don't know," I said. "I guess I play because I like to."

"I played for the same reason you do. Because I liked it. I teach now for the same reason. Because I like it."

She indicated my Two-Part Invention. "Bach was in his late thirties when he wrote this. By that time he had written hundreds of pieces of music including the Brandenburg concerti. Why do you think he bothered to write this little number?"

"G.H. Chesterton said, 'A man must love a thing very much if he not only practices it without hope of fame, or money, but even practices it without any hope of doing it well.' You and I are in good company, I think. Whatever our abilities, we both play piano because we like it. Because we love it.

"If you were going to learn Invention Number One without my help, how would you proceed?"

I looked at the music. "I guess I would learn the right hand and then the left hand and then try to put them together."

"The Two-Part Inventions lead naturally to that approach; practice the two parts separately then put them together. Experience suggests a different method. There are twenty-two measures in Invention Number One. I want you to learn it a measure at a time, both hands together. Once you've learned the whole piece, we will separate the hands and work on each part. With the Inventions it's easier to take things apart then it is to try to put them together."

She looked at the clock, a round, black, analog with a second hand, mounted on the wall near the door. I looked, too. It was 12:57.

"There are twenty-two measures. I want you to work on no more than two measures each day. In some places a single measure will give you plenty to do. Each day memorize what you work on. `Memorize a measure a day.' That's my motto. I started doing that when I was a little girl, and I do it still. Memorize a measure a day."

She pointed to the beginning of the piece. "Let's look at the first half of the first measure. It's just the right hand and consists of a sixteenth rest followed by seven sixteenth notes." She sang the notes for me. "Now play it."

I put my hands on the keyboard, then took them away. "You're not going to die while I'm playing this, are you?"

The fifteen minutes went quickly. She didn't die, and I learned more about playing the piano in those minutes than I had expected to learn in an hour.

At a quarter after, we stopped, and I helped her clean up and pack everything into the Bean bag. It only took a minute. Dr. Monreau opened the sound-proof door, we stepped into the hallway, and came face to face with her niece. Jennifer looked at me, surprise showing in her green eyes. Then she smiled.

Dr. Monreau introduced us, "Mr. Bradshaw, I would like you to meet my niece, Jennifer Brougham. Jenny (she pronounced it Zhenny, one of the few indications that English was not her first language) this is Paul Bradshaw. He's a student of mine. He's studying Bach," she said brightly.

A look of delight lit up Jennifer's face. "Mr. Bradshaw and I have met," she told her aunt. Then to me, "I didn't know you were a student of Aunt Catherine's."

Dr. Monreau kissed her niece's cheek. "I have a meeting in less than ten minutes. I've got to go."

She turned away, then stopped and turned back. "I also have a conflict tonight, so I'm afraid we can't go to Portland."

Dr. Monreau looked at me and an idea seemed to come to her. "Do you have a car?"

She opened her purse, removed a key from her key ring, and extracted two tickets. "Do me a favor," she said. "Take my niece to the PSO tonight."

I looked at the tickets. They were season tickets to the Portland Symphony Orchestra. The key had a Mercedes symbol on it.

"Jenny", her aunt said, pointing at the studio, "make sure that door is closed."

As Jennifer turned to tug on the handle of the studio door, Dr. Monreau winked at me.

I had classes from two to four, then headed back to Parker Hall. Oakie wasn't there. I showered, then dressed in my one pair of slacks, best shirt, and only tie. I got my only sports jacket out of the closet, put it on, looked in the mirror, took it off and hung it back where it came from. Oakie, who has never hung up a piece of clothing in his life, chides me for being neat. I'm not neat. Not really. Only compared to him.

I made sure I had my wallet, even opening it and looking at my license. Why, I don't know. I opened the closet, got the sports coat back out and put it on, avoiding the mirror. I put Dr. Monreau's car key in my slack's pocket and the PSO tickets in the inside breast pocket of the sports coat. Against my better judgement, I sneaked a look in the mirror, despaired, but kept the sports coat on.

It was a four block walk to Jennifer's address. The house was a two-story, brick manor, old and obviously expensive. I rang the bell. The door opened immediately and Jennifer said with a smile, "Hullo. You're very prompt."

She had on a silvery beaded dress and looked fantastic. I was glad I decided to wear the sports coat, even if it was drab.

"Come in," she said, holding the door for me and closing it afterward. The house was richly decorated, I could tell just from the small foyer. "This way." She turned and led me down a hallway. Along the way I stopped and backed up a few steps. We had passed a room, in the middle of which stood a shiny, black Steinway concert grand. Jennifer joined me.

"Very," I agreed. "I'm ashamed to admit this, but do you know what I think of when I see a Steinway grand?"

"Did you really?" I said. "I've only seen him on video. My absolute favorite line is when he is playing very intently, then suddenly stops and looks at the audience."

"Oh, I know the line," she said and spoke in a perfect imitation of the Danish comedian,

"Ladies and gentlemen. The Steinway people have asked me to announce...that this is a Baldwin piano."

"I love that line, too," she said. "When I saw him in London, that's how he started the show."

She continued on, leading me into the kitchen. "I appreciate you being willing to go tonight. I have an international driver's license, but I still don't have the knack of shifting with my right hand while driving on the wrong side of the road. Would you like something to drink?"

"I think we should. I don't know exactly where Merrill Auditorium is or where to park."

She had a light silver coat and silver beaded clutch purse that matched her dress. I helped her with her coat. She flipped a light switch that I assumed went to the garage. She tapped a code into a keypad mounted on the wall, arming the security system. We went out a door into the garage, and she closed the door firmly behind us. In the garage sat a blue Mercedes. It was either brand new or extremely well cared for. It also represented the equivalent, I was sure, of a year or two of my college education. An awful thought suddenly occurred to me and I reacted by offering a prayer. `Please,' I said silently, `Help me to drive very carefully.'

I held the car door open for her, and was suddenly filled with anxiety that she might not like this.

"Thank you," she said pleasantly and got in. I rounded the car, took the key from my pocket and got behind the wheel. Dr. Monreau was about my height and I found when I put my feet on the pedals that I didn't need to adjust the seat. Jennifer reached over and touched the button on the garage door opener that was clipped to the sun visor. I buckled the seat belt (the cross body belt being automatic), inserted the key and turned it. The engine fired up. I took a minute to familiarize myself with the gauges and switches. I turned on the headlights, shifted into reverse, and eased up on the clutch, backing out into the driveway.

I pushed the clutch in and stepped on the brake. "Aren't you going to fasten your seat belt?" I asked.

She looked at me. "You're as bad as Aunt Catherine." She pulled the waist belt out and snapped it into the buckle.

My heart froze in my chest. Oh, well. Bad news doesn't improve with age. I shifted into first and turned back into the driveway. I put the car in park and turned off the engine.

"You must be very good for her to accept you as a student in the middle of a semester."

"I didn't know Dr. Monreau was your aunt. (I pronounced it like ant, then said it again the other way.) "Aunt."

"Yesterday, when we met, you said you wanted a man who could play Bach for you, and when you heard me play, you said I didn't seem like much of a prospect."

"So I decided to learn to play Two-Part Invention Number One. I wanted to surprise you."

"I told her the truth. I had met a green-eyed girl from England and I wanted to learn to play Bach to impress her."

Jennifer burst out laughing. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. "And so the two of you cooked up a scheme so you could take me to the concert tonight."

She opened her purse, pulled out a white hankie and wiped her eyes. "Is this what you thought would make me angry?"

It was past midnight when we got back. Jennifer insisted we drive to my dorm. It would be no problem for her to drive home from there. It was only four blocks, there wouldn't be much traffic, and the practice would be good for her. When we got to Parker, there was an empty space just before the no parking zone. I pulled over, then backed into the spot. We got out, and Jennifer walked me to the front steps, then up to the door.

She thought for a minute. "There's something going on at the Chapel. I forget what. Let's go to that, whatever it is."

"No. We both find out what the program is and what time it starts. Then you meet me at my house an hour before and we'll walk over together."

It seemed odd that she was just going to walk away. Without thinking I stuck out my hand and instantly felt stupid. She gave me a whimsical look and shook my hand. She walked down the steps, then turned and walked back up.

"Oh," I fished the key out of the pocket of my slacks. She started down the steps.

I reached into the inner pocket of my sports jacket and took out the PSO tickets. She took the tickets, transferred them to her left hand, which held the car key, then offered me her right. I shook it.

"You know," I said, "This is technically our second date, if you count yesterday in Chase Lounge."

"Don't even try it, Yank. Technically this isn't even our first date. Technically, you were a stand-in driver for my aunt."

I decided not to get involved in this argument. I stuck out my hand. She laughed, shook it, and said, "Ta!"

I walked down the steps and far enough towards the street to observe that she was safe. I watched her as she got in the Mercedes, started it, then adjusted the seat and mirror. She pulled across the road diagonally, making a nifty left turn onto Mountain Ave. She stopped, shifted smoothly into reverse, and then, tires screaming, backed smartly onto College Street, facing the opposite direction. She shifted into second, popped the clutch, and burned ten feet of rubber as she sped away.

When I unlocked the door to our room and walked in, Oakie was lying in bed reading. His jeans, shirt, and shoes were in a pile on the floor. (He doesn't wear socks.) He took one look at me and whistled.

"The piano lesson was excellent. I even have a receipt to prove that's what I spent the twenty for. And no one died. I, sir, have been to the Portland Symphony Orchestra with Jennifer."

"Yes, married. As in espoused, wedded, hitched, given in matrimony, betrothed. Do I need to continue? That's why she left England; marital problems."

For the second time today my heart froze. I didn't dare say anything; I was sure my chest would shatter. But I said something anyway.

I jerked open the closet door, unknotted my tie, yanked it off, and tossed it over the clothes bar. I took off my jacket and hung it up. I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt, then sat down on my bed.

I knew that vituperate means to scold. Piscatorial, however, lost me. I let the silence hang in the air a while, but finally gave in.

"Neither does you being so angry. Paul, it was just a joke. Come on, man, at least tell me why she moved here from England. Why is she staying with her aunt."

I untied my shoes, took them off, and set them neatly under my bed, lining them up with the others. Oakie was still looking at me, a finger marking his place in his book. I took a deep breath and let it out.

"When she was ten, her father was killed in a car wreck. The family had money, plus her dad was heavily insured, so things were okay financially. Then when she was seventeen, her mother was diagnosed with MS. Jennifer spent the last several years trying to care for her mother and go to school. Early this year her mother died...."

"Right. Anyway, at the funeral there is this woman who looks like an older version of Jennifer's mother. After the service, the woman comes up to her and says she's her Aunt Catherine. She asks Jennifer what she wants to so with her life."

Oakie couldn't help himself. "And Jennifer says, "Fall in love with a gullible, over-polite geek from Maine"?

"No. She says she wants to teach. The aunt says teach what? Jennifer says science. So the aunt says 'I have room in my house' - Which by the way, believe me, she does - 'and if you want, come stay with me in America, go to school where I teach, and I'll pay for it.' So, here she is."

Oakie, apparently having lost interest in his book, removed his finger, allowing the pages to close, then tossed the book over onto the mess on top of his desk.

"She's a lucky kid to have a rich aunt to take her in. And to have met a guy like you."

"Speaking of a guy like me - any info on whether she has a boyfriend? And don't be pulling my chain."

"There's no evidence of any other suitors - at least not on this side of the big pond."

"Good," I said. I went over and made sure Oakie's alarm was accessible and pulled out the stem. Then I remembered that tomorrow was Saturday, and pushed it back in.

Oakie looked at me. "You know," he said. "You're the fifth room mate I've had in two years. And you're the first one who's been able to put up with me. If you and Genevieve get married....can I live with you?"

"I doubt we're getting married. But if we do, the last thing I want is a little boy like you."

I flipped off the light and got in bed. After a few minutes of silence, a little boy voice from across the room said, "Tell me a stowey."

The advantage of having your shoes lined up neatly under your bed is that it's easy to grab one in the dark when you have a sudden need to throw something.

The event at the Chapel was a program of Renaissance lute music slated to begin at 7 p.m. There hadn't been any snow yet, but the weather had turned decidedly cold. I showed up at Jennifer's house at five minutes of six, dressed in winter parka, scarf, and mittens. I pushed the door bell with my thumb. There was a long pause before the door was opened by Dr. Monreau. She looked at me blankly.

I stood there dumbfounded, when Jennifer came walking down the hall putting on her coat. I looked at Dr. Monreau, who smiled sweetly.

Jennifer zipped her coat, walked up to her aunt and said, "We're going to the Chapel for a concert, then to the Den for a bite. Be back around 9:30.

"Have fun, kiddo," her aunt said as Jenny stepped out onto the porch. Before closing the door, Dr. Monreau pointed at me the way I had pointed at her.

As soon as the door closed, Jennifer took my face in her hands and pressed her mouth to mine. I was so surprised I almost fell backwards off the porch.

"That's all we have time for, sweetheart. Nana's going to be here any minute. You know the rest of the story, anyway."

"Nana!" she cried and scooted off the couch. A moment later, Camille (named for Jennifer's mother) came back, leading her great aunt by the hand.

Jennifer came into the living room carrying our coats. I put mine on, then helped Jenny with hers.

She went over and kissed her aunt on the cheek. Camille's face was to low for her to reach, so Jennifer kissed her own forefinger then touched it to her daughter's nose.

"We'll be at Lamaze." she said. "Then we're going to Luiggi's for pizza. The numbers are on the fridge."

As Jenny and I opened the door and stepped outside, I heard Catherine begin to play my favorite piece of music in all the whole wide world.