by Steven Fisher

(continued)
Hi Mum, you still not feeling well?
Hello Rupert. She put a tissue to her face and sneezed. Her brown eyes were watery, her nose pink and glowing. No I'm not; this cold isn't getting any better. Iım going to have an early night. I walked to the refrigerator and took out a bagel. I sliced it down the centre and brushed a few sesame seeds off the top before placing it in the toaster. Where's Dad? At the pub. Where else would he be on a Friday night, she replied, snivelling. Getting tanked up as usual. I looked up at her. Spending all the money on beer, no doubt. She looked annoyed. I regretted saying it because she didn't look well at all. Not now Rupert, not now. She washed the medicine cup and put it away. Goodnight, see you in the morning, she said as she walked through the living room and began to trudge up the stairs, to bed. Goodnight Mum.

My mother was tall, the tallest in our family except for her brother, my Uncle James. Her figure was slender and her face youthful ­ she was still an attractive woman. I slumped on the couch with my bagel and switched on the television just as the Hitchcock classic Rebecca began. This was a favourite of mine, as were most of Hitchcock's thrillers. I watched it until the end and then switched channels. On BBC2 Dudley Moore was hosting his weekly show. After speaking to his audience and answering a few of their questions, he sat still and prepared to begin playing the piano. The lights dimmed and the audience became deathly silent. He began a duet with a young girl ­ Beethoven's Appassionata which I enjoyed very much. They played it so well. After some time my eyes began to feel heavy and I could feel my head starting to nod. I left the couch and walked up the carpeted stairs to bed.

The moons light shone bright through the blinds and slipped into my bedroom. Its silvery brightness beamed between the branches of the chestnut tree which stood outside my window, casting shadows on the wall above my head. I remembered those same shadows had frightened me when I was a child ­ the howling winds rustling the leaves and shaking the branches. I remember how my imagination would turn wild and I'd convince myself that something terrible was in my room, just waiting for me to go to sleep. I closed the blinds, undressed and slipped into bed. I felt exhausted; my eyes hot with fatigue and my legs tingled.

I woke with a tremendous jolt, just as if my body had been raised above my bed and dropped ­ the same horrid feeling that you get when your foot slips off a curb or you trip over something. My head felt cloudy and my vision blurred as I looked at the clock ­ it showed half past midnight. Then a strange impulse gripped me and I climbed out of bed and left the room. I didn't feel in control of my body. It felt heavy as I stumbled down the stairs and into the dark living room. I made directly for the piano and slumped onto the stool.

I struck the first chord in the key of A flat major. My hands began to dance lightly from one chord to the next, pressing the keys with accuracy and control. My nimble fingers moved from note to note with little effort, like spider's legs climbing a web. Persuasive and relentless, they produced a beautiful rich tone, which complemented Beethoven's Pathetique with perfection. Perspiration ran down my forehead and fell to the keyboard. My head felt light, my mind furious and engaged. I reached the finale with a gentle crescendo, my hot, clammy palms and rapid shifting of my hands coming to an abrupt halt. Breathless, I put my hands to my face and rubbed my forehead with trembling fingers.

I then sat motionless in the darkened room. I was astounded at what had just happened and felt invigorated by my outstanding playing. I tried to understand my new found ability, but was unable to reach a conclusion. All I knew was it felt wonderful to play like that. I turned on the stool, and as I did, I slipped and fell to the hardwood floor, hitting my head. I could feel a lump on the side of my head, hardening under my finger tips as I wandered up the stairs back to my bedroom.

I woke in the morning after a restless sleep. I could hear movement in the kitchen below my room, dishes and cutlery clattering. My mind was occupied with the events of last night. I could think of nothing else. I dressed and hurried downstairs. Is that you Rupert? My mother called over the sound of clashing crockery. The smell of toast reached my senses. Yes Mum. Come and have your breakfast. I've made you scrambled eggs, okay? Okay, I'll be there in a second. I walked to the piano and sat down. Don't let it get cold.
Okay.

I put my fingers on the keys and waited for something to happen. Nothing stirred me and I began to feel nervous. I knew the first two bars of the second movement to Pathetique. I began to play hoping it would lead into a performance resembling last night's. I fumbled, squashing two notes with my thumb. I just didn't know how to play it. My face felt hot and my palms were wet as confusion and disappointment overcame me. Rupert, your eggs are getting cold, my mother said, raising her voice. I eased off the stool and walked to the kitchen, unsure of my sanity. You can't keep away from that piano, can you? Not even when your breakfast is on the table.
Sorry. She looked at me, her forehead wrinkled. Is something the matter? I shook my head. No, nothing

The eggs were good, but my appetite was gone. I tried to figure out a possible explanation for last night's performance and my vivid imagination became the only realistic conclusion. The experience of performing a masterpiece, even if only in my imagination would remain etched always. The sounds, so true, every feeling authentic and honest. I now realized that playing the piano for more than just pleasure was an impossibility for me. You look a little pale, my mother said. Are you sure you're alright?
Yes, I'm fine.
What's that on the side of your head? She stood from her chair and leaned over me. Is that a lump?
Yes it is.
How on earth..?
I must have dozed off watching TV last night, I said. I rolled off the couch and banged my head. Last night?
Yes, I heard music playing.
sI wasn't listening to music last night. I looked at her, puzzled, and then smiled. Ah yes, I was watching Dudley Moore on BBC2. He was playing a duet. That must have been what you heard.

Yes, I thought I recognized the piece from the CD. That one's not on your CD. I think it is. The same one from that movie we watched the other week. My eyes lit up Are you sure you heard that one, the one from the movie? She looked puzzled and uncertain, I thought it was, but I'm not so sure now, she replied. They can all sound the same when you're half asleep. Anyway, why all the questions? Oh, no reason. I sat back and thought, has my imagination got the better of me, again?