Dear readers,

This is a chapter I cherish slightly above others, and it's important to me what you make of it. It's also quite different from the others in the nature of the narrating character. He has come up very briefly in a previous chapter, and I have dropped hints here and there, and I hope you recognize him :-). Don't hesistate to do some googling :-)

Enjoy! :-)

V. Moja Bieda

Used as he was to living the life of a Gypsy, to being an eternal nomad, his voyage to London did not petrube him in any way. He had long since thought he had succeeded in muting the pain that accompanied him with every step he took away from his home, even if all he did was lock it inside, deeper and deeper, where it ate away at his life. Even if numbing that homesickness was like muting grief with opium. It might not hurt, but it will send you to your grave anyhow.

London was the only way. War, unrest, revolution: oh, those great levelers. Insurrection in Paris had driven away all the aristocracy. Paris was no longer a tall social millefeuille; it was now officially flat. Flat as yeastless bread. Flat as the earth held up by those three medieval whales. All those on whom he depended for a living were gone. His pupils. His inspiration. But as dishonourable to a man of art as it could sound, it was also his money that was gone. Besides, it was not entirely dishonourable since he was not a healthy man since his youth – and poverty and recovery are not two things one usually puts together.

His youth. Why had he, unwittingly, used that word in his thoughts? Was he still not young? Was he not loved, and successful? How could he look at the man staring back at him out of the mirror, a little fragile perhaps, and yet young, yet to turn 39, and say his youth had passed? Why, some men are not yet married by 39. As you have not, said a voice inside his head. And yet you could have been. A familiar feeling rose inside his chest, that feeling that usually took away one's appetite, and made one restless, made one pace. Up and down, up and down. The feeling that rose in his chest when he thought of his family; of his little house back in Zelazowa Wola, of his mother's soft voice as she called for him, while he stood, hiding, behind those rows of trees before it; of the little brown package with its red ribbon, hidden in the upper drawer. He had brought it to London. He took it with him anywhere he went, and he liked to tell himself that he didn't know why, although he did. It isn't possible to give orders to your heart to forget, to love someone you don't love, or to stop loving someone who doesn't love you, or at least pretends not to.

He approached the set of drawers, and took out the package. He closed his eyes, and ran his fingers over the crinkled brown paper, almost felt the words burn beneath his fingers. Adieu, mio carissimo maestro. He could almost trace her writing, feel the warmth of her hand that had brushed over the letter paper. He put the papers down and sighed. Deeply. A luxury he could not afford. A sharp pain seemed to slash his lungs in two, and he fell forward onto his knees, spots of red blooming on the white carpet. Every cough sent white spots dancing in his eyes, until they obscured his vision. White turned black. And for what seemed like the hundredth time, he awoke to find dear Jane, his best pupil, without whom he'd probably have been out begging on the streets of Paris by now, sitting at his bedside. At least being a starving bohemian artist is somewhat the fashion in Paris, he thought to himself, and London isn't the best place for a man with lungs like mine...she had somehow materialised at his apartment in Dover Street and was now dabbing vinegar onto his fevered brow. Dear Jane.

No matter how hard he tried to seem healthy and strong, he failed, since he was exactly the opposite.

«I wonder the Queen did not invite you to play for her, sir. She is rather fond of music, or so I have heard...», said Jane, dabbing at his forehead with that vinegar-soaked cloth. He had been asked that question before, and his answer had not quite been what he himself believed. And yet, something, perhaps pride, stopped him from being entirely honest with Jane.

«I have been offered the Philharmonic, but don't want to play there because it would be with the orchestra... the orchestra is rather like their roast beef or their turtle soup; excellent, strong, but nothing more. Perhaps her Majesty has been somewhat affronted by that."

Jane frowned, but said no more. Dear Jane. The truth was, he would pass out cold before he could muster enough strength to play the first movement. And yet he would not admit it. Besides, he had a concert to perform at that very night, arranged for him by Lord Falmouth. He had great expectations for this performance, for the Lord was a generous man, a genuine music-lover, and invited all who wanted to come, as many as would fit in his home in St. James' square, to his music evenings. Such a larger-scale showing could grant him more popularity. He had not quite met many people such as the Lord Falmouth, and often wondered about him, and his place in that social millefeuille; he was very rich, and yet he did not spend all that wealth the way others spent it, on rather pointless things such as golden chamber pots. In fact, you might give him a few pence if you passed him in the street, and his house is full of servants who dress better than he does. He invited commoners to enjoy the privileges of the upper class; he gave money to poorhouses. Having a friend as Lord Falmouth made his chest swell with pride.

As he entered Lord Falmouth's home, hoping that he did not smell of salad dressing thanks to Jane's remedies, as he entered the enormous circular performance room, it was already crowded. Crowded by all, from working-class families to aristocrats. He tipped his head as he noticed Lord Falmouth occupying one of the front chairs.

His heart swelled with pleasure as he sat down at the piano: it was a Broadwood, and oh, what luck it was for a pianist to find a familiar instrument in a concert hall! It is true that a good pianist must be able to perform on any instrument, even one that could not even be close to identifying as a viable pianoforte, and yet it is always heartwarming to feel at home. You're even further from home than you were before, said the voice in his head. His mother's voice. Hush, mama, I need to concentrate. This is important. And, ever attentive, ever loving, she became silent. And, soon, as he started playing, the hush fell over the entire party of listeners. It was not customary to be entirely silent as such social gatherings, and absolute silence was improbable, considering the number of commoners in the room. And yet, Ballade after Nocturne, Nocturne after Berceuse, every note that flowed by seemed to make the entire London grow quieter, and quieter. It was as if the music descended with the mist, and dampened all noise. A wave of tranquility. Solitude.

He felt reinvigorated during the break, and as he stood up from the piano, to loud applause, all the health Jane's vinegar compresses could not return seemed to come back to him. Applause was, to the soul of the artist, the best prize.

That was when he saw him, and thought that, perhaps, vinegar made one hallucinate. Beethoven. There he sat, in a black waistcoat, with the billowing sleeves, his hair wild, a black halo about his head. Not applauding. His hands were passive, one lying idly on his knee, the other supporting his head from the side. He had not stood up when the music had stopped. Beethoven did no such thing. Beethoven had not bowed when the Royal Family had passed him by at Teplitz. He had even commented that there are many princes, but only one Beethoven. He had been right. And, perhaps, he had been right not to clap now, for he was Beethoven. Inferior to no-one. Proud, so proud that he would waste an evening, a precious evening of his life on going to listen to music he could not hear.

A streak of gray traveled through Beethoven's wild black hair on one side. Standing before him, before this great composer, before the man who had written the 9th Symphony without an ear to aid him, in that one moment, he felt like he had traveled in time. He was once again a boy caught in wrongdoing by his father. A pupil, having made a mistake too many before his master.

Suddenly, Beethoven looked at him. Looked at him square in the eyes. Looked at him with his own tormented, dark-rimmed eyes. His cheeks were sunken, revealing high, well formed cheekbones. His nose was straight, sharp. His lips full. His eyebrows heavy and black, slightly raised. Was he indeed old? The gray streak spoke of age, and yet, it seemed from his face that he was tired, not old. Tormented, not aged.

He took a few steps towards Beethoven, and, with fear and reverence in his eyes, bowed his head. Beethoven looked perplexed, shocked. His eyebrows shot up, and he ran his eyes over the young composer before him. They looked at each other, lost for words. His expression still lost, and confused, Beethoven stood up. Too solid to be a hallucination, or a ghost. Too young to really be Beethoven. Too alive to be Beethoven. Beethoven had died 22 years ago...The Beethoven-man nodded swiftly to him and looked down, looking dejected. His eyes then darted between the composer, and the empty chair beside him.

"I'm sorry, sir, I thought you were someone else," he said, and made to walk back to the piano, although the break was not yet over.

"I came here because of my wife," the Beethoven-man said. He turned to see him still standing, looking as dejected as before, staring at that chair beside him. That empty chair. The Beethoven-man continued. "I remember that it was a dream of hers to…to hear you play." His mouth closed, and he continued staring at the chair. That empty chair. He looked like a lost puppy. Did Beethoven look like this man, when no-one else could see him, behind closed doors, alone and deaf, with no need for pride and pretence? The noise in the room was phenomenal, and yet for the two men, unnoticed by the others, it was silent. Beggar-like Lord Falmouth swore loudly. Still, silence.

"She was a good player herself. Played some of your pieces. Earlier pieces." With every word the Beethoven-man spoke, his eyes fluttered shut a little, and his eyebrows rose slightly. A lump rose in his throat at the sight of this man. This Beethoven-man.

"She didn't live to see you come to London." His voice was low, gruff. The last word was slightly broken, as if the man's voice was about to crack. He had turned away from the composer so that he could not quite see his eyes in full. He was greatful for that – he felt that if he saw this man's eyes, saw this Beethoven-man's eyes, saw the tears he heard in his voice, he would go down like he had in the morning. He would collapse in another dreadful coughing fit, right here. Collapse and perhaps, even die.

Finally, the composer plucked up the will to speak.

"Your wife, sir, did she have any particular favourite? Anything she loved playing, any of my pieces she preferred above all?"

Silence, again, that dreadful silence in the little bubble, where the two men stood.

"She…" silence. Silence. Silence. "She loved all your…your pieces."

Silence. The Beethoven-man opened and closed his mouth, like a fish. A fish out of water.

"She particularly loved to…to play that Waltz. The…" he cocked his wild-haired head to the side, made an abstract motion with his hand and sang a melody. It was off-tune, and in his gruff voice it sounded almost comical, but he realized what the Beethoven-man meant.

"The A-flat major waltz." The farewell song. The dance for Maria. Maria, her warm hand skimming over those letters. Those letters in the crinkly brown package, with the red ribbon. Maria, moja bieda, nasze serca rozłączone, na zawsze już zespolone...*

When he returned to the instrument, when all was settled and silent once more, he placed his fourth finger, the finger that would have been adorned by a ring, Maria's ring, their ring, on the E flat, placed his third on the D, and flowed into that waltz, the waltz he thought he'd never play in public. The simple melody that was, in truth so much simpler, as simple as a farewell, as simple as love. As simple as God.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that man, the Beethoven-man, press his palms to his face, lower his unkempt, black-haired head, and he thought, that if he had known of this one woman, he would have come years before, to this mist-filled city, while she still lived. He would have come just for her. Even if he had not been so known then. Even if he had no money to travel. He'd throw himself into a cargo ship and arrive here, and play for her, for this woman now dead, even if she alone sat in this room. But now, he did all he could do.

He played farewell. But not to Maria. Not to Maria.

And as he played, a haggard beggar woman, whom no-one noticed, no-one saw, soundlessly entered through the door to Lord Falmouth's house. How she, half-crazed and oblivious, knew of the performance, one couldn't tell; did the music carry all the way to Hyde Park, to Fleet Street, to her usual haunts? Or did she feel its presence, carried with the London mists? Did the same gut instinct that pushed her to come to the harbour every night tell her the road to St. James' square? And now, the dulled deja vu that welled inside her, having heard the tune, which was so familiar, so painfully familiar, she entered the house, unnoticed, unnoticed, crept through the hallways, and leaned against the doorframe of that crowded room. She listened to that young, delicate man play, not knowing.

Not knowing, that he did not play for Maria.

Not knowing that he played for her.

*Maria, my misery, our hearts are separated, and yet forever united (Polish)