Work Text:
His fingers twirled on the plastic keys like a dancer twirled in the air above the waxed wooden slats of a stage. They would touch one key before snooping on to the surface of another. He touched the keys as he would touch a lover’s skin, with softness, respect, reverence and as a lover, the instrument would let him hear its most beautiful notes, at times acute, at times deep and, sometimes a delicious mix of both that would make his heart melt. The pianist had his eyes closed, a small frown indicated his concentration, as his head wiggled back and forth, right and left, in time with the music. He was transported by this; it was not just music, it was a journey to another world, a world of dream, adventure, love with its ups and downs. The young man loved the melody that his hands produced, that men long gone before his birth had composed. These music were vestiges of these people; their hopes, sometimes their angers, their loves, and the pianist felt this more than anyone else. What melodies the young man preferred the most were the ones diffusing an air of love around them, him, making people’s gaze meet, ladies blush, beat the heart of men, made old people cry, children smile. Oh how he loved making people around him happy.
In another time, the hands of the young man sitting behind the piano would have danced on keys made of ivory and ebony. He would have been in the middle of rich banquets, he would have rubbed shoulders with the high society, his clothes would have been embroidered with gold and lace. Though, the pianist, if he had opened his eyes, if he had left his bubble of enchantment, would have found the stifling, oppressive atmosphere of the train station. The hubbub bystanders, the screams of children, the groanings of travellers exhausted by endless travels, the SNCF announcing voice. His world would have exploded in a harsh return to reality. And so, preferred he let music bear his heart, bear him to a much more appealing universe.
It had been some minutes that the pianist was sitting behind the piano now letting travellers enjoying his gift as he was waiting for a new announcement. His train had been delayed of a few hours for an obscure reason he did not searched any justifications for. ‘Trains were always late in this cursed country’, he had said to his companion as he had let his travel bag fell on the ground with a dejected look. He had expired a long sigh before Jacob showed him the piano excitedly. The piano was available. No soul longing for it. And so, the pianist had softly smiled and gathered his bag before walking towards the instrument. He had chuckled and told to his partner: ‘Not so cursed it seems’. Then, he had given his bag to Jacob and meticulously installed behind the instrument. He had softly caressed with the tip of his fingers the keys of this noble instrument. The piano was a skill he had admired since his childhood, this one was quite basic compared to the one he had grew up with. In his childhood home there was a magnificent grand piano with ivory and ebony keys that was enthroned in the middle of the living room. This one was only a pale figure, though it was also a sweet escapade while waiting for their train. And so, Arno had let his fingers slid on the keys and let himself be carried away by the sound they made; by their melody, by the dreams they carried to him. To Jacob and to all the travellers who, like them, were waiting for their means of transport that would take them from one end of the country to the other.
As soon as he finished a piece of music, the young Parisian began a new one. His lithe fingers slipped in a delicate mix of vehemence and voluptuousness to the next chord, and so began a new ode that he benefited to anyone who listened to him carefully. At each new air he began his face softened, a small smile was drawn on his face and at rare occasions he half-opened his eyes behind his long eye lashes before closing them as his face adopted a serious expression as the music took possession of his body. When chords were more energetic his face hardened. When they were delicate his face softened. His face expressed the music, the way his fingers flexed breathed the music. Sometimes his hands clenched, sometimes they caressed the yellowing plastic.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. His bubble exploded and his hands stopped moving on the keyboard as he looked up at his companion who gently smiled at him and designated the station notice board. He opened his mouth and spoke French with his clumsy Londoner accent:
‘Train’s here.’
Arno smiled back and grabbed his bag that Jacob was handing to him before standing up under the frustrated looks of his crowd. He excused himself to interrupt his improvised concert and walked towards his stop beside Jacob to finally take the train supposed to bring them to England for their vacations.