THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
THE LITTLE FINGERS
"Mr. Slezak, do you need milk tomorrow?" asked the
neighborhood boy who made milk deliveries in the tiny village of St. Polten.
He had been doing this for some time now, to help his mother pay for her
basic needs.
The boy knocked again three times, as he usually did. When there was no
answer this time, he walked gingerly around the cabin. The first window
he saw was slightly raised. Excited, he called again, louder. After what
seemed to be an interminable silence, he heard a creaking noise, followed
by a voice that sounded annoyed. "Yes, who is it?"
"Me, Mr. Slezak. I brought your milk. I wish to know if you need it
for next week."
With agony of some sort in his voice, and not wanting to make any more decisions,
Mr. Slezak responded in the negative.
The boy, awestruck, took off, wondering what was wrong. Yes, he noticed
the unshaven Mr. Slezak, the drooping eyes, the layers of clothing around
him. Alas, the fireplace was empty of logs. The two-room cabin was devoid
of heat.
Did Mr. Slezak have any warmth left? It was a most dreadful sight. Should
he come back to the cabin after school to check? The snows had started to
fall the night before. And the skies were bleak.
Inside, Adam Slezak thought his morning was rudely interrupted. He was irate.
He wanted to go into oblivion and walk over the clouds where there were
no miseries. His world was collapsing.
Grudgingly, he moved to the kitchen to make coffee. This was one of the
few pleasures left. Two cups in the morning and his mind opened. He almost
forgot the milk left on the doorstep, and was unaware he had dismissed future
deliveries. "Future" was a foreign notion at this moment.
Adam was startled again-this time by a group of men in a truck parked in
front of his cabin-soon after he settled down.
"We come to pick up the piano, sir," one of the men said haughtily,
not expecting an answer.
Adam was stunned by the brusqueness and fierce tone of the remark. While
he was indignant and feeling humiliated, he could not muster enough spirit
to raise his voice. There was no need to fight. He was devastated. Indeed,
his life was now crippled by the imminent parting of his piano, for he had
lost the will to play and to live.
Adam was a concert pianist, well respected in Europe. Seeing the old instrument
being moved away, inch by inch, was like watching himself being drawn into
the deep sea. He felt as though he were being taken away with his piano.
Although it was not an unexpected arrangement, to see the piano in front
of him being hurriedly wrapped for an unknown destination was tearing his
heart.
Just before the piano reached the door, something dropped from the lid.
It was an old photograph. The sheen had gone. But one could see that there
were two boys, about eight to ten years of age, sitting side by side on
a piano bench, playing a duet. The faces appeared intense.
Adam retrieved the photograph from the floor and retired to a corner to
examine it. With trembling hands and, as if in shock, he recognized the
two. He was the one on the right. The other boy was Wilhelm or Willy, as
he used to call him. They played the piano together, often.
The passage of time, however, had directed them to different paths. Adam
graced the concert stage and enjoyed many glorious years. Now all these
memories were dissipating like the mists.
It was difficult to recapture those youthful times . . . now distant images,
sometimes visible, sometimes invisible.
While lapsing into this journey of remembrance, he heard one of the men
comment.
"It was you, was it not? Your brother, the other one?"
"Ah, yes. Me and a friend."
Instinctively, Adam considered looking up Willy. As he gathered more strength
the next few days, he set out.
It was almost spring before the search was over. The house, situated at
the edge of farmland, was not bigger than his own cabin. There were, however,
many white flowers here and there. Birches surrounded the humble front lawn.
What a charming place, Adam mused.
The welcome was naturally sweet, despite great depths of time and circumstance
that separated them. Willy worked on the farm he owned. A few acres. He
spent most of his life there, after his parents died in an accident, leaving
small Willy to the care of a foster home. Growing up was not easy. His life,
simple and uncomplicated though it seemed, was not always peaceful and contented.
Years later, his wife was lost to the war. She was a nurse.
Willy often harbored a sense of longing for an accomplishment he craved
since childhood. Now he had a feeling of being trapped on the farm, in endless
days of labor.
In many ways, the visit of a long-ago friend was a blessing. Maybe there
was hope for a change.
"Adam, I have not forgotten you all these years. Indeed, I was full
of envy. I wanted to hurt you because you were famous. I was so consumed
with hate that I bought this old piano to remind me of you, and so that
one day I, too, would play like you. It was my youthful rage. My monumental
failure, all in that piano.
Willy was going on and on. Adam felt immeasurable pain.
"I am sorry our lives turned out not to be what we always wished for.
I lost mine a long time ago. I am just floating. You have a home, a farm,"
Adam consoled his friend.
"And an eight year-old son," Willy added, without exuberance.
At the mention of a son, Adam suddenly moved closer to Willy. His cheeks
gathered color.
"Where is he?"
"At school. You will meet him this afternoon."
After more exchanges of thoughts, they went to the piano.
Adam touched a few keys. As if engulfed by strange emotion, he could not
make music.
Willy sat next to him, on the left side of the bench, and proceeded to play
the only piece he knew by heart-a Mozart duet they once played.
Adam, rekindled, joined in.
"Willy," Adam said, "I will teach your boy."
They both wanted to say "the little fingers came back." But it
was not necessary.
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