THE PIANO
The day I died, I made the mistake of swimming in the sea. A swim in the sea used to be a walk in the park when I was in my 20s, but I soon found that my confidence and fighting strength had leaked out of me over the years, like a battery charge, and now I was a pathetic weakling, literally out of my depth.
One moment I was diving under the waves the way I used to, and the next I found myself way out behind the waves, in the grip of a current which seemed to have singled me out as a lion would an elderly wildebeest.
To be honest, I didn’t really have a lot to live for. My dear old Beryl had fallen prey to the big C (the suburban predator). My kids had become self sufficient and self absorbed; I saw them only on occasions of impecuniosity or guilt. My failing sight and hearing robbed me of most of life’s small pleasures. Maybe that’s why I had decided on a swim.
Anyway, I must have had some vestigial will to live, because I was still thrashing about just below the surface, my lungs gradually filling with water, when I noticed an old upright piano resting on the seabed below. It was as if the local council had anticipated such circumstances and thoughtfully provided the amenities its ratepayers would expect . It was attractively odd.
I had been a very keen player in my youth and, even in the midst of my half arsed distress, I wondered whether it would still work. Had the mechanism rusted solid? Would I be able to hear a note?
Despite the urgent need to get to the surface and all that increasingly important air, I felt drawn to this surreal tableau. It was surprisingly difficult to get down to the piano, but once there, I could anchor my knees under the keyboard.
I started with a single tentative note. It worked! A little watery, but a clear enough note. It even sounded louder than I expected. For a moment I wondered if the sound might carry to distant pelagic whales – what would they make of it? Would they come? Could I save a baby seal if an Orca were distracted?
I launched into a slow blues: doleful and haunting, in keeping with the situation. The sound seemed to come from some deep forgotten place I had not seen in a lifetime. It brought with it fragments of a life that might have been mine: a grassy glade filled with children’s laughter and coruscating sunlight; a misty blue forest reverberating with bird calls; a piano at the bottom of the sea…
Then I attempted an ancient Eastern piece, and suddenly I was in a world of yearning for spiritual fulfilment; a place where austerity is purity and wealth is corruption. I saw that my wordly life had been misguided and grubby – an adventure of the senses, but a detour from the path to oneness.
But then a gentle familiar voice at my ear said “What took you so long?” It was dear old Beryl! I felt again the touch of her hand on mine and I turned to face her. She was a little pale but otherwise just as I remembered her. I leaned towards her to kiss her in that old familiar way, but suddenly her face hardened and I knew what that look portended.
She hissed: “Did you think I wouldn’t notice being suffocated? Did you really think I’d just fall asleep and drift pleasantly away? Well it wasn’t pleasant at all, and I wasn’t ready to go. What about a little consultation! But no, of course not: you were never into communication were you?”. She was really shrieking now, and as she leaned on the piano keyboard to get into my face, it made a kind of squeal, which made me feel like a ventriloquist.
I remembered that I hadn’t breathed air for ever so long, and it occurred to me that I actually wanted to. A lot. In fact, I remembered the shameful little surge of relief I had felt when I put the pillow down and verified that it had done the job. I had shut out that guilty little secret and got on with the job of grieving, but now it laughed at me like a worm in an apple.
I lunged for the surface, leaving the quietly resigned piano and the quite malign Beryl below.
I had almost reached the surface when a shark got me. As I died, a small smile lifted my cold blue lips, as I reflected on the poetry of my quietus. It was a much more glorious passing than I had given poor Beryl.