Instead of Framingham, I dropped in on Don on a Sunday early on. He had an apartment on Boylston Street, right around the corner from the Conservatory. My piano teacher was in the same building, and they were tight old codgers. The routine was to listen to the Metropolitan Opera broadcast and then listen to records and tell stories. Of course, I mean to say that I listened to Don's stories and nodded in agreement with his pronouncements.
We listened to Rachmaninoff playing his Second Piano Concerto. On 78s, this meant periodic disc flipping. But the sound was rich and clear, the playing a revelation to my young ears.
"I knew a woman who played this piece."
"A woman?"
Don just nods, already arching his eyebrows over the next sentence in his tale.
"Let's see. If I remember, her name was Harriet Schuman, with one 'n.' I ran into her at the NBC commissary and she had the score open and was shaking her head.
'What's the trouble, Harriet?'
'Well, I don't know about this passage in the Rachmaninoff Second. The score has a c in the tenor, but it just doesn't sound right to me. I wonder if it might be a misprint. A c flat makes much more sense. To me, anyway.'
'Well,' I said, 'why don't you call Rachmaninoff and ask him?'
'Oh, I couldn't...'
'Why not? If you care so much about the details, I'm sure he'll respect you for it. Here, let me write down his number.'
"Well, did she call?"
Again, he's nodding...
"Next time I saw her, again at the Commissary, I asked if she'd called Sergei. She said, 'funny you should mention that! I did call him. It was the strangest thing. I dialed the number, and he must have picked up, because I heard the click. But there was a long pause. So I said, hello? And there was silence on the other end. maybe some breathing. Again, I say, hello? And finally that deep baritone voice says, Yes? And I say, Mr. Rachmaninoff? Long Pause. Yes, this is Rachmaninoff. This is Harriet Schuman. I'm a pianist. I'm playing your Second Piano Concerto. On the radio. Long pause. Hello? Yes. Very good. I'm glad you like it. Yes, well, I have a question about a note in the score. Very, very long pause. Mr. Rachmaninoff? Long pause. Yes? On page blah of the Schirmer edition, in the left hand part, measure blah, I wonder if the c might be a c flat. Now there was a pause so long that I began to wonder if he'd hung up, you know? Hello? Mr. Rachmaninoff? Are you still there? No sound from the other end, just dead air. Well, maybe he was going to check the score against the manuscript. That might take some time. But still. It's his piece. He plays it all the time. You'd think he'd try the passage and make a decision. I didn't hear a peep. Doesn't he have a piano in his apartment? I was about to hang up. But then I heard a click. Young lady? He's back on the phone. Yes?, I ask. I'll tell you: if you want play c flat, why don't you just play c flat? I have to go, bye. Click. It was the strangest damn thing."
I didn't visit Don that often. When I did, and it was just the two of us, he tended to get a bit toasted on Sherry or Port. He'd sit there and get a bit misty and say,
"You know, a young goodie like yourself is a gift to an old man like me."
"I enjoy your company, too, Don..."
"Well, you might enjoy it more often..."
"...I'm busy with school."
"Yes, I understand. Lots of work. I gave my youth to the damn box."
"Yes. The box."
"Smith says you're coming along nicely."
"He says that? In lessons, all I hear is the frantic scritching of his pencil on my score. he's worn a hole in a couple of passages."
"Old Biddy Smitty. He's a good man, but I know he's not... he's a bit too formal. He's never really had a sex life. No... He has a serious problem with premature ejaculation. He just can't help it. He can't, so he just doesn't participate. Me, on the other hand... I see a beautiful boy like you, and I think what a beautiful penis you must have. I always wanted to dip a beautiful penis in a glass of Port, or a great Burgundy, and suck it off."
"Don, I don't know what to say to that..."
It was difficult to sit for my lessons with Smith after that. Then came the day that I knocked on his door and when he opened it, Smith's eyes were red. I should have asked if he was ok, but in my youthful embarrassment, I couldn't. I sat down and he said, in a choking voice, let's hear the Bach. I started in on that thing, as I always had, waiting for the sound of the scritching pencil when I fucked it up. From his big brown chair all I heard was quiet weeping. I stopped playing. I turned to look at him. His head was in his hands.
"Mr. Smith?"
"I'm terribly sorry. I just...I..."
"What's happened?"
It took him forever to gain enough composure to begin speaking. I sat on the piano bench, back to the instrument, hands folded in my lap. I waited patiently in silence.
"It's Don. Don has died."
"I'm very sorry. I'm shocked. I just saw him a few weeks ago."
"He complained of being congested, of feeling terrible for a few days. We were listening to the Opera on Sunday, but of course, he heard none of it. He put his hands to his head and stood up. He said, 'I have a terrible headache.' Then he just collapsed. He died before the ambulance got there. Cerebral hemorrhage."
"I'm very sorry."
Long awkward pause, filled with the sound of sniffling.
"I know you didn't really care for Don."
"That's not true."
He raised his hands to stop me.
"I did, though. Very much. He was...
Long sobbing pause.
"...my one great friend."
"I know that, Mr. Smith. Listen, I should go. I don't think you're in the mood for Bach torture."
"Perhaps not. Next week..."
The door closed. I stood out in the hallway a moment listening to the anguish of the man on the other side of the door. I felt terrible. I had loved Don in my way, as a music student, a straight man, an eager audience for his tales and wisdom. I had been unable to fulfill his sexual wish, though I thought about it. My idea about homosexuality was changing. I realized that I was not capable of it. I also realized that it came with more misery and edge than I had thought at first. I was also not fully socialized or civilized. I burned the eggs. I misspoke. I dressed down. I had no decent shoes. A man who dines on garbage. I was at a loss in the face of grief. The next week, at my piano lesson, Smith was back to furious scritching. I was glad of it.
