Opus 66
Richard Natale
The rent on the apartment was a bit more than he’d hoped to pay, Douglas told Hillary, the real estate agent, who assured him that it was the going rate for a pre-war building in the West Village, and actually a steal for a top floor apartment. “Besides, you should always live slightly beyond your means,” she replied through what sounded like a deviated septum. “It makes you work harder.”
She offered to show him a similar unit in Murray Hill that went for thirty percent less; and if he was willing to live up by Columbia, she had a place that was even cheaper, larger and with better amenities.
But Douglas hadn’t moved to Manhattan to live in personality-free Murray Hill and certainly not to commute from Morningside Heights to Wall Street every day. Back in Muncie, he’d developed the romantic notion of one day residing in New York’s famed bohemian enclave, tracing the footprints of the writers, artists and performers who had either lived or gotten their start in the Village; the cradle of gay liberation (as least officially), a safe haven where he could be himself and not have to button it up and deflect as he did at Lyman, Steers, the brokerage firm where he’d just been promoted to junior account executive.
He wasn’t exactly in the closet at Lyman, and wasn’t the only one who chose to skip the after-work male bonding ritual to go home and rest up for the next day’s trading session. Not that he would feel comfortable discussing any aspect of his personal life with his cohorts, who persistently sniffed around for frailties, actual or perceived.
While pricey, the apartment, located off Abingdon Square, was undeniably a find, a one-bedroom penthouse both light and spacious. The main rooms were festooned baroque moldings and the bathroom featured the original black and white checkerboard tiles. The standout was a wraparound brick terrace with an on-a-clear-day-you-can-see-forever view of midtown on the north and a suggestion of the Hudson on the west. He would be sharing the floor with only one other tenant whose mirror apartment across the hall faced east and south. According to Hillary, it had not been on the market in more than thirty years, since the mid ‘50s. The tenant, she said, was also a single man and “not a party type. Quiet. Keeps to himself.”
Another plus: a freight elevator was ample enough to accommodate his prized Yamaha. The black lacquer, meticulously waxed piano, had been bequeathed to him by his Uncle Fritz, a virtuoso, under whom Douglas had studied beginning at age six. While he did not possess Uncle Fritz’s innate talent, he tried to make up for it with the kind of emotional investment he found so difficult to access in his daily life. On days when the tension of the sales floor rendered him as demon-eyed as a speed freak, he would return home and toss off Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in G Minor to restore his equilibrium. And if he was stymied in his search for personal connection, a sojourn with Brahms’ 6 Klavierstucke, soothed him and enabled him to sleep afterwards.
The costly flat proved to be money well spent, Douglas’ sanctuary in the sky. For his summer vacation, instead of travelling abroad or trekking out to the Atlantic beaches, Douglas holed up for ten days, subsisting on takeout and viewing TV shows he’d recorded on his new video tape recording device, playing piano and nude sunbathing on the terrace.
The cocooning led to a scolding from his best friend, Leila. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You move to the Village and instead of exploring the neighborhood you’ve always wanted to live in, you decide to float above it.”
What could he say? Since childhood, he’d always been a little too Midwestern Methodist for his own good, tending toward the solitary. Never had many friends, was hopeless at small talk and, unless a man propositioned him in graphic detail, was oblivious to even the most blatant come-ons. His idea of flirting was a gawky stare, which had the opposite of the desired effect.
In early fall, Douglas had a brief affair. Leila set him up with Andrew Solomon, a gynecologist she’d met in Yoga class. When he refused to even meet Andrew, his friend arranged an accidental encounter at the Buffalo Roadhouse. The ruse was transparent as was Leila’s rushing off to an appointment she’d forgotten. Douglas didn’t mind. Andrew was glib and self-confident. Not bad to look at either. When the doctor invited him to a concert the following Friday, he accepted, in part because it was an encore performance of the Goldberg Variations that had been well reviewed in the Times. Andrew stroked his leg during the concert. They spent the night together and had breakfast the next morning at the same Buffalo Roadhouse.
From the onset, Douglas prophesized the affair’s eventual dissolution. His ruddy Scandinavian features might keep Andrew on the hook for a while, but he’d eventually grow weary of Douglas’ asocial demeanor. He tried to offset his lack of social grace by being amenable in bed, content to fulfill his partner’s fantasies while rarely proposing any of his own. Andrew came armed with an encyclopedic repertoire, including some borderline hilarious role playing. Apart from that, they shared no real connection and eventually, Andrew did lose interest.
Though hardly enamored of his erstwhile beau, Douglas took the break-up hard. Despite Leila’s reassurances that he would someday meet someone of a similar feather, he was so distracted by melancholy that he almost failed to notice the man in the elevator getting off on his floor. Only as he was unlocking the apartment door did Douglas think to turn and, on impulse, say “Hi. I’m your new neighbor, Douglas.”
“I know,” the man replied with a grin and mimed playing the piano with both hands. “Mackenzie.” With a terse nod, the man entered his apartment and shut the door. Slammed it, actually.
Douglas was intrigued. Not only was this Mackenzie fellow striking, and in a completely original manner, but his smile seemed to harbor a precious secret. Then he quickly backtracked on his fleeting impression. In all likelihood, the next time he ran into Mackenzie and got a closer look, he would prove to be ordinary. And exactly what did he mean by “I know,” when Douglas introduced himself? Was it a jab at Douglas’ piano playing? If he had a complaint, he certainly hadn’t voice it. And the door? Did he actually slam it or merely shut it soundly?
Perhaps his curtness had to do with another kind of disapproval. Not that it really mattered. He’d been in the apartment for six months already and this was the first time they’d crossed paths. He probably wouldn’t see Mackenzie again until Christmas at the earliest.
Funny how that worked. On his way downtown, he saw many of the same people in the morning and sometimes coming home as well. The elderly woman who clung to the bannister at the bottom of the stairwell until the train doors opened, as if in constant fear that someone might push her onto the tracks; the schoolboy who counted backwards from a hundred under his breath and, if the train had still not arrived, started all over again; the tall man who tapped his foot incessantly and sat on the edge of his seat as if to venture further back would wrinkle his suit; And several others who stared blankly into space like automatons whose battery pack was running low. Yet, here he lived not fifty feet from someone he’d likely run into no more than twice or three times a year.
Two Saturdays later, his doorbell rang. A UPS man held out a package and a clipboard for his signature. Glancing down at the carton, he noticed the name Mackenzie Frost. “No, this is for the apartment across the hall,” he said. Douglas shut his door and immediately flipped open the peephole latch and watched as Mackenzie, clad only in gym shorts, signed for the package. Only after he’d slipped the copper cover back into place did he exhale.
Good work, Douglas, he chided himself. Was spying on a partially clad straight guy his idea of healthy behavior? Yet, the image lingered, and Douglas embellished it with details he couldn’t possibly have discerned from his compromised vantage point. Beads of sweat on Mackenzie’s chest, abdominal ridges, meaty thighs, large feet. He had a thing for men’s big toes. Not a fetish. Just a thing, like other guys have for armpits. Then he mused about Mackenzie’s armpits. Very hairy? Sparse?
Seeking refuge from his aimless ruminations, he sat down at the piano and decided to finally risk Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu. Uncle Fritz had recorded the piece and had given it to him as a birthday present the year before he died. Less a gift than a rebuke; as if to say that his nephew lacked the technical skills to handle the initial movement of the Opus 66, which required equal parts dexterity and speed. He’d studied the sheet music and listened to Uncle Fritz’s recording many times but had to drum up the courage to tackle it.
The initial attempt confirmed his cowardice. No more than four bars in, his fingers began to skim along the keys as if they’d been oiled. Punching the ivories in exasperation, he jumped up and threw on his coat.
Why did he imagine that in his befuddled state he could attempt such a complex work as if it was nothing but a mere etude, he thought? When he saw the Out of Service sign on the elevator door, he raced down the stairs and ran smack into the workmen loading a Steinway onto the service elevator. He ogled the piano, which was as beautiful as an African princess, then burst out onto the street, rounded the corner and headed straight for the White Horse Tavern, to drink himself into a Dylan Thomas coma. Like most of his foolhardy plans that day, it backfired. Douglas had little taste or tolerance for undiluted spirits, and certainly not on an empty stomach. After a double whiskey, he stumbled to the men’s room and surrendered it.
Determined to work up an at least passable allegro agitato, over the next couple of weeks he devoted all his spare time to cracking the Opus 66, but made scant progress. What was it about this particular movement (not even the most difficult Chopin) he found so elusive? When he discussed his failure with Leila, she rolled her eyes. “You really need to go out and get your horns trimmed.” When he gasped, she added, “What? It always works for me. And Andrew says you’re actually good at it.”
“He said that?” Douglas asked.
“Not directly. Something about ‘it’s always the quiet ones.’ It’s a compliment, Douglas. Take it.”
“Then why did he break up with me?”
Leila let go an extended sigh. Douglas replied with one of his own.
Perhaps Leila was right. But he was no more successful at finding a horn trimmer than he was at the Fantasie Impromptu. He returned from the bars at one a.m. empty handed and a little nauseated from drinking ginger ale. As he was checking his mailbox in the lobby, Mackenzie popped out of the elevator and waved at him. The best he could summon up in return was a pained grin. “Don’t let it get you down,” Mackenzie said, stopping a moment.
Douglas’ face twisted into a question mark.
“The Chopin. The first movement? It’s a bitch,” he said, then disappeared through the double doors.
Douglas pondered Mackenzie’s comments and his mind double backed to the previous week when he was out on the terrace and heard what sounded like a recording of the Moonlight Sonata. He couldn’t tell whether it was coming from across the way or an apartment below. Then he remembered the Steinway. No, the playing was too proficient. It had to be a recording. Maybe Gould? No, not that good. Horowitz? Possibly. Curious, that. The Beethoven and the Opus 66 shared thematic similarities. Almost as if the player was using the piece to mock his inability to get farther than eight measures into the Chopin. Like Uncle Fritz from the beyond.
Only in the elevator going up, did he remember that he’d only been two feet from Mackenzie, close enough to notice the luminosity of his skin. His eyes were dramatic, wide and large and brown-black. And he was wearing a knit cap. And he looked great in it. Whenever Douglas tried on a woolen hat he resembled a serial killer. Once, during a blizzard, Leila yanked it off his head. He complained that it was freezing out (and snowing). “I don’t care,” she said. “I will not be seen walking next to a Most Wanted poster.”
Oddly, he took Mackenzie’s comment to heart and decided to give it another go. But when he sat down at the piano, his fingers fell onto the keys as if they were weighted down. He wanted to cry but he’d didn’t have much of a facility for that either.
Douglas crawled into bed and in the middle of the night fell into a dream in which he made it all the way through the first movement; a simple, competent performance that left him pleased and relieved. Even his unconscious was not foolish enough to conjure anything more than a workmanlike effort. In the morning, he rose extra early and, before heading off to work, attempted to move his fingers as easily as he had in the dream. But only six measures in they seized up.
The dream recurred over the next several nights, and each morning he managed to advance a measure or two. If only he could play the first movement through to the end, it would give him the confidence to attempt the key and tempo change of the piece’s middle section, before it reverted back in the third movement. But if he conquered the first part, he could surely handle that as well.
***
Shortly after the closing bell, his boss, Barry Gray, called Douglas into his office and asked if he wouldn’t mind mentoring an actor the following week–what his colleagues referred to as a Don Corleone offer, one you dared not refuse. Ethan Lack was researching his role as a trader for an upcoming movie about Wall Street. Douglas recognized the actor’s name. He’d seen him in something on Broadway or maybe on TV.
Ethan was personable and unobtrusive and, though Douglas normally disliked his actions being monitored, he quickly adapted to the visitor’s presence and his constant note taking. During lulls or at the end of a trading day, Ethan would ask him to explain bits of terminology he’d heard. Douglas’s responses were clear and succinct and, at times, even affable.
“I know this is a lot to ask,” Ethan said one Friday afternoon, “but could I take you out for an early dinner tonight and pick your brain? If you don’t want to give up your Friday, I’ll understand.”
“Tonight’s no different than any other night, except I don’t have to show up here first thing tomorrow morning,” Douglas said, an unusually candid admission. He didn’t mean it to sound pitiful, though it likely did.
“Great. You pick the restaurant. My treat.”
They ate at Dino’s, a hole in the wall in Little Italy and Ethan peppered him with questions. Then after a couple of glasses of wine, and a hearty but not heavy lasagna, Ethan leaned in and said, “I’m going to ask you something. I would never do this if I wasn’t tipsy, and you don’t have to answer. You’re not out at work, are you?
When Douglas’s tongue tied, Ethan added, “I didn’t mean closeted as much as you just don’t share it with the others. I know because I’m the same way.”
“I’m a private person. It’s just who I am,” Douglas said in his own defense.
“But you are, aren’t you?”
Douglas nodded.
“Oh good. Because I hope to use it as subtext in my character.”
Douglas was bemused, unable to imagine what that would look like.
“And just so you know,” Ethan continued, “if I didn’t have a boyfriend who is crazy jealous, I would so put the make on you right now.”
Douglas turned beet red and was sufficiently well oiled to reply, “And I would probably take you up on the offer. I’m flattered.”
Then they both laughed to ease the tension before returning to stocks and bonds.
Standing on the sidewalk after dinner, Ethan hailed a cab. “I’m going uptown. Can I drop you off?”
“Abingdon Square,” Douglas directed the driver and when they pulled up, Ethan said, “is this your building? You wouldn’t happen to know if Mackenzie Frost still lives here?”
“Yeah, he’s my neighbor across the hall. You know him?”
“Oh. This is more than a two-minute conversation,” said Ethan. “Driver. I’m getting out here too.” He pulled some bills from his pocket and stuffed them through the divider.
They retreated to the Elephant and Castle for coffee and a shared dessert. Ethan did most of the talking and Douglas listened, rapt. Hard to tell who was more excited, Douglas to hear about Makenzie or Ethan to tell him.
“We were at Performing Arts together,” Ethan said. “He was wicked talented and peculiar like most near genius guys are. Worked like a motherfucker. Could do anything. But other than school projects, he kept to himself. The only reason I know where he lives is because I grew up on West 11th Street and would see him going in and out of the building. I think he was born there. His dad was Jonas Frost, a big shot corporate honcho. I want to say Monsanto or Xerox.”
“Anyway,” Ethan continued, “Mackenzie got a scholarship to Julliard and everybody was predicting big things for him. Then he dropped out during his first semester. They said he had a nervous breakdown, but I also heard that his father had taken sick and he quit school to play nurse. A few years back I read in the Times that the old man had passed away after a long illness. The obituary listed Mackenzie as a survivor, and I think a sister who lives in Boston. Haven’t heard a word about him since. Tell me, does he still have that aura?”
“Aura?” Douglas repeated.
“Not handsome but really compelling,” he clarified.
Douglas nodded. Yes, that was it. Compelling. “But I’ve only run into him once or twice and I’m guessing he’s probably straight.”
“Well…,” Ethan said with a shrug. “There were rumors of him fooling around in the school bathroom. There were rumors about me too. And those happened to be true,” he laughed. “He never came on to me and we did a couple of plays together. ‘Much Ado’ and ‘Guys and Dolls.’ He was the lead of course.”
“Do you know if he played the piano?”
“Oh yeah. Guitar too and I think the trumpet. So talented. Poor bastard. Wonder what really happened? Anyway, next time you see him, say hello for me. I’m curious to see if he remembers me.”
When they parted outside Elephant and Castle, Ethan kissed him on the lips at the subway steps. Douglas walked home, puzzling about Mackenzie the entire way. He got in after midnight and promptly fell asleep on the sofa, again falling into his recurrent dream. In the middle of his recital reverie, he rolled over on the couch and the sensation of falling off woke him up.
But the Chopin continued to play. The first movement. Over and over. Not his Uncle Fritz’s Fantasie Impromptu–unembellished and dispassionate, stripped down almost like a tutorial. When he peered out through the keyhole, he noticed Mackenzie’s front door ajar.
Douglas threw open his door and sat down at the piano. The moment Mackenzie finished, he began to play, making it almost three quarters of the way through before missing a note. Mackenzie immediately picked up the composition and took it to the end. Douglas began again and again. On the fourth attempt, he played all the way through. As he hit the final note, he became almost giddy. Sure, it was sloppy, more agitato than allegro. But what mattered is that he’d done it, which meant he could surely do it again.
He looked up and across the hallway. Mackenzie’s door was wide open now and he was sitting at the piano in a pair of shorts and a floppy tee. He was looking directly at Douglas and smiling. Then he raised an index finger like a baton. They began to play in unison and Douglas thought his heart would explode through his chest.
Afterwards, Mackenzie rose and walked to the door. “Thank you,” he called out to Douglas.
“Me? For what?” Douglas said.
“I’ll explain at another time,” he said. “But for now, just thank you. So, tomorrow night? Same time?”
“Really?” Douglas said.
“And have fun with it, Douglas. Don’t try to be perfect. It’ll mess you up,” he said with a hint of sadness in his voice.
“It’s not that. I don’t want to let you down,” Douglas said.
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Just do it for yourself,” he said. “Well, goodnight,” he added softly as he slowly shut the door. The last thing Douglas saw were Mackenzie’s dark eyes shooting through him.
__________
Richard Natale is a Los Angeles-based writer whose stories have appeared in such journals as Gertrude Press, the MCB Quarterly, Chelsea Station, Hashtag Queer, Wilde Oats and the anthologies, Men in Love, Image/Out, and Off The Rocks. His published novels include Cafe Eisenhower, Love on the Jersey Shore, Junior Willis, the fantasy adventure The Golden City of Doubloon and the short-story collection Island Fever. Natale also wrote and directed the feature film, Green Plaid Shirt, which played at twenty-five film festivals around the world and is a best-selling title for Wolfe Video.