Keyboard Capers

(My Furious Fiction entry for July 2024)

They came from all over the globe. Again they said the Russians are the ones to beat. Their technique is formidable; they set the benchmarks. But South Koreans had been enjoying success in recent competitions all over the world. They needed watching too. The ‘green and gold’, always represented, never won, the closest back in 1988 when a young Sydneysider came third.

Our Sue was a hot tip this year, according to some in the know. I began to envision the Australian flag proudly fluttering atop one of the Opera House sails.

Along with the other competitors, thirty-two in all, our Sue finished stages one and two. I noticed a few blemishes, nothing serious. I observed her preparation, a ritual of gradual relaxation, her body permeated by floating lightness and becoming at one with the mighty instrument she would need to force to do her bidding. From the way her arms gently shook and swayed as they dangled by her side I knew they were ready to fly. I was glad she ignored the pundits who said her preparation took too long. She did well enough to reach the semi-finals with eleven others.

That wonderful man Piers commented that our Sue’s semi-final recital was the pinnacle of the competition so far. He had not heard such an inspired, innovative interpretation of the Diabelli Variations. Even better for our Sue, the opportunity to play Schumann’s divine quintet was, in her words, ample reward for many months of excruciating practice. Diabelli and Schumann elevated her to the final six.

Our Sue was put on this earth to play Mozart. I know this for a fact. I don’t know how, but her mother agrees. Our Sue doesn’t, sometimes vehemently, insisting that Brahms is her composer of choice. Her performance in the final of Mozart’s concerto number twenty-one was heavenly. I should know; where I am, Mozart’s music saturates the air. She eased into a conversation between piano and orchestra, the piano having a say, then submitting to the orchestra, rising above it, falling below it, sparkling, subsiding. For the other concerto I wish it hadn’t been the Brahms. Pick another time to show the world that your slender, feminine, fat-free body can play muscular music. But our Sue is stubborn. Anyway, the Korean man’s Bartok lifted music making to a stratospheric level, leaving the other five in his wake.

At the reception, Russians, a Ukrainian, a Hungarian, Chinese from the People’s Republic and Taiwan, Japanese, Koreans, our Australian heroes, Americans, a Thai, an Indian, talked animatedly, drinking and eating, relief palpable on some faces, united by what they all share. In addition to their hours of toil, in addition to the music they love, in addition to never ending quests for contracts and billings. Their humanity.

In case you haven’t already suspected, our Sue doesn’t know me. She would if the dreaded cancer hadn’t taken me a month before she arrived in the world.