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Perfect Pitch

I'm a piano tuner. Sometimes it's an interesting job, sometimes not. One morning last week, it was.

I rang the doorbell sharply at nine. No one answered. Usually people are expecting me. After a time I rang again and then knocked. Again I waited. I was just about to leave when I heard motion behind the door.

Mostly middle aged women answer. Usually they're overweight and plain. This time it was different. The girl who answered the door looked to be in her late teens. She was barefoot and wearing a red terrycloth robe. She had dark hair, dark eyes and was slender and very attractive. She had a wild and sensual look about her, like she had just awakened from a beautiful erotic dream.

"Sleeping in?" I said.

"I'm so sorry." She replied. "I'm just the nanny, I'm not the lady who made the appointment, and I forgot you were coming."

"That's OK." I replied. "It's a nice day."

I entered the foyer and glanced around to locate the piano. No use waiting to be shown. When I saw the piano, I was surprised again. It wasn't the typical beat up old spinet handed down from grandma, never played and rarely tuned. It was a beautiful old Steinway grand, worn, and a little rough on the exterior, but potentially a wonderful instrument. I dropped my bag next to it.

"This it?" I asked as I tried a few notes. It was terribly out of tune, and I made a sour face.

"Yes." She lamented. "None of the family that owns it plays. I'm really the one who wants it tuned. I'm in conservatory, and I'd really love to be able to use it. I can't stand it as it is now."

"You must really play well to get into a conservatory." I replied.

"Actually, I play violin." She answered modestly. "I just play the piano a little, mostly for study."

Usually I go straight to the tuning. Time is money. But, this girl was interesting. She was a musician. I always found that attractive. She was even prettier than I had first thought, and there was an alertness about her that spoke of intelligence. I wanted to talk to her, maybe draw her out and learn a little more about her. So I went on with the conversation.

"Violin? Do you have perfect pitch?"

"No, but a few people in my classes do."

"Just as well." I observed. "Perfect pitch is a pain. If you have it, you're either irritated with everyone else for being a little out of tune, or everyone else is angry with you for always pointing out their mistakes. Imagine going through life aware of all the little flaws in people and being unable to overlook those flaws or to control your urge to point them out..." It was a lame observation, but she laughed.

She was bolder now. "You don't remember me do you?" She asked.

I didn't remember her.

"No, sorry. Have we met before?"

"You're some kind of concert pianist aren't you? You came to my house and played for my sister's wedding about six years ago. I was twelve then. You played Bach and it was so beautiful it made me cry."

This girl was different. Any twelve year old who could get emotional about Bach would have to have a screw loose, or else be very musically inclined. Either way, the possibilities were intriguing.

"Yeah, I used to perform a little. I don't do it anymore." That was more to the story, but I wasn't in the mood to make long explanations.

"Well, I heard you play in recital too. You played a Mozart sonata, and a couple of pieces by Scarlotti. The Scarlotti was so wild and passionate that all the women in the audience were swooning."

"Maybe. Anyway, I just play for myself now."

This conversation was going in the wrong direction, so I pulled out my tools and began to tune the piano. To change the subject, I observed that she'd grown up nicely in the past six years and that I should be forgiven for not recognizing her. She blushed appropriately and fell silent. She watched intently as I worked, but piano tuning is very boring, even for the musically inclined. Soon she left to do whatever nannys do around the house.

I worked on the piano for about 45 minutes, and as I was finishing, I heard her go into the kitchen and make busy sounds. I put away my tools, and tested the piano. The tone was rich and full and the touch was responsive. Usually I don't play after I finish tuning, but this piano deserved it. I began to play the adagio from Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, knowing in the back of my mind, that this piece always thrills young women.

As I played, she came into the room. She stood behind me, and I could feel the music drawing her in. The adagio, if played properly takes a little over six minutes. She moved closer as I played, and as I finished, she stood so close that I could feel the heat radiate from her body. She wore no perfume but her fresh scent surrounded me and thrilled me, causing me to consider trying to inhale her whole body into mine.

After the last chords died away, there was a period of silence. Then she spoke.

"That was beautiful." is all she said.

She was breathing fast shallow breaths, almost panting. She was silent for a few more seconds, then ran from the room shouting over her shoulder.

"I'll be right back. Do not move."

When she returned, she carried her violin, bow, and some sheet music. She placed the music on the piano and gave me an order. Her tone left no doubt that I had no option but to obey.

"Play this."

It was the Bach B minor sonata for violin and harpsichord. A piano would work for the harpsichord part. There are only a few people who can smoothly sight read an unfamiliar Bach work. I'm not one of them, but I'd played this piece many times before and was well familiar with it.

I began to play. The piece begins with just piano, then the violin enters in a hushed tone and long line which slowly increases in volume until it is an equal partner with the piano. I must have done a good job of tuning the piano, and she must have snuck off to tune her violin while I thought she was doing nanny things. We were in tune.

The intertwining of the instruments was erotic. The music is sad to the core and drew us into its complete melancholy. The musical allusion is to a defeat of the spirit and it is the task of the violin to struggle against it. Toward the end, the violin rises to a tremendous peak and then succumbs.

Her playing was not perfect, but her performance was astounding. She had immersed herself into the piece, plumbing the depths of human despair, but rising with pride against the doleful drone of the piano time and time again to finally accept a noble defeat.

I was stunned. The hair on the back of my neck was standing. I had never wanted a woman more in my life. I was completely seized by passion. I stood and turned to her. Her robe had fallen open to the waist, and there was a gloss of fine perspiration on her breasts, which were now mostly revealed to my sight. Light strands of hair were pasted to her temples. She stood, hands at her sides, violin in one, bow in the other. She was breathing heavily with her mouth slightly open, as if she had just completed a marathon. She was more beautiful than I had ever fantasized that a woman could be.

I gently took the violin and bow from her hands and placed them carefully aside. She made no move as I stood before her and drew open the belt on her robe. I pushed the robe from her shoulders, and it fell to the floor around her still bare feet. She stood naked and vulnerable before me. I could not resist her.

Touching her nowhere else, I kissed her lips softly. She responded with passion. My kisses grew more intense and I pulled her into my arms. As I kissed her neck and shoulders, she made a low moan and began to tear at the back of my shirt, attempting to remove it so as to gain flesh to flesh contact. I stepped back from her and removed my shirt while she fumbled with the snaps on my trousers. She knelt and drew my trousers down. I stepped away from them and kicked off my shoes. I knelt with her and we resumed our embrace, each smothering the other with wet, warm kisses. We lay on the floor in front of the old Steinway, amidst the piles of cast off clothing.

Our lovemaking started tenderly but with urgency. The raw sensuality grew as we became more accustomed to each other's bodies. There was nothing else, just her, just me; us. I forgot the world and all it's imperfections and immersed myself in her. She took me in with total feminine desire, accepting me, welcoming me, yielding totally to me.

It seemed like hours later as we lay, satisfied, limbs still intertwined. She finally spoke.

"You know, I was a little sharp in the final measures. It's very hard to get the pitch totally right that high up on the neck."

"Yes." I said. "I know. I have perfect pitch. But with you, today, for the first time in my life, it didn't seem to matter."

THE END

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