Piano Study

ALERT TO READERS: All the music mentioned here is real; the characters and their situations are fiction, pure products of imagination. No behaviors found below are to be believed as possible or suggested beyond one's mind - certainly, none is recommended. Fiction's purpose is to make the unreal, the nonexistent seem real for the duration of the text. If I have succeeded in doing that, then that follows may be deemed effectively diverting from everyday life and its legalisms, even entertaining. Four chapters precede this if you want to catch up on the circumstances which lead to this installment. They are found here.

AUDITIONS

Nagged by our host’s plight at being essentially lonely, at having no companion, I determined to apply my mind to some means of help. Pavlos was a provider, a generous one. His hospitality proved it was in his nature to extend himself on behalf of others. From us in return, he expected nothing, only reveled in our company and our music. And Ramses’ recent teasing!

Joe had skyrocketed Pavlos yesterday and was willing to up the man’s enjoyment of Americans today. “I like him a lot,” Joe confided. “Do you know he bought that Fazioli just because we were going to be here? Any time I want to come here from Santorini, I’ll be his guest, can practice as much as I like, hang out, whatever.”

I kissed him. “You’ve just provided the idea I need. Listen….”

***

Pavlos couldn’t contain himself, he was so excited. At our instruction, he had notified his office to reschedule his morning appointments, let himself be blindfolded and secured to a chair by any number of his Italian silk neckties, and told to breathe slowly and deeply. A surprise was coming his way.

Ramses, Michael, and I withdrew to the far side of the living room, under a blood-red and soot-black Rothko canvas.

The sound of bare feet in the hall. Pavlos had to know who – the only person not at breakfast. But he kept quiet, respiration uneasy. What?

A knuckle under his jaw brought Pavlos’ mouth up for a chaste kiss. Another. The jaw was clasped firmly for a lover’s kiss, deep-tongued, breathtaking. Speech was impossible, even post-kiss. Fingers wiped away saliva.

“Shhh….”

His shirt was being opened. Hands applied eucalyptus-scented oil to his chest, shoulders, neck, some behind his ears. Soft lips found his again. Another aroma wafted. Ambrosia!

He wanted to exclaim Joe’s name but there was a dance taking place on his tongue, further agitating the struggle in his pants. Tight briefs confined at the best of times. Now they were torture to his cock’s fluttering efforts to find space for expansion.

Unseen fingers toyed with down there. “Poor man,” Joe said. “I’ll release your legs from their Brioni ties.”

He did. “Now lift up.” Off slid Pavlos’ outer pants. While less trapped, his cock craved more freedom. It received a squeeze. Hard.

Our vantage point precluded seeing Pavlos’ face. Joe, however, was in full view about to tease his prisoner with not the expected erection but rather his own backside.

“Lean your head as far forward as you can and thrust out your nose.”

It went into Joe’s crack – which he held open, then let close on the Greek nose.

“Lick what you can.”

Pavlos was in no position to do otherwise. The titillating tongue tip gave Joe the idea of reaching through his legs to access Pavlos’ throb. Almost upset the chair!

To us, Joe made scissoring motions with two fingers. Ramses remembered where he had seen a pair of scissors. Within seconds it seemed, he was assisting Joe with cutting away Pavlos’ briefs and loosening the man’s arms. Last came the Zegna blindfold.

Pavlos stopped blinking and stared. In front of him stood statuesque Joe, arms open, naked and aroused, and the words on his lips, “I’m yours.”

They vanished, Pavlos’ bedroom their destination. Just as they passed through the door, we overheard, “I want to know everything about your role as Cupbearer to the Order of Eleusis.”

***

Our call came, not from The Hyacinthus Union’s chilly Grand Officer (“otherwise occupied”) but the Chief Accountant. The dollar sums involved zeros galore. An account in my name now existed in a Grand Cayman bank to assure my path with Michael and Ramses. To the Santorini Retreat, a much larger sum in recognition of Joe’s achievement there and to underwrite his future career. To be anticipated, recitals next year – perhaps in Japan where a joint project was underway with a Zen master of the piano. No questions, please. Contact will be made again at an appropriate time. They had my address where I would find necessary paperwork upon my return.

***

Lunch came from the restaurant downstairs. Pavlos and Joe did not come out to join us. Rather, we passed plates, utensils, and tumblers of wine to them through the door. Consumption took place in our respective locations.

Our agenda began at two o’clock.

Promptly as instructed, the first of the boys’ auditioners was shown in by his erastês. “This chastened boy is Ilya.”

Michael did not hesitate, “Please come in. Have a seat. Ilya, go to the piano.”

Gingerly, the beige-haired, olive-eyed boy did, Ramses speculating at what his punishment might have been.

“What will you play for us?”

“Cramer Etudes to warm up.”

Reluctant to interfere, I studied the man who had no given us his own name and decided to speak, “You have brought a boy who is not ready to perform? He needs to warm up? Is he not your responsibility to prepare to audition?”

My questions’ rigor disarmed him. Flustered, he tried to explain, “His teacher….”

“Never mind excuses. You and this boy’s teacher are remiss in your duty to him.” My hand put an end to whatever he intended to say. I looked to Michael.

“Ilya, we don’t blame you,” he touched the boy’s waist. “You may warm up with your Cramer. We want to hear you, don’t we, Ramses?”

Ramses smiled.

Ilya played, fingers trembling. To hear his erastês spoken to like that was unsettling for a twelve-year old with a recently spanked bottom and fitted tightly with a new, snug plug.

“Thank you. Your real pieces now, please.”

“Couperin. Les Barricades mystérieuses.”

If over-pedaled, it was better than expected, if not particularly mysterious. Little movement on the bench.

“And now?”

“May I play Godowsky’s Nocturnal Tangier?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s not next in my planned sequence, but, please, it will make me more comfortable.”

Were there consequences for not playing his pieces in order?

Ramses encouraged, “Please be comfortable.”

Heavy pedaling suited both slowly progressive harmony and rhythmical sways under an almost obscenely seductive melody. Ilya’s bottom worked to it as if being screwed lasciviously. Impressive were the way he caressed the left hand part and, through weight, coaxed the theme with more allure than I had heard it before.

Michael’s eyes sparkled at Ilya’s tented trousers. How special is that?His neck acquired more color. “That was just right, Ilya. You may continue.”

“Mozart. Rondo in F Major.”

Its happy few minutes emerged from Ilya’s fingers reasonably in style. Nothing more. No humor. He had remained bolt upright while the piece clicked off.

When no comment came, the boy announced, “Sonatine by Bartok.”

Bagpipers was, like the final Allegro, under speed; Bear Dance came out best. Absent: the style, Magyar-informed imagination.

“That was a good try,” I said. “Your last piece, what will it be?” I looked at my wristwatch.

“Um…Chopin’s Military Polonaise.”

Ramses adapted a knowing look.

As he thrust into the chords and aristocratic dance rhythm, Ilya ground down onto the piano bench like he meant it.

He hasn’t been fucked to Couperin’s subtleties nor Mozart’s multiple textures. His man’s strictness has the Chopin going along like a military drill team – with no elan. Quixotic Bartok’s totally out of his range. What accounts, though, for the awareness of his Godowsky?

I shooed Ramses off to the hall with Ilya to talk. Michael and I were curious to query the man who regarded us now with suspicion.

“Where do you live?” – was not, I surmised from his expression, what he expected.

“Key West, Florida.”

“Before that?” Michael asked.

“San Francisco, California.”

“Thank you. You may go now. Leave your contact information on the table by the door.”

Ramses produced flushed-face Ilya, whose departure seemed tinged with regret.

“You know what he’s most unhappy about?” Ramses told us. “Being removed from his teacher in San Francisco with whom….”

I completed the sentence, “…he lived when learning Nocturnal Tangier.”

Ramses nodded. “Yes, they had begun the Couperin and Chopin pieces when Ilya was uprooted – after what he says was ‘a lot of money’ – and taken across the country. Nothing comes from his Key West teacher than notes.”

***

Three o’clock arrived. So did the afternoon’s second auditioner. He was left at the door by his man with the words, “I will return shortly. Lamar will behave this time.”

Lamar, also twelve, we learned, had cheeks that looked recently slapped, although his gray-blue eyes were not lined in red. I sensed stoicism had been inculcated for some time.

“Sir, may I sit, please? I – uh – need to.”

“Is it this?” Ramses discovered something loosely protruding from Lamar’s rear – and pushed it in.

“Thank you, yes. It’s too little. Hard to keep in place – part of my punishment for breaking protocol yesterday. I try but my sphincter’s used to much larger, you see.”

Michael eyed the ceiling, pointed to the bench, “Be our guest. Do you need to warm up?”

“No sir, I am ready to play.” He flexed fingers for all to see but didn’t smile.

Oh dear.

He fumbled the Benda Sonatina. We found out when he admitted not liking “prissy music.”

More to his liking – he played it with bangy conviction – was Mendelssohn’s Hunting Song.

“Dad likes it, too.”

Wary, Michael asked, “What else does your dad like – musically, I mean?”

“Well, this.” Tight-shouldered Lamar plowed into Khachaturian’s vile Toccata. The racket was tremendous. Joe, looking fresh as ever, came in nude – to see what the fuss was. Oblivious, Lamar pounded away. I mimed go-back-to-Pavlos. With a shy wave, he did. What I took to be more than one load of our host’s ejaculate was dripping from Joe’s splendiferous ass.

“Since bold music attracts you, why did you offer the Benda?” Ramses asked.

“Dad’s my teacher. It’s for contests, you know, like a requirement to play some of that stuff. I’ve got a couple more if you want to hear them.”

“No, thank you. What you’ve played suffices,” Michael equivocated.

I opened the door in the hope that “Dad” would be there. Not that lucky.

Lamar looked but did not stand. “This is the best piano I’ve ever played on. Much louder than ours. Can I play the Khachaturian again?”

Michael said, “Please don’t. The neighbors, you know. We can talk. Does your Dad teach other students?”

“Yes, sir. But he doesn’t have to. Two other boys in the H.U., but they aren’t as talented as I. Dad and I,” he volunteered, “have a roomer who lives with us, a hermaphrodite. His name’s Herma. Dad loves his ass the most, not because it’s better than mine or William’s or Peter’s but because Herma’s breasts are just right for the way Dad likes to hurt her.”

Checking the hallway, I asked, “Does the way you enjoy your Mendelssohn and Khachaturian relate to the way your Dad teaches you?”

“Sure,” Lamar grinned for the first time. “He gives it to me rough and wants me to play my music that way. Great big dick. Rams it in me, and I go off like a cannon. Since he adopted me out of foster care two years ago, I’m used to it. Not a problem,” he bragged.

An uneasy lull. My thought was to ask about discipline measures in their household, but the elevator doors opened and “Dad” was there, a question on his lips.

“How’d you do, boy?” he was gruff.

I provided this answer, “Lamar played exactly the way you prepared him to. We were impressed that your method results in truly forceful playing. Let me shake your hand and wish you well.”

Strong as it was, his hand was no match for mine.

“Stand up, boy,” he swallowed as I released him. “Still got it where I put it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you a restroom we can use?”

“Sorry,” I gestured behind me. “It’s occupied at present.”

“Very well. Drop ’em, boy and show me.”

Lamar’s plug would have plopped to Pavlos’ polished floor had he not caught it.

The one “Dad” drew from his pocket was considerably bigger. He plucked away the first, sniffed it, and put it in his other pants pocket, and handed Lamar the new one. “In your mouth first or it won’t feel like a reward for good behavior.”

Plug in, nonplussed, Lamar drew on his pants, fastened them, and was taken in hand by ‘Dad.’

“Expert advice for us?”

“You have him well in hand. Stay together. Accept no substitutes,” I said. “And continue on your way.”

***

Showers had stopped. Freshly and fully clothed, both neat as pins, two glowing friends emerged colorfully from the cocoon of Pavlos’ private quarters. “We wanted to be in time for your third auditioner, the one you scheduled last,” Joe was elated to say. “I knew you had some purpose to that.”

“Pavlos, you open the door at four. I’ll stand next to you. You three over there, Joe in the middle. This couple will appreciate our expecting a Hyacinthus Union pat by the boy. Good form becomes them.”

Four o’clock sharp. The door. Pavlos effused in Greek, welcomed the boy’s respectful, palm-on touch, was thrilled to hear the boy return his greeting in Greek, and looked expectantly at the man’s face as they shook hands.

“J. Carter Springwell.”

“Pavlos Pisauris. Welcome to my home.”

“Stephanos, you may pay homage further.”

I practically saw Pavlos’ heart swell at the boy’s Greek name. More than my heart swelled as the dead-ringer for Bouguereau’s Cupidlooked at me through long, dark lashes and felt my entirety.

He knows his power.

Stephanos similarly greeted Ramses and Michael, then stood before Joe, reaching down as he lifted his delicate mouth to be kissed. To his credit, Joe lost no dignity to the surprise. He took Stephanos’ beautiful face in his hands and kissed the boy with pristine purity.

Joe’s got the power as well. The kid’s floored.

In fact, as I have been known to opine, Stephanos did seem a bit undone. Joe directed him to the Fazioli as I asked J. Carter Springwell how they came together. Awaiting his man’s response, Stephanos’ head turned coquettishly.

“His brother, Kyriakos, catamite to one of the nicest men I know, engineered the idea. True, isn’t it, Stephanos?”

Debussy might have heard a voice as flute-like when he composed Afternoon of a Faun. The boy spoke, “If I may, we are bound by love only brothers can have. Kyriakos saw my soul before I did. He pined for me that I might not be led into bad company and pled with his Jonathan…”

“My friend, Jonathan-David Crittenden.”

Stephanos paused, as if in reflection, then, “…pled that a really good man be found for me.”

I noticed Ramses and Michael hanging on to every word. Joe and Pavlos, too.

Springwell said, “Jonathan-David deliberated, then thought of me. I’d confided my yearning to become part of the Hyacinthus Union only – you may not know – singles are not admitted. He rang from their home in the Kentish countryside to broach my seriousness. Once he was satisfied, I got the third-degree from Kyriakos. It beat what I went through for my early career in the Foreign Service.”

The boy’s flute-like voice sang sweetly, “I was not mentioned until…”

“…Until I had laid bare everything for which I was suited in an H.U. relationship and described almost to virtual perfection the boy of my dreams.”

A pause steadied J. Carter Springwell’s emotions. “It was Kyriakos who, on their behalf, invited me to join them in their hometown, Eleusis, to meet his family and younger brother. Eleusis is out from here, in the…”

“…Triasian Plain,” Joe interrupted. “I know it well. Sorry. Go on.”

“It was in the chic-modern Elefsina Hotel over lunch on a day that could have inspired poetry when Stephanos was introduced to me. Unknowing looks were exchanged at first. Not much was said, except by J-D and Kyriakos.

At, ‘He plays the piano,’ Stephanos brightened. Kyriakos pointed to a disgusting white baby grand in the bar.”

“Stephanos bounded in there and played. What was it?”

“My favorite then, Schumann’s Traümerei (Dreaming).”

I noted Springwell stroke something from his eyes. “Was anything special about it?” I asked.

“Love, play it for them.”

Tones lingered in the air, blended, overlapped; melody and accompanying lines floated in gossamer suspension; my heart slowed; my mouth parted. Time had stopped. My right hand –like Joe’s, Michael’s, and Pavlos’ – was over my heart. Ramses seemed transfixed.

Evidently immune, Springwell said, “I heard that and, well, fell in love. You all have, haven’t you?”

“Men get that way when I play Traümerei. I’ll do something different,” Stephanos took a breath and launched into something vaguely familiar. March rhythm. Prominent repeated notes which became quicksilver octaves, later appearing in the left hand. Amazing, the way the boy got all over the keyboard, brought to march forward, took it off to pizzicato points at the end.

No one knew what it was.

Stephanos delighted to tell us, “The last movement of Dag Wiren’s Serenade for Strings.”

Seldom am I as gobsmacked. “A transcription?”

“Not really. I figured it out from a recording J.C. got for me. Isn’t the piece wonderful?”

“Yes,” Joe said, “and as challenging as Liszt’s Sixth Rhapsody.”

“Want me to play that? It starts with a march.”

J. Carter Springwell rearranged a cushion.

Need I say? – the march marched, the pentatonic cadenza rippled down from the treble and zipped back up over the tonic harmony perfectly setting up the Presto. Like some scherzo on speed, it segued into the sobby outcries of the Andante, and its cadenza (think Arctic ice crackling) linked to the entrancing dance with its notorious, exhausting octaves and crashing chords.

Hardly recovered, Joe asked, “You were planning to play the Liszt for us today?”

Stephanos was puzzled, “Why would I prepare anything, not knowing what you’d want to hear?”

“If I may, gentlemen,” J. C. said, “Stephanos has what I believe you musicians call a repertoire. What he doesn’t have is a teacher. That’s why we’re here.”

“Have you left your teacher for some reason?”

The boy looked to his obviously proud man for the permission he received, “Tell them.”

“I’ve never had a teacher. I taught myself – you know, to read music, to play. Saw videos and did what I saw good pianists do. That’s about it.”

“Eidetic memory?” I asked J.C.

“Both visual and aural,” I was told. “My Stephanos is what’s called a genius.”

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