Piano Study

PREFACE:

Parental consent enables sons to enter further music’s sexual sensuousness. Michael and Ramses become a trio with younger Stephanos under dual guidance without parallel except here, and will be readied for a great, unanticipated adventure. Will you participate in encouraging the story’s continuation by commenting and/or rating this chapter when you reach the end? And if you want to catch up on the preceding chapters. 

Within a week of their reunions at home, Michael with the Psmiths, Ramses with the Córdovas, we had an invitation to visit our friends in Greenwich, Connecticut. Both families reluctantly gave in to their sons’ entreaties, especially after viewing the private DVDs of their triumphant recitals in Athens.

Pride had them bursting.

Initially, the Córdovas had bought into our cover story about why success with the Federated Guild had taken us to Greece. Now amenable, on the basis of learning not how but that, while there, both Michael and their son had been awarded total scholarship support of their on-going lessons with me, they consented to this weekend-only jaunt to Connecticut.

“Ramses will be able to cement his relations with the greatest musical talent we discovered,” I assured. “All costs are borne by his scholarship, a lot will rub off, and he’ll be back in time for his classes on Monday.”

That mollified them. More pride (at no cost).

To remind you, the Psmiths were in on (and fully accepting of) everything by then. Son Joe had recounted details unsuitable for the Córdovas but urged his parents’ help with Ramses’ parents in preparing them for further possible changes in living arrangements. “Not yet, but soon.”

***

The twenty-odd minutes in J.C.’s Range Rover from Westchester County Airport to Greenwich did not prepare us for what greeted our eyes as we pulled up the driveway to the Springwell estate. Half-timbered Tudor with gables and chimneys may have been stylistically accurate. But. A big but. In size, it was a sprawling enormity. And obviously vintage. Constructed perhaps a hundred years ago, it spoke of very old money.

Michael and Ramses were slack-jawed.

“About twelve or thirteen thousand square feet, I think,” J.C. responded to my unasked question. “Four-point-two acres. Neighbors have larger places so we don’t have to put on airs.”

Housekeepers and gardeners lived over the four-car garage in the back. There was a tennis court. A greenhouse. Eight bedrooms (the ones assigned to us as large as my whole place). As many baths (completely updated). A wood-paneled, acoustically perfect music room with the Mason & Hamlin mentioned by Stefanos but not described (casework of deeply polished rosewood inlaid with brass, an elaborate music desk). Old, traditional oils and watercolor paintings everywhere (landscapes, seascapes, still lifes mostly; the inevitable family portraits among which I noticed a Singer Sargent and two Anders Zorns, favorites of mine). A serene, elegant place.

Squared away in our quarters under Stephano’s supervision, the boys looked at each other and at me. “Off with you lot to the music room. Enhance what you’ve learned about each other by a practicum at the piano. I want to talk with J.C.” I asked Stephanos, “Where will I find him?”

“In his study. I’ll show you. C’mon guys.”

***

Mutual trust and respect provided a clearer understanding of respective roles in the boys’ lives.

I learned of the multiple functions of the Hyancinthus Union – of its biannual gatherings, its seminars for men and those for their boys, of their counseling services, mentorships, and projects for cultural enlightenment (recitals such as we had presented, poetry readings, art exhibits, original playlet performances, and homemade films).

My sense: These functions were but the tip of what the H.U. provided its members.

J.C. learned a lot about music beyond his layman’s appreciation of it from hearing orchestral and chamber music concerts, solo recitals, and from attending operas in New York. By avoiding technical details, I took him through differences in general style periods and through the ways specific masters had come to create within those systems uniquely original works for interpretation.

A man of broad education and sound mind, he grasped the acute angle separating fixed works such as paintings and sculptures from performed ones requiring time for perception. “The score of a Beethoven sonata isn’t music, but a roadmap for an interpreter to bring to life the work thus symbolized,” I told him.

We discussed sex in relation to ourselves as well as a factor in artistic creation. Of course, he knew about Tchaikowsky’s frustrated life (but not about his trysts with beloved cousin Bob), the carefully secretive lives of Handel and Ravel, but not about Charles Griffes’ taste for rough types who hung out around New York’s docks.

To avoid drifting, I directed the conversation to ourselves, especially to our anatomical differences. “There’s likely something to be learned from Ramses’ experience of you. And your boy’s experience of me. Shall we invite the boys in?”

“Let’s go to them,” J.C. brightened. “We’ll find out how they’re getting along and, well, you know.”

***

Pausing in the hallway, we heard a passage played three times in as many ways. It was the middle theme of Brahms’ E-flat Major Rhapsody. Had to be Ramses. Pristinely done. There was talk we couldn’t overhear before it was played differently and taken apart, the melody by itself, clarinet-smooth and expressive, the left-hand part pizzicato as if on a ’cello. More discussion. Finally the passage put back together, slower, its every note’s place in the fabric of Brahmsian time being judged as if by a jeweler, examined, and shown to advantage.

Ravishing.

We peered in. Ramses and Michael were embracing Stephanos as if it were a new act.

“It’s all true, what we thought about him” Michael said toward us. “This wondrous boy took our dare.”

Ramses faced around, a hand on Stephanos’ head, “Actually, he took several dares.”

“And?” I wondered, half-knowing.

“Just from watching and listening, he got the passage and processed it and plays it better than we do.” Michael’s honesty disarmed J.C., who spotted a question on his boy’s face.

“Stephanos?”

“May I learn this piece, Brahms’ Rhapsody, from Michael?”

His way of saying “from Michael” was a message.

No hesitation marked J.C.’s, “Of course, but is there time before they have to leave us?”

I stepped up, “Precious ones, let’s go over to that sofa and those chairs. We want to talk with you.”

***

Candid as he had learned to be with serious people, Ramses admitted, “When I backed onto J.C.’s erection, my anus had no time to test what it touched. It just slipped back. The further I pushed, it pierced me in a way nothing ever did before.” He looked at Stephanos, continuing, “You’re used to it, but I’ve known only Michael’s and our teacher’s which you now know.”

Both blinked and rolled eyes. Stephanos covered his smirk with a hand. A clever boy, he said nothing about Michael’s physical presence in him having been preparation for the awesome greatness of what followed. For his entire sense of musical sex being reshaped, sculpted anew, for his comprehension of the little Gershwin Prelude settled in such fashion as to begin to expand.

Unaware of Stephano’s rumination, Ramses said to me, “I didn’t know what to think when I was being so deeply drilled but, by the time J.C. came, I was in a new place.”

“Any effect on your musical well-being?”

“I can speak to that,” Michael said. “This morning when Ramses played the Adagio sostenuto from Beethoven’s Op. 27 no. 2 for us, something had happened. Legerdemain of some sort. We heard not a doleful tune over mere rolling accompaniment like he did so well on his recital. No, we heard four distinct lines like two voices over a harp and a ’cello.”

J.C. flashed an inquisitive look.

“He’s speaking of the so-called Moonlight Sonata. This is fascinating. Ramses, what was going on?”

“I’m not sure. It’s that, all of a sudden, what I’d seen on the page and thought I knew suddenly emerged as actual counterpoint. Each line was an entity in itself but dependent on the others, like an organism’s parts. They came together as if alive in the dark of night.”

Eager for a chance to speak, Stephanos nudged Ramses. “That was beautiful. Your words just came together better than when we were talking about it.” To me, he said, “Last night’s Gershwin lesson….”

“Let me tell him,” Michael took over. “Everything showed the first time Stephanos played for us this morning, only...” – he paused – “…only he closed his eyes – we didn’t move a muscle – and he played it over. The Prelude strode along more upbeat than before. The melody coy, seductive. I guess it could be described as smoldering, don’t you agree, Ramses?”

“It gave me an erection. In the middle part, I was close to climax. Look, thinking about it is stiffening me again!”

I held up my right hand to stop the traffic, then spread my fingers wide. “The benefits of our being together are obvious. We five are a fistful with mighty potential for music.”

“And we should be living together,” J.C. said to no one in particular. More forthrightly, “There’s plenty of room here. You three, come live with us.”

***

The Psmiths invited the Córdovas for a meal and broached the subject of Ramses joining their son and me in Greenwich. Then to soften the shock of the idea, they reminded them of their letting Joe, then two years later, Michael live with me. True, each completed his high school studies locally, but moved to speak of the home schooling their son would receive at J.C.’s house, along with Stephanos.

Within days, the Springwells (as we none-too-jokingly called them) came for a visit. The purpose was to give assurances and to provide proof of Stephanos’ schoolwork at home. Certified transcripts quite impacted the Córdovas. The boy was at the same grade level as Ramses, taking some of the same subjects, doing well uniformly.

J.C. turned on the charm. “Our meeting in Athens was as prophetic as if directed from across the Plains of Marathon by the Oracle at Delphi. We were meant to be brought together through music. Your son’s gifts are already expanding exponentially. Would you not wish for him its continuity? You impress me as two people who love their son and who trust in his love for you.”

“We would miss seeing him terribly.” Mrs. Córdona bore stricken look of a Madonna, the Mater Dolorosa, alleviated by her husband’s hand to hers and words of consolation. Both looked to J.C. uncertain.

“He can come here to see you or, better, we can bring you to visit us. My house is most accommodating. Let us send for you in a few weeks, okay?”

They acquiesced.

***

Cohabitation, spirited from the start, blossomed phenomenally when all of Michael’s and my possessions arrived – including my Bösendorfer and his Bechstein. Our boys moved from piano to piano in a rotation they worked out among themselves. Three instruments in as many rooms promoted individual work. Occasional duets for sight-reading – Mozart, Schubert, Dvořák. My mind leapt beyond wondering about musical ensembles to parallel our experiences in bed, on the floor, outdoors in Nature – when the Japanese tracked me down for a rather stern reminder of their invitation.

The proverbial light came on. Brainstorm! Three pianos together for our three boys. Concerti by Mozart and Casadesus! I checked my calendar, called the local Steinway store, obtained their “Yes” to the boys practicing there (hinting we would purchase a Model D if one of theirs suited us), dredged up the piano parts, handed them over with a few words of radical advice (“Learn these six movements on your own – no ‘prodding’ from J.C. or me.”), convinced the Japanese to set up a public performance using one of their fine youth orchestras (“Two rehearsals and the concert, to be reviewed. The day after, our boys in recital.). Terms were reached.

Negotiations involved the Grand Master. He offered and I accepted a handbook of Japanese courtesies needed for successful transactions and interactions within the empire. From him I learned that the H.U. chapter was based in Kyoto, had a highly specialized compound of pavilions in the mountains and only eleven couples as members. He treated me with deference.

He asked, “Would you and your students be interested subsequently in performing in Paris? In Lima?”

Implicit was that interest had developed and spread as a result of Athens. I demurred, “Let us see, Grand Master.”

This novel of mine snakes its steamy way over and beneath the viaducts of the not-so-innocent in the art world found at Amazon. 

Thanks to gaydemon, my sex-driven stories about agriculture, education, small town life, and high culture await your pleasure.