NANO NINE -- Blood, Sweat and Tears -- Mostly Sweat

It was a very strange way to wake up this morning, especially at five. But, there I was, lying on my left side, coming to consciousness with the strains of Chopin in my ears -- so distinct that I had to get out of bed, walk over to my computer, hit YouTube and track down Arthur Rubinstein's interpretation of Waltz No, 2 in C-sharp minor, Op. 64.

All in all, not a bad way to enjoy a first cup of coffee -- indeed, not a bad way to enjoy anything.

I knew I had to rework the kiss in the last section, I had to work delicately, lay it down as soundly as I could, because it is pivotal and after this scene, a momentum of a different kind builds.

Dipping into the Compuserve Writers Forum at the end of the day was gratifying -- if for no other reason than to be with fellow Nanos who had loads on their minds. There is a strong sense of world-building incubating amongst the members, and all the tea and sympathy one could desire.

I think the most important quality emerging from this November exercise, is the momentum it's established. No matter how much or how little is accomplished in the number of words, the story -- and the determination to tell it, is key.

On that note, I now lay down the musical tracks of my day -- a total of 845 new words.

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Snip THE SCARF DANCE Copyright Carol Krenz 2010

“Yes,” he whispered. He wiped away her tears, stroked her cheeks, then leaned closer as if memorizing every freckle on the bridge of her nose, every fleck of gold in her eyes, every eyelash.      Finally, he kissed her, the swell of his lips gently pressing on hers, his breath so warm, she felt the frost melting above them. It was a fleeting kiss – too soon over.

When he straightened up he said, “Come, it’s time we went back.”

He took her basket again, and held her hand as they walked in easy silence. She was thankful for the nip in the air cooling what she knew must be a flame on her cheeks.

When they reached the Kapellmeister’s house, he placed the basket over her arm. “I will say goodbye now.”

“Goodbye?”

“Yes, I’m running late – I’m taking the afternoon train to Weimar.”

“But, why?”

“A previous commitment. I am to give a small concert at the Amalia Library and now it would seem there’s to be an informal party for Liszt as well. He’s been in poor health and refused to celebrate his birthday some weeks ago. So, a group of us will do him honor—”

“But—”

“Don’t look so worried, Anna. The timing couldn’t be better. I’ll be gone for two weeks during which you will be working very closely with Hermann. If you think I am a taskmaster, wait until he gets hold of you.” He smiled. “I am only half jesting. I know you’ve been studying with him for years, but that was different – now, you are making a debut. He will work you hard – very, very hard, and you will need to practice until you literally have no strength left to lift a fork. I went through the same rigors. In a way, I am glad I won’t have to see you…” his voice trailed off and he glanced down.

“Ya,” he murmured to himself, as if trying to remember something. Then he faced her again. “Anna, when you go upstairs, find Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu. We can communicate to each other in the notes, because I shall play it in Weimar, as well.”

She knew in that instance she was throwing caution to the wind, that she would regret her impulses because they could only lead her nowhere. She tried, but could not stop herself, so she dropped her basket, threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in the warmth of his muffler. “Ariel, Ariel!”

He held her for brief spell, rocking her. But, when he released her, he said, “You know this is maybe a good thing, our break in schedules. It’s good to have distance sometimes. I shall write to let you know when I am returning.”

Already he was sounding regretful, already his tone had changed. She felt foolish and refused to look at him.

His glove nudged her under the chin.
          “Anna,” he whispered, “you have rarely spoken my name in these last weeks. It feels good to hear it, now.”

And then he walked away, presumably in the direction of the Bahnhof but she didn’t wait to watch him disappear. Instead, she raced up the narrow staircase, and hurried to the piano.

An hour later, the Kapellmeister burst into the music room, smoking a cigar, carrying a tray of oysters on the half shell.

She nodded at him but continued playing feverishly, her hands working the keyboard like a concertina, her head nodding, her heart throbbing, her eyes streaming.

He sat at the table and listened as the Fantaisie furled and unfurled in chorded pleats. He smoked the last of his cigar. He sat back in his chair and folded his hands. He leaned forward and studied his oysters. He squeezed lemons over them. He sprinkled capers onto them.

She finally shuddered to a stop, weeping profusely, her chest rising and falling as though a small bird were trying to escape its cage.

“An-nah!” The Kapellmeister erupted, as he reached for a small jar of horseradish. “We have to make one thing clear…” He lifted an oyster to his mouth and held it there, torturing himself. “If you continue to weep like this, you will ruin my piano. Every time I am about to congratulate you on a wonderful performance, I find you in tears. You are entirely too damp.” He swallowed his oyster at last, his eyes lighting up with immense satisfaction. He turned toward her.

“Simply delicious. You must have one.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Herr Kapellmeister, I may weep buckets of salt water, it’s true, but you know that as much as I do not follow all the dietary laws, I never eat shellfish.”

“Quite right, how forgetful of me.”

Desperately, he glanced about the room, scanning the empty nut trays, the empty mint jar, the empty cigarette case, until he seized on the basket of rugelach. He got up and pounced on it.

“Marvellous treats,” he said, peeling away the white linen. “Come here, Anna, you simply have to try the chocolate ones. They’re my favourite.”

end snip

EARLY DAY FIVE -- Could This Be Love?

I am lagging behind in NANO words, as usual. And, I cheated today -- I went back to do some editing (she says, cringing), and then, I pushed onward to new terrain. I am nevertheless happy, and hope to accomplish as much as possible in November, so hope you enjoy the latest bunch of words. I will probably post in serial form, the writing that has to do with Anna -- leading up to her recital and its aftermath. After that, wee snips only.

If anyone reading this can offer me the Hungarian for "my darling" that would be super great.

I also am working on my latest essay for LESSONS I LEARNED FROM MY MOTHER. I am exhausted.

The NanoWriMo site is clogged most of the time. Today, I had to re-register -- that makes twice, even though all the info about me on their site is safe and sound in a manner of speaking.

As I face day five, I wonder how the world is doing. Partying, I know is a big part of this exercise. It will be fascinating to see who crosses the finish line and actually lasts to November 30th.

Excerpt THE SCARF DANCE All Rights Reserved Copyright Carol Krenz 2010

On the first day of instruction, the rain, which had begun after her arrival at the Kapellmeister's home, was now gusting sideways in sheets, blurring her view of the narrow elms lining the street below. They looked like spinster aunts, nodding together, desperately clutching the last of the gold leaves covering their limbs. Soon, they’d be naked. “I should hate that myself,” she thought.

A dark Monday morning, a blustery morning most people detested. But not inside the Kapellmeister's music room, for the brazier was blazing with fresh coals and Helga had brought up a heavy tray of coffee, bread, jams, cheese, smoked carp and soft boiled eggs. “Herr Dworkin is always hungry,” she said when Anna looked in horror at the size of the spread. “And if he asks where the honey is, tell him he finished it yesterday.”

“Was he here yesterday?”

Helga cackled. “Yes, Fräulein. Ever since his mother took ill – two years ago, it was – he’s been living here when he’s not on tour. His playing disturbs her.”

“I see…”

Helga looked around the room with a satisfied glance. “Will that be all – do you need anything else?”

“Thank you, I am fine.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you – Herr Dworkin said if you arrived before he got back from the tobacconist, you were to start playing scales.”

“He said what?”

“Scales, Fräulein.” And Helga hurried off, aware of the insult, looking like she was dodging thrown crockery. Anna knew her eyes were now ablaze with thoughts of murder. Scales indeed!

She helped herself to a cup of coffee and chose to sit on the couch, tucking her legs under her dress like a contented cat.

Was it going to be this way for seven months? Would he treat her like a baby? Would he be forever late? She stirred her cup with growing agitation until she heard the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs, sometimes taking them two at a time by the measure of the syncopation. Step-step-long-step.

When he walked in, he shook his umbrella like a wet dog and smiled at her. She rested her spoon in its saucer. “You’re late,” she said.

“I’m not, actually. You’re early.”

“I won’t play scales.”

“You won’t? Well, that puts an entirely different complexion on things. I thought we were going to study Chopin.”

“I thought so, too.”

“Well, then. How often have you been able to sneak him into your repertoire?”

“Only a little,” she confessed. “I smuggled in some of his music, stuffed it under my mattress and play it in the upstairs nursery, when no one is home.”

He was by now rubbing his hands in front of the brazier. “Would you like to play one of his waltzes for me? How about ‘Valse au petit chien’?”

“The Minute waltz?”

“Exactly. But it really takes two minutes. You play, and I’ll eat and you just pretend I’m not here.”

He busied himself by loading up a plate while she took her seat at the piano and rifled nervously through the sheet music. She rubbed her knuckles, took a deep breath and began. Not even twenty measures in she realized her right hand was refusing to work. She started again, failed completely and finally placed her hands in her lap, her cheeks stinging with humiliation.

“You know what I think?” he asked softly as he readied his knife to strike an egg. “I could be wrong, Anna, but I think maybe you should--”

“Practice my scales?”

“Yes, well, only if you think it’s a good idea.” The top of his egg came off with one neat swipe.

If only she could hate him…just a little.

On Wednesday morning she asked why she had to play the scales while he watched.

“Because I need to see your fingers. Do you notice you’re dragging just a little on the right?”

She crossed her arms immediately and tucked her hands under her armpits. She fought to stay calm. He was the only one to notice this impediment – the only one to comment. Mimi, who had taught her first, didn’t count because she was there when the accident occurred. But the others? Frau Groper, Frau Steiner, not even the Kapellmeister had said a word. She told him about them.

“Ah, well, it’s understandable,” he said modestly. “You play the scales so beautifully, so no one has ever had to look closely at your hands since you were a child. But, I looked, because I want you to execute Chopin to perfection. And for me, Chopin is all about losing the fingers completely, you see?”

“What can I do?”

“Two exercises. First, you will open your hand and spread your fingers as wide as they can go and hold to a count of five, then close it. Repeat this ten times and do it as many times a day as you can stand. It will ache. Then, you must squeeze a ball. A good India rubber. Squeeze as hard as you can and hold it as long as you can. Then, release it. Do this as often as possible. You’ll need plenty of massage. And, Anna… you have two hands, don’t forget the left.”

She caught herself staring at him. She liked his nose, she liked the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled. She was so absorbed with the way he looked – his navy cravat and his gray tweed jacket – she didn’t really hear what he said about the Hungarian Rhapsodies. And anyhow, studying Liszt with the Kapellmeister belonged to Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today was Wednesday. Today, she would think only about Chopin and him.

Two weeks later and still, they were not playing the Nocturnes. Now she was adept at the Minute waltz and still he was not satisfied. He had offered not one word of praise.

“Begin again.”

She leapt into action, her nimble right fingers scrambling across the keys.

He was pacing in front of the piano, maintaining rhythm by striking his fist into his palm “Faster…faster…yes…yes…faster…faster…good…yes…faster…faster--stop! Lunch?”

If only she could hate him…just a little.

The extent to which both these men were willing to go to prepare her was astonishing. At least Mimi thought so. She told Mimi everything – almost everything, and Mimi, who had been her nanny and governess and occasional chaperone was not easily impressed. But, today she was. “And then what happened?”

It was Sunday morning and they were enjoying breakfast in the morning room.

“Well,” said Anna, “I got into the carriage and the Kapellmeister said we were off to have lunch at the Café Romy in the Alexanderplatz. He said it was high time we took refreshments away from the house. Then he teased me and called me [] which means my darling in Hungarian.

“He wasn’t unmannered, was he?”

“Who…Herr Hermann?” Anna laughed. “No, Mimi. He’s especially avuncular in a Saint Nicholas sort of way. He’s a sweet and generous soul.”

“All right, so go on, tell me more.”

“Oh, Mimi, it was wonderful. As soon as we arrived, we heard violins playing sad romantic Gypsy music and we sat at lovely tables with red and green cloths, and white mats and napkins. And the food was delicious. I had a cutlet in sour cream sauce with loads of paprika, he had the goulash, and all we talked about was his trips to Budapest. That and Liszt. And he made me drink Bull’s Blood until I was tipsy.”

Mimi’s auburn eyebrows shot up like pencil-thin question marks.

“It’s red wine. Although, who knows,” Anna giggled. “They say it contains a secret ingredient.”

“You are the adventurous one, that’s a certainty.”

Anna reached for a roll and broke it in half. “The thing is, Mimi, it was a lot of fun, but it was serious, too. The Kapellmeister wanted me to breathe in the ‘love, sweat and passion’ is how he put it, of the Hungarian people. He wanted me to pretend I was yearning for my homeland, for its purple crocuses growing wild, the river Danube; he talked about the Magyars, Tartars, Mongols, the Carpathians – oh, how he talked. And, then he asked me to imagine I was part of the Romany and enslaved, and to think of their suffering. And just when I thought I could see all of it, he flipped me around with the suggestion I be royalty, instead. Can you imagine that?”

“I’m still having trouble imagining Bull’s Blood.”

Anna toyed with the poppy seeds on her plate. “Mimi, I’m serious. He wanted me to smell the soil of one of the oldest countries in Europe. If I can grasp what it means to love the land, to work the land, he says, I’ll understand how to approach the Rhapsodies.”

“Well, mein gott! Anna. If that’s what he wanted, he should have taken you to the Zoologischer Garten so you could milk a cow.”

DAY THREE - When Research Calls

I think it's Day Three -- I wouldn't know because I am still up from working on Day Two.

My word count went up which is a good thing -- but so did my blood pressure. The trouble is, you really do need to do your research before you start your daily writing or else, you'll end up like me. Tired, blotto, hungry, dirty, ditzy, dizzy, and feeling feeble when it comes to the tremendous output of my fellow Forumites, who are taking NaNo to heart and just letting her rrrip!

Well, says I, it's already bad enough when you write without a backward glance, which is what you're supposed to do...but, it's another thing entirely when you realize you can't just use [] to surround doubtful names, places and references you'll correct later. I mean, that's what I still intend to do for such instances, but today, gentle readers, I found myself forcibly thrust inside the many pages of web info fast tracking Frederic Chopin and his photos, his work, his life, because that was something I simply could not fake, and I really needed the information in order to move the narrative along.

And so, members of the jury, I put it out there for you -- a wonderful picture of Chopin and the continuation of the scene that I started November 1.

Hope someone in the universe likes this because when I read it, as tired as I am, it's all swimming together.

It's about 6:30 am, and I am off to bed.

Later, gator. <yawn>

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Started November 1, 2010

THE SCARF DANCE Copyright 2010 Carol Krenz All Rights Reserved.

Part Two

1

          (November 2, 2010)

In the rapid heat of discussion she had entirely forgotten about ‘the man.’ He sounded ominous, like a ghostly figure springing from the pages of a Gothic horror story. She was nervous around strangers. Living inside a glass bowl as she did, removed from most of the comings and goings of everyday life, it was hard to imagine how else to exist, harder still to think she could keep her secret hidden from prying eyes. Even as she considered this, she inadvertently pulled down the lace border of her right sleeve. “Man? Who is he and why do we need him?”

The Kappelmeister sighed pleasurably. “We need him to perform a small miracle on you. He is going to be the key to your success, Anna.”

“But, you said I am to work with you on the Rhapsodies…I don’t understand.”

The Kappelmeister leaned forward in his chair, placing his large hands on his pudgy knees. “Anna…have you always listened to your father? To everything he says?”

What a question out of nowhere. She looked at him quizzically; his keen blue eyes were regarding her intently. “If you mean, Herr Kappelmeister, am I dutiful…then yes. I am as dutiful as I can be, not only to my father, but to my mother, as well.”

“But, do you agree with everything your father says?”

“No…I do not…and sometimes I say as much, which is to no purpose. I am sixteen, whereas he is older and more educated, and he always points this out to me – that he knows best. But sometimes I hear him discussing matters of genetics and other subjects of his research, and I find many of his points of view…how shall I say this…well, astonishing. Sometimes I think his views are too narrow. His opinions about races, and Jews, and all kinds of subjects…please, do not misunderstand me, as I only read what I can when Mimi provides me with books. I admit I am not as informed as I should be – I spend all day practicing – but, well…I think my father says things that cause harm – he often fights with my mother, makes her cry. I think my father has unreasonable distastes but I have yet to understand why, exactly. So, I stay quiet. And I find it hard to stay quiet, but Papa says I am terribly impertinent.”

The Kappelmeister nodded thoughtfully. “You know, Anna, your father is not unique in his views. You will meet many people like him. But, this is of no great importance right now. I gather, however, that you would not be averse to plotting a small mutiny?”

“But—Herr Kappelmeister, why on earth would I do such a thing?” Secretly, the idea excited her. Mutiny? Just who did he imagine they would set on fire?

“Come—take you seat at the piano. Now, close your eyes.”

“Really, what a game, today. The last time I remember such intrigue is when you took me to see The Magic Flute.”

She heard the sound of clicking, heard him rummaging through drawers in the tall walnut secretary at the far end of the room. Next, a shuffling of papers. Finally, the sound of something landing on the music stand.

“Open your eyes.”

“I can’t. I’m afraid.”

“Mutiny, Anna, mutiny.”

She sensed what it was even before she saw it – the face of Chopin, his gaze locking onto hers, as if reaching to her from the grave – a picture she had not seen before. His large circular eyes looked rested, curious, his nose and chin, gently rounded, his mouth curvaceous. A small cry caught in her throat and her hands flew to her neck, as if to hold it back. She could not turn away from him.

“He was twenty-five in that picture, Anna. Intelligent, intense, and not looking ravaged by illness.”

She nodded, still clutching the high collar of her blouse.

“And do you know who painted it? A young woman your age – sixteen, she was. She and he were to be married but it never happened.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“They say her family did not approve of him for many reasons. And thus, she was his first heartbreak.”

Still she did not turn to look at the Kappelmeister. “My father—”

“Yes, he made all that perfectly clear three years ago. No Chopin. Not one drop, not one note. Many High Germans profess a disdain for this young genius, true. They exalt Teutonic epics, the great German composers. We are a most peculiar people. The French are more reasonable when it comes to music—even the Italians and the Swiss. And, when I listened to your father, I noticed how uncomfortable your mother was, so I went back to the house later to speak with her alone. She told me your father had a sister who went to live with her husband in Krakow and was murdered there by Polish peasants. Our poor Chopin is therefore the vessel of all your father’s hatred and mistrust.”

A rap on the door, and Helga entered. “ He’s here, Herr Kappelmeister, and he says he’s ravenous.”

“Ah, at last the prodigal son returns. Ask him to come up, Helga, and refresh our tea.”

Anna was at this moment weeping, she didn’t know why…was it for Chopin or her father or herself? The Kappelmeister gently mopped her face with a handkerchief that smelled faintly of peppermint. “Don’t cry, Anna, you mustn’t cry. Guess who is about to join us?”

“I don’t know,” she blubbered, taking the handkerchief from him. “And, anyhow,” she blew her nose, honking like a meddlesome goose, “he shall see me and think I look like a rabbit severely allergic to clover--.”

“But, I don’t.” came a soft voice from the doorway. “I think you look just fine.”

And when she glanced up she found herself staring at Ariel Dworkin.

“Anna, I want you to say hello to—”

“I know who he is…” she said quickly, without taking her eyes off Dworkin. He was beginning to shift from one foot to the other, and she realized too late that her mouth was wide open. “Forgive me, I have no manners today.”

“That’s all right,” he grinned. “I have no manners on any day of the week.”

“Now that is entirely true, Anna,” The Kappelmeister interjected. “Dworkin, this is Fraulein Garber--”

“Oh—call me Anna, please.”

Dworkin approached the Steinway, fingered the dahlias with a curious expression and asked, “Is there anything around here to eat?”

And after he had polished off a full tea, they discussed the mutiny.

The Kappelmeister said, “The repertoire will be highly rigorous and demanding, Anna, I propose you begin with the Rhapsodies, and finish with Chopin. In this way, your father, who will be sitting on his Louis IV chair, surrounded by the cream of Berlin society – and not just Berlin, mind you – will hardly be in any position to protest. Especially not after you bring the audience to tears, are greeted with thunderous applause and hailed as the next successor to Liszt…I assure you, there will be no reprisals.”

“Herr Kappelmeister, how can you say this? I am afraid you are mistaking my abilities for Herr Dworkin’s--.”

“Call me Ariel, won’t you? Hermann’s right, you know.”

“But—but, I have heard you play. The whole world clamors for you. How can you even think it?”

“Because I know my limitations, whereas you, apparently have none. I am, what is called, a muscular pianist. And I will happily show you what I mean, shall I?”

He rose from the table, a tall, graceful figure, clean-shaven with a pale complexion and thick dark hair parted on the right which hung in loose waves about his face. He had a wide forehead, a square jaw set off by a strong chin, and there was the faintest indentation in its centre. And his brown eyes, she had noticed, were like Chopin’s – round and intense.

He commenced playing Chopin’s Ballade Number One, and immediately she was swept up into his world, flying, falling, rising again over grand octaves and impossibly intricate fingering that flew across the keys, faster and faster, with repeated left-handed undercurrents swelling up presto con fuoco until at last he set her down again with two complete runs up and down the keys signaling not one but two finalities that echoed romantic longing.

She could scarcely breathe. The Kappelmeister was applauding, whereas she was back to gaping, aware that tears were streaming down her cheeks. He didn’t notice them, for he was still intent on what had just transpired, listening to the fading reverberations in the air, still throbbing from his exertion.

The room fell into a thoughtful silence for some minutes until at last the Kappelmeister rose from his seat and walked over to a sideboard to fetch some brandy. They would toast their good fortune, drink to Ariel’s continued success, and then clink their delicate snifters in celebration of Anna’s debut and her forthcoming liberation. The mutiny was on.

As the Kappelmeister helped her into her melton coat, she asked about the Chopin. “What will I play?”

Ariel said, “His Nocturnes. The most romantic music in the world. Difficult, mind you, but we will work here three times a week and then even more.”

She refused his invitation to walk her home, refused a hack, as well, preferring to walk while there was still some light. At least, it was her intention to walk, but as things often happen when one is suddenly caught up in a web of desire, her feet never touched the ground.

-end snip-

Chopin at 25