Innocence

Allyson turns away, unable to combat this curious logic with anything but a stream of obscenities.

Piotr, apparently oblivious, turns to me instead, munching his toast. ‘How was your class?’

‘An old man walked out on me,’ I confess, sidestepping Allyson, who’s spluttering under her breath in the corner. ‘He only ever wants to read one poem. One incredibly long poem.’

‘Good for him! So important to stick to your ideals, don’t you think?’

He grins. Allyson growls threateningly.

‘And you? When are we going to see you perform?’

I laugh, a nervous, high-pitched little trill. Suddenly I’m wrong-footed; an intruder in this conversation of artistic preferences and ideals. ‘Oh, no, I…I don’t really do a lot of performing any more. I’m really just a teacher now’

He raises an eyebrow.

I fumble about with a box of tea bags. Even without looking up, I know he’s staring at me.

‘I’m too old for all that nonsense,’ I say at last. ‘I gave it up long ago. Or rather, it gave up on me.’

‘And how is that?’ He takes another bite.

It’s far too late at night to unfold the facts of my failed acting career in front of a stranger.

But I make the stupid mistake of trying anyway.

‘Well, acting isn’t like music, Piotr. I mean, there are so very few jobs and so many people…’

He throws back his head and roars. ‘Ah, that’s true! There are hardly any classical musicians in the world!’

I’m blushing. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I just meant that…oh, I don’t know what I mean…’ I start again. ‘Well, I never got to play any of the parts I dreamt about. Never even got near them. I just ended up making B-rated horror films, a few commercials…’

‘You were an actress.’ He shrugs his shoulders again. ‘That’s what actresses do.’

‘No, that’s what unsuccessful actresses do, Piotr.’

‘No.’ He smiles. ‘That’s also what successful actresses do. It’s all the same thing, really’

Like Allyson, I’ve come smack up against the World According to Piotr Pawlokowski. The rules are different here.

‘Well, no…’ I fumble, trying to articulate a yet unformed argument.

‘You’re American,’ he diagnoses my deficiency with a single wave of his massive hand. ‘You make too much of this idea of “success”. No artist sees life as success or failure, profit or loss, good or bad. The point of art is lost if you measure it in commercial terms.’

I blink at him.

‘But it was awful,’ I bleat weakly.

He frowns, popping the last bite into his mouth. ‘And you believed it would be fun?’

There’s a long silence.

I’d never thought about it that way before.

‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘I expected it to be much more fun than working in an office or teaching pensioners or…or anything else, really’

He laughs. ‘Where did you get that idea?’

‘Because that’s the way it used to be.’ I can’t help but smile to myself at the memory. ‘It always used to be more fun than anything else on the face of the earth.’

‘Don’t you enjoy playing the piano?’ Allyson comes to my defence.

There’s that shrug again. ‘Sometimes. But “fun” isn’t a word to describe a relationship with an art form that’s embraced every aspect of the human experience for centuries.’ He looks at me sadly. ‘You Americans, I’m afraid, are like children—you don’t like to grow up. What is it? “The pursuit of happiness”. What is that? “To be happy”. Where is the nobility in a life devoted to happiness? It’s a shabby little goal.’

‘Lighten up, mate.’ Allyson moves next to me; she loves confrontation. ‘No need to pick on her just because she’s American!’

‘I’m not picking on you.’ Piotr glances at me, then back to Allyson. ‘But there you go again! “Lighten up!” Nothing must be serious. Everything must be small, fast…light!’ He prowls the floor in frustration, reaching for the words as if they’re hovering in the air around him. ‘You are the hero of your life—especially in art! Without adversity, obstacles, where’s the hero’s adventure? What’s the point? Of course you do bad movies! Stupid commercials! So what? They’re your dragons; you slay them, you move on. You’re bigger than those things!’ He spins round. ‘What do you have to offer people, what experience, if life is only “fun”?’

I open my mouth.

Then close it.

It’s late; I’m overly sensitive. Instead, I focus on stacking the tea boxes in neat little rows. The silence builds, piling up between the three of us.

‘That wasn’t the only reason,’ I say. ‘My happiness wasn’t the only consideration.’

‘God, Piotr!’ Allyson shakes her head. ‘Could you be any more rude if you tried?’

‘Rude?’ He turns to her, baffled. ‘We’re just talking. A conversation, right?’ And he laughs, resting his hands against the counter. ‘What do you want? That we should stand here and flatter one another all night?’

There’s a long pause.

‘Oh. I see.’ His voice is sharp. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to offend you.’ For a moment his eyes meet mine. I’m startled by the kindness in them.

He turns away. ‘I forget how important it is that we agree about everything all the time. I’ll stick with the piano. Good night, ladies.’ He nods his head to each of us, a formal, slightly sardonic gesture, before heading up the steps easily, two at a time.

Allyson launches forward, nicking the mug I just put down and filling it with boiled water. ‘Well! Fuck me!’

The whole exchange has left me disorientated. I open the cupboard door, looking for something to eat. ‘I guess he has a right to his…’

‘God!’ She slams the mug down on the counter, half its contents splashing out over the sides. ‘I thought it would be brilliant to have a pianist in my own home to work with but I’ve never, not in my whole life, met anyone so fucking difficult!’ Plucking a knife off the carving board, she begins hacking at a fresh lemon, throwing it into the water along with a large dollop of honey. ‘What a fucking diva! And what was all that about? Americans and happiness and…Jesus! I would’ve hit him!’

I need to go shopping. I close the cupboard door.

‘His English is good…’

‘Should be! He studied at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. Still bloody rude!’

‘Thing is, Ally, I’ve been here so long…’