Duet, page 11
“It’s a flower!” Oliver protests. “Flower names are nice.”
Flower names are nice, but I’m not sure I would have chosen Gladiola.
Sebastian snorts. “It’s too long. What are we going to call her for short?”
“Glady. Or Glad,” Oliver says. “Glad is nice, too, because it means ‘happy.’ What’s your idea, anyway?”
“Something that starts with S, like my name,” Sebastian says. “Maybe Serena.”
Oliver and I both want Sebastian to propose a name we can make fun of, but of course he comes up with something we like.
Oliver nods grudgingly. “That’s good. What about you, Mirabelle? What name are you thinking of?”
It had seemed so exciting to name the babies when Mother first suggested it, but my enthusiasm is gone, even for the first name I thought of, Annabelle. Now I’m not sure I want any of those babies to have a name like mine. “I don’t know. I have to think about it some more,” I mumble.
“Well, you’d better hurry up. Mother wants to start calling them something,” Sebastian says.
“Get the dandelion seeds,” Oliver orders. “So we can have some fun before the day is over. These babies are already a lot of work.”
Sebastian and I gather the tiny brown dandelion seeds in our beaks, spitting out their fluffy white tails. When my mouth is full, I swap places with Oliver, and he dutifully pecks away at a dandelion head, while I keep an eye out for danger.
There’s no more conversation on our way back to the nest, because our mouths are stuffed with seeds.
“Wonderful!” Mother says when she sees us. The babies are cheeping madly. Their open pink mouths look bigger than their bodies. Mother takes some of the seeds and swallows them, then spits them up directly into the babies’ gaping mouths.
“Gross,” Sebastian whispers to me, but we know this is how mother birds always feed their babies. The hard seeds have to be softened and digested a little bit before the babies are able to eat them.
The babies swallow hungrily, then open their beaks again, demanding more.
When Mother finishes, she turns to us. “What about names? Did you think of any?”
“Serena,” Sebastian says smugly.
“Oh, I like that very much,” Mother says. She nudges one of the grotesque little aliens and says, “Here’s Serena.”
“I thought of Gladiola,” Oliver says hesitantly. “But is it too long?”
“Not at all,” Mother tells him. “That’s a beautiful name. Gladiola flowers are so tall and elegant.”
Oliver shoots a triumphant glance at Sebastian.
Sebastian rolls his eyes. “‘Glad’ is a goofy nickname.”
Oliver glowers at him. “Well, the other name I thought of is Halina. Lina, for short.”
Oh, I wish I’d thought of that!
Mother smiles approvingly. “Isn’t that a lovely idea, in memory of the old man’s sister. I think the world could use another Halina.” She gently prods the second baby with her beak. “Little Lina.”
“And what about you, Mirabelle?” she asks, smoothing the spiky crest of another hatchling. “What name did you think of?”
I look at the last little baby, with its gray reptilian skin and its wing bones sticking out. It deserves a good name, too. Something strong and interesting.
“What about George?” I say. I think how George Sand wanted a name that would set her free.
Now Sebastian and Oliver are both laughing so hard they topple over and have to hang upside down.
“That’s a BOY name,” Sebastian roars.
“That’s no good for a girl,” Oliver exclaims.
“It’s good for some girls,” I protest. “Like George Sand! Ever heard of her? I guess you don’t know as much as you think you do. She was a famous writer in France in the 1800s.”
Mother smiles at me. “It’s a fine name, an artistic name. I think it means she’ll have an interesting life.”
So there they are: Serena, Halina, and George. And already the babies don’t look quite so ugly, because now they have names.
A Discovery
All of a sudden, we are at the end of August, and the lazy days of summer seem to be winding down. I feel like I can hardly catch my breath, between helping Mother with the new babies, gathering nuts and seeds with Ollie and Sebastian, rushing to Halina’s house for piano lessons, and helping Michael prepare for the Chopin Festival. I have never been this busy in my life! I used to think only grown-up birds were busy, and I felt sorry for them, with no time to play or pretend or goof off. Who wants to live that way? Now that’s how it is for me, rushing from one thing to the next.
“You’re no fun anymore,” Sebastian complains. “Every time we finish helping with the babies, you take off.”
“I know,” I say, sorry. “But I have to be at Michael’s piano lessons! We’re a team.”
“No, we’re a team,” Sebastian says. “That boy is a human. You’d better remember that. He’s never going to like you as much as he likes other humans.”
Is that true? I think of our duets. Sebastian is wrong. I know in my bones that I’m the only one who can sing what Michael plays. I’m the only one who could possibly keep up! And it’s helping him get better and better. I know it is.
I have to admit, the last ballade is still giving us some trouble. The two other pieces—the prelude and the “Winter Wind” étude—we do well. Why, I could sing them in my sleep! (Actually, I think I sometimes do sing them in my sleep, because Mother said to me one morning, “I heard you singing the strangest tune last night. It sounded so sad it gave me a chill.”) But the ballade is very, very difficult. I can see why Mr. Starek calls it one of the most challenging piano pieces ever written. I’m not talking about the beginning, which Michael and I figured out long ago, though the slower pace takes a great deal of control on my part. It’s the part where the piece becomes fast and loud. The finger work it requires is so quick and complex that Michael sometimes stumbles, and he isn’t used to making mistakes.
“I can’t get it right,” he protests to Mr. Starek, his face red with frustration. “Maybe I should play the first ballade instead. I know that one.”
Mr. Starek stays calm. “There’s a point like this with any difficult piece,” he says gently, “when it seems that you will never master it.”
“But what if I don’t?” Michael wails. “What if it’s just a waste of time?”
Mr. Starek coughs a few times, covering his mouth with a handkerchief. I watch him closely. He has been coughing more lately, and it reminds me of the terrible cough he had in the spring. Halina’s house is so full of dust, with a damp, moldy odor. I know it’s been bothering him, and it worries me.
He folds the handkerchief and tucks it neatly in his pocket, like a letter into an envelope. “Learning something new is never a waste of time,” he tells Michael. “And the greatest frustration often precedes the greatest breakthrough. As the saying goes, the lowest ebb of the tide is also its turning point.”
But Michael is grumpy and refuses to be reassured. “Where’s Emily? Why didn’t she come today?”
I have been wondering the same thing myself. Emily never misses a lesson. It doesn’t feel the same without her, and I think her absence partly accounts for Michael’s bad mood. That, and the pressure he’s feeling about the competition. We are working so hard, and the only thing we’ve learned is that the last ballade’s impossible reputation is deserved.
“She said she would be late,” Mr. Starek says.
“What’s she doing?” Michael complains.
Before Mr. Starek can answer, we hear the front door open and then Emily’s quick footsteps in the hallway.
She rushes into the study. “I found the piano!” she cries triumphantly. “My professor helped me search the Pleyel company records online, and I found number nine-one-six-four!”
I almost topple off my branch. She did it!
Mr. Starek gasps. “Really? You found the serial number for this piano?”
Michael leaps up from the piano bench. “How old is it?” he cries.
“You won’t even believe this.” Emily’s cheeks are flushed.
She looks from Michael to Mr. Starek, barely able to contain herself. When she speaks, her voice is scarcely louder than a whisper. “It was made in 1842,” she breathes. “It’s from the time of—”
“Chopin!” Michael shouts.
Valuables
None of us can believe it. Eighteen hundred and forty-two?! It’s almost two hundred years old. It’s the same piano, but we all look at it differently now. Mr. Starek touches the glossy lid with one hand.
“So this very piano could have been sitting in one of the salons where Chopin gave a concert,” he says, his voice hushed.
“Yes!” Emily cries. “What if it was played by Chopin himself?”
Michael stands up straighter and his entire attention is focused on the Pleyel. “Is that possible? Do you think it was?”
Mr. Starek shakes his head. “Wouldn’t that be amazing? If you’ve been playing the last ballade on a piano touched by Chopin himself?”
We are all speechless, until Mr. Starek says, “But I’m sure it would have been snapped up by a museum or a collector if that were the case.” He turns to Emily. “Could you tell from the company ledgers who the owner was?”
Emily shook her head. “No, unfortunately. Sometimes serial numbers were followed by the name and address where the piano was shipped, but for this one, it was just the year it was made.”
Michael sits down at the piano bench, resting his hands on his knees. “Isn’t there some way to figure out who it belonged to?”
Mr. Starek contemplates this. “If Halina were here, we could at least ask how she acquired it, and maybe trace its ownership history that way. But it wouldn’t take us back two hundred years. It’s a stroke of luck to find the serial number listed in the Pleyel records. At least we know its age.”
“But not whether Chopin ever played it.” Michael sounds crestfallen. Even through the window I can feel the weight of his disappointment.
“Let’s pretend he did,” Emily says. “Because he could have.”
“And regardless,” Mr. Starek adds, “you’re playing a piano that sounds exactly the way Chopin’s would have, the way the music would have sounded to his ear. That’s the important thing.”
Michael cheers up at that thought. “I want to try the ballade again,” he says to Mr. Starek.
“Good,” Mr. Starek says.
They are just getting started when there is a knock at the door. At first I think it’s Michael’s mother, coming to hear him play, but the knock is so sharp and loud, crisp with authority, that I decide it must be a stranger.
Mr. Starek frowns. “Get started, Michael. I’ll just see who that is.”
When he leaves the room, Michael doesn’t start playing. He and Emily strain to hear what’s happening in the other room. I have a better way of finding out: I fly around the corner of the house to the front porch.
There are two men in suits standing on the rough wood boards.
“Hello, Mr. Starek,” the thin, gray man says, and I recognize him: that fellow from the bank who came to Mr. Starek’s house a few weeks ago, the one who reminded me of a tufted titmouse.
Mr. Starek says, “Mr. Popinski, isn’t it?” His face takes on a wary expression. “May I help you?”
Mr. Popinski sounds slightly apologetic. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here. We’ve come to secure the house.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Starek looks puzzled.
“Unfortunately, we were unable to grant another extension on the loan.” He speaks rapidly, beckoning Mr. Starek onto the porch with him.
Michael and Emily appear in the doorway, looking startled.
“I did advocate for you with the loan department,” he continues, “but the account is seriously in arrears. Your sister owed a great deal of money. I’m afraid we had to pursue an order from the probate court, allowing us to sell the house. The bank will be taking possession of the property.”
“You mean a foreclosure?” Mr. Starek sounds alarmed. “I had hoped to avoid that.”
“Yes, we all did,” Mr. Popinski says. “We certainly tried.”
I can see that the other man is edging his way into the house, past Emily and Michael, who watch him in bewilderment.
Mr. Popinski shakes his head. “But as you’re unable to pay off the outstanding debt and associated fees, there’s no other option, I’m afraid.”
I can see the distress on Mr. Starek’s face, the crisscross of worry lines. “May I at least have time to deal with my sister’s things? It’s been rather overwhelming, you see.…”
“Yes, I can see that,” Mr. Popinski says, glancing into the house and wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Quite a lot of clutter.”
Clutter! My feathers bristle. Sure, Halina’s house is full of too many things, but they’re not clutter. They were valuable, and treasured by her—we know that now.
The other man has slipped inside Halina’s house and is moving swiftly through it. He seems to be taking pictures using a small computer and then typing notes.
What is going on?
“Could I have more time to sort this out?” Mr. Starek asks again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Starek, that isn’t possible. Your sister’s debt is so large that the bank has placed a lien against all the estate’s assets. The lien was granted by the probate court this morning… which is why I’m here.”
Who can understand what he’s talking about? None of these words are familiar, but it seems to mean that these people from the bank are taking over Halina’s house. Mr. Popinski hands Mr. Starek a folder full of papers.
“What’s a lien?” Michael asks, his eyes wide.
But Mr. Popinski is already moving toward the door. “This will explain everything, including your rights at this juncture.”
We are all trying to comprehend what’s happening. Emily steps forward, her eyes panicked. “The estate’s assets? You don’t mean what’s in the house, do you?”
Mr. Popinski walks past her, his hand on the front doorknob. “The contents, yes. The bank will be selling the house and any valuables. It’s a regrettable situation, but given the circumstances, Mr. Starek, this is the only way to settle your sister’s significant debts.”
Now I understand. The bank is taking the house and everything in it! That means the piano—the Pleyel piano, the piano from 1842.
“But does this have to be done right now?” I hear the note of desperation in Mr. Starek’s voice.
“Unfortunately, yes. I’m terribly sorry, but I have to ask you and the children to leave the premises.”
Emily’s face flushes, and I think it’s from both the situation and him calling her a child. “This isn’t fair,” she says.
Mr. Popinski is already inside the house. “Again, I am sorry, but you all need to leave. We’ll be installing locks on the doors this afternoon. No one but the bank’s representatives will be permitted to enter.”
With that grim pronouncement, he closes the door in our faces.
“What are we going to do?” Michael cries, turning to Mr. Starek. “The piano!”
“I know, I know,” Mr. Starek says. “I’ll contact the probate court. Maybe they can intercede.” But even to me, his voice sounds hopeless.
Michael turns to Emily in distress. “I need to keep playing it. I’m almost ready.”
“You are,” Emily says fiercely. “We have to figure something out.”
“But you heard what he said. They’re putting locks on the doors!” Michael sounds like he’s trying not to cry. “What if I can’t ever play the Pleyel again?”
Emily bends close to his face, whispering, “We’ll find a way. We have to.”
Mr. Starek turns toward the street. “I… I just thought I had more time. Emily, call Michael’s mother, will you? Let her know that we’re finishing the lesson at my house. We’ll have to practice there tomorrow.”
He steps off the porch and walks toward his car, head downcast, coughing into his handkerchief.
All Locked Up
When I get back to the nest that afternoon, the babies are cheeping loudly, and Mother is patiently feeding them, one at a time. They do look a bit better every day. The fragile pink color is fading, and the gray spikes of hair are turning into tufts of feathers. Sebastian and Oliver are nowhere in sight.
“Your brothers are at the bird feeder,” Mother tells me, but the words are barely out of her beak before Sebastian comes torpedoing into the holly tree, followed by Oliver.
The branches shake, and I nearly fall off my perch.
“Boys!” Mother reprimands. “You’ll scare the babies.”
“It was a race,” Sebastian says. “And I won.”
“That’s because you took off before I said ‘Go,’” Oliver protests.
“Stop,” I tell them before it turns into a full-blown fight. “I have a problem.”
I need to talk about what is happening with the piano! It is so upsetting. But I can’t tell them everything. They don’t know about my duets with Michael. They do know that I watch his piano lessons, and they know the lessons have moved to Halina’s house, on the other side of the river.
Mother looks at me sharply. “What’s the matter? You’ve been gone so much lately, Mirabelle. We miss you! I think you’re spending too much time with the humans.”
“But, Mother, Mr. Starek is in trouble,” I say.
I decide to start there, because Mother is fond of Mr. Starek.
The babies begin their shrill, squeaky cries again, but Mother shushes them. “Why?” she asks.
“What’s happened?” Oliver demands.
“Yeah, spit it out,” Sebastian says. “We’ll help.”
I take a deep breath. “You know how we’ve been going to his sister’s house for Michael to practice on her special piano? Well, Halina owed a lot of money to the bank, and today people from the bank came and kicked us out. And they’re locking up her house, with everything in it.”
