Zagreb
Ronald and I were in Zagreb. It was cold and wet, maybe November. We stayed in a lovely old art deco hotel and were the only guests. Perhaps we were the last guests before it closed for refurbishing. Sadly, the renovations were likely to remove the last traces of charm, and its quirky eccentricities would be smoothed into that common denominated hotel chain springing up across ex-Yugoslavia.
But, before the impending transformation, we were there to enjoy and admire the stained-glass windows in the large dining room. We were alone in this space, apart from a pianist seated at his large Petrof grand piano. Playing for his last supper too! We thanked him as he finished his set and walked some distance across the faded red carpet to the kitchen for his meal.
As we were leaving, I sat down at the piano and Ronald pulled up a chair. We were getting used to this ritual, he and I and any piano. He was attentive and listening carefully to the music, which was tentatively beginning to emerge since those early first months in Thonon-les-Bains when the piano arrived.
My fingers rested on the keys: a high A, and worked slowly, resonantly down, one note at a time. A – G – F – D -C – B – A – G, and back to A. It was poignant (I later learnt that this is known as a ‘mode’) and the left hand had echoed with a deep F. The harmonics circled and rose into the empty room. And then I repeated the phrase. The piano was beautiful, deeply resonant with the low F holding its vibration.
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