Elapsed Ivory

• Max Wilson, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2012

The room is smaller than he remembers it, but it wraps around him like a weighty woollen blanket. Comforting but not constricting. The place emanates warmth defying the icy corridor next door. It seems as though each happening within the room carries significance, every sound, every smell, every movement means something. He breathes in deeply through his nose, the still air flavoured only by the faded smell of paint. Reaching down to the scuffed floorboards he opens the tanned leather portfolio surveying its contents. It is a well practised action as he looks carefully, like a watch repairer at a broken specimen. A title in bold black ink peers out at him from the awkward sideways angle. Removing the paper, stained subtle sepia by time, a subliminal brightness is emitted, creating an intense vividness within the room. The walls lean inwards, spectators frozen with anticipation. He begins.
The window pane emits a disgruntled shuddering as the city bound train squeezes through suburbia. “Eight thirty seven, four minutes later than usual” he notes to himself. Gazing at the widening crack in the wall he ponders. “Does anyone else know exactly how late this train is running?” he can think of no one. The garish red circle on the local MP’s calendar leers out at him, reminding him it is pension day. The butter is a little stubborn, disagreeing with its metallic master upon which way is most appropriate. Once it has negotiated its position it dutifully melts, morphing through the toasted surface. He has applied exactly the right amount. The kettle has also boiled, just in time for his milky tea. His morning is off to a good start.
The follicles of lint waft randomly as he vigorously brushes them of his tweed jacket, wearing a little thin at the cuffs. Glancing up he notices a photo of his wife resting among the dust on top of his piano. Her dark eyes and wedding day pearls glow as she clings to an unrecognisable groom. “Good choice darling, the tweed will keep you warm today”. He gives a simple nod before turning the loose door knob and exiting.
The street is making a sluggish start as more people move towards their office buildings, fuelled only by caffeine and the need for more money. He wishes he had left earlier. When people aren’t willing to venture out of their gas warmed homes and the footpath is bathed in misty tranquillity. A pallid transit van roars past with startling intensity, leaving him to cough bitterly, fighting out the fumes from the back of his throat. The experience is enough to agitate him. A bank full of bustling people becomes a disgusting thought. He crosses the road, a successful escapee.
The long walk is shortened by the thought of the sandstone conservatory now in front of him. He walks through the oaken doors and is greeted by the secretary “Hello how is...Harold!” she curbs her surprise to a less explosive level “You’ve been unwell... I mean haven’t dropped around for months”
“Yes it has rather been a long time” he feels no need to add an explanation “May I get something from the store room?”
“Yes, yes most certainly” her eyes follow him around the corner like she’s waiting for him to perform a surprising magic act. All he does however is collect his sheet music and begin navigating the warren of corridors. Behind a door a student is playing scales on a trumpet. Or is it a cornet? He was never placed very close to the brass section. The discoloured door greets him same as always. “My old friend”

The piano siphons him across the room with a hungry magnetism. He sits swiftly with an electric pulse running through him fed by an affinity in the air. Filling his lungs deeply he savours the moment and places a sheet on the piano. He kisses the faux ivory with his hands and begins to perform. Reading only the first few bars the piece rushes back to him in a torrent of forgotten memories. The fact that there is no audience doesn’t worry him. In fact it is better, there is no obligation or duty, only joy. Each stroke of the key complements the last, as the inanimate molecules in the air come alive and hum as though this noise, this music, is their purpose. The cadence beckons and the piano sings its final note. They finally melt into the walls and the air hangs with a purified silence as though it has been cleansed of a rancid opacity. He again breathes deeply. The pile of sheet music waits impatiently at the base of his stool. He reaches down and selects the next piece knowing it will not be the last.