Improvisation

We were sitting in front of each other, enjoying soft chairs and thin aroma of finely brewed coffee. Ever laborious clock was ticking its tacks somewhere nearby. In a small unlit room, shaded by velvet curtains whose color i could not discern, i was waiting for my companion to tell me whatever he had to tell.

“It was during the dark month of March”, he started telling his story in a low dramatic voice, as though it was something remote and grandiose, as though it was an epic from ancient times — Greece or Rome? — i contemplated for a moment, almost missing the words which followed. “I was on the brink: i had to play something, to fill the silence, to stop meandering around, but the only chord that would fit the moment — at least the only i could come up with — or rather the one i knew i had to play — i had just played a dozen moments ago; i was afraid of being repetitive, of looking boring, but most importantly — you know how it is for a performer like me — of letting down the audience. My performance promised to be something more than the usual drill, i was feeling true contact with my listeners, but then i got carried away and stumbled through an impro — hit a couple too much dissonant chords, used too much atonality and post-modernism”.

He paused and took a few sips of coffee from porcelain cup in front of him; then grimaced as if to disapprove taste — or, perhaps, whatever he just said or was about to say. Or maybe he wasn’t even disapproving anything and it was nothing more than a play of light on his face.

“When i noticed that, i got back to tonality — still the only universal way to connect on emotional level, i guess. But then, yet again, i couldn’t keep up being attentive enough — sorry for messy storytelling, that is the point where i started my blabbing. Anyway, i could do the same second time in a row — perhaps more clear and expressive? but still.. — yes, i was afraid it would look shallow. I had to find a way to communicate through this already predefined sequence that i’m still playing it sincerely, that despite all the cold rational fluff which could have been used to come up with barely distinguishable results, i’m not a mechanical performance optimization machine”.

“Time was running out — or so it seemed behind the keyboard — i was playing something just to stretch the time, meanwhile thinking ahead. Then i found something: an idea, perhaps a solution, a way out. Before going on with the main plan, i should play a few notes hinting at it, hopefully creating aesthetic effect of its own and allowing for my intended chords to sound true — that was it. But then, of course, there was a question of execution”.

He sighted and gulped down his remaining coffee, as if to signal the story is coming to an end — or perhaps more specifically as a metaphor for skipping fine details.

“I did it. Played everything i could, in a way — i should hope — which only i could do…”

He trailed off and did not continue to talk. After allowing prolonged silence, i spoke myself:

“Well, how’d it go?”

He laughed.

“That’s an interesting question”, there was an irony in his voice, “I would like to tell you the answer right now. Honestly, i would. Alas, that’s impossible: i don’t have that sort of powers. I don’t know how it goes myself”.