The Piano Tuner Read Online Free PDF Page A

is
absorbed in his work, or because he gets lost walking home from a new
assignment.
    “Good evening, Katherine,” he said.
    “Good evening, Edgar. You are almost two hours late.”
    He was used to the ritual, the innocent excuses, the explainings-away: I
know, dear, dearest, I am sorry, I had to finish all the strings so I can
retune them tomorrow, or This is a rushed commission, or I am being paid extra,
or I got lost on the way home, the house is near Westminster, and I took the
wrong tram, or I just wanted to play it, it was a rare 1835 model, Erard,
beautiful of course, it belongs to the family of Mr. Vincento, the Italian
tenor, or It belongs to Lady Neville, unique, 1827, I wish you could come and
play it too. If he ever lied, it was only in exchanging one excuse for another.
That it was a rushed contract, when really he had stopped to watch street
players. That he took the wrong tram, when actually he had stayed late to play
the piano of the Italian tenor. “I know, I am sorry, still working on the
Farrell contract,” and this was enough, he saw her close the
News,
and he slid across the room to sit next to her, his heart racing, She
knows something is different. He tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away,
trying to hide a smile. “Edgar, you’re late, I overcooked the meat,
stop that, don’t think you can keep me waiting and make it up to me with
endearments.” She turned from him, and he slipped his arms around her
waist.
    “I thought you would have finished that contract by
now,” she said.
    “No, the piano is in lamentable shape, and
Mrs. Farrell insists that I tune it to ‘Concert Quality.’” He
raised his voice an octave to imitate the matron. Katherine laughed and he
kissed her neck.
    “She says her little Roland will be the next
Mozart.”
    “I know, she told me again today, even made me
listen to the rascal play.”
    Katherine turned toward her husband.
“You poor dear. I can’t be angry at you for long.” Edgar
smiled, relaxing slightly. He looked at her as she tried to summon an
expression of mock sternness. She is still so lovely, he thought. The golden
curls that had so entranced him when he had first met her had faded somewhat,
but she still wore her hair loose, and they became the same color again
whenever she went in the sun. They had met when, as an apprentice tuner, he had
repaired her family’s Broadwood upright. The piano hadn’t impressed
him—it had been rebuilt with rather cheap parts—but the delicate
hands that played it had, as had the softness of the figure that had sat beside
him at the keyboard, the presence that stirred him even now. He leaned toward
her, to kiss her again. “Stop it,” she giggled, “not now, and
be careful of the sofa, this is new damask.”
    Edgar sat back. She
is in a good mood, he thought, Perhaps I should tell her now. “I have a
new contract,” he said.
    “You must read this report,
Edgar,” said Katherine, smoothing out her dress and reaching for the
News.
    “An 1840 Erard. It sounds as if it is in dreadful
shape. It should pay wonderfully.”
    “Oh really,”
standing, and walking to the dining table. She didn’t inquire who owned
the piano, nor where it was, such were not questions often asked, as for the
last eighteen years, the only answers had been Old Mrs. So-and-So and
London’s Such-and-Such Street. Edgar was glad she didn’t ask, the
rest would soon come, he was a man of patience, and not one to press his
fortune, a practice which he knew led only to overtightened piano strings and
angry wives. Also, he had just looked down at the copy of the
Illustrated
London News,
where, below the story on the reception at the Metropole, was
an article on “The Atrocities of the Dacoits,” written by an
officer in the “3rd Ghoorka Regiment.” It was a short piece,
detailing a skirmish with bandits who had looted a friendly village, the usual
fare about efforts at pacification in the colonies, and he wouldn’t have
noticed it