Ivan

An Hour of Sunshine

It was probably not what Henry Steinway had in mind when he perfected the upright grand. What has been described as a timeless instrument, was now a repository for thousands of dead cockroaches and cigarette butts, jammed in between strings and immobilising every hammer and hinge. Broken shanks, tattered hammers, missing dampers and loose strings hanging at odd angles. Panels had been shattered by violent fists in drunken brawls. This forlorn instrument had been dragged to a distant corner of the drop-in centre, waiting for a truck to consign it to the tip.

The guts of the piano stood on a table in the centre of the room. The table was littered with a thousand broken bits and pieces as he began the jigsaw puzzle of restoration. In the background, in its usual place against the wall, the denuded cabinet and frame waited their turn for attention. Gone were the cockroaches and cigarette butts. For the first time in years the strings were free to vibrate, tingling in anticipation of being able to sing again.

A small, faceless audience began to blend into the seats around the wall, half obscured by a thick blue mist of tobacco smoke, watching the one-hour daily performance on central stage from a discreet distance, pretending to be disinterested but stealing curious glances at the strange act. Every day the distance diminished in fractional increments as curiosity exceeded wariness, till the bolder trailblazers finally approached the table to enquire what was happening. 

The homeless scene was foreign territory to him. He didn’t know how he was going to connect with these people of the street. For them, the new ‘padre’ was highly sus. They were survivors, living off their wits. The first rule of survival was, trust no-one. But the magnet of broken pieces being repaired was too strong to resist. The day-centre began to take on the appearance of a boardroom, with chairs pulled up around the central table, the chairman gluing shafts of wood together, and the members making comment and asking questions, even venturing to give advice. Slowly, a bridge was being built. One enterprising person returned with bits of spring wire, felt and hammers, salvaged from a another departed piano in a remote laneway. Over the months a gentle tidal ebb and flow of rejected humanity took their place at the table and declared their interest in the old piano.

On this day, the centre had never known such excitement and anticipation in all its weary years. The mechanism was locked into place. Every hammer and hinge worked like new. A dozen new white keys stood out like capped teeth against the ageing ivory.  The tuning hammer slotted into each nut and turned until every string was true to its note. Never had piano tuning sounded so good. Repaired panels were in place. The three foot pedals were connected and the top lid was finally slammed shut with a dramatic flourish as the repairer was about to become the performer.

The hush was broken as the melody began to flow. This was their piano, back from the dead – a musical Lazarus What the pianist lacked in technique and accuracy was offset by passion and joy. He began to sing. The stunned silence was tangible. No-one had thought about singing. It was as if they had forgotten how to sing through the insane years of despair and hopelessness, that is, until Barry burst into bawdy song. No matter what the melody, he knew a risqué version. Diminutive and hopelessly enslaved to the bottle, his voice was true and incredibly powerful. His two kid brothers were rock idols, so music was in his alcohol sodden veins.

As on an invisible cue, people coughed, cleared their smoky lungs and tentatively searched for a note. Beautiful Ivan, a priest who had been seduced by the sacramental wine, stood leaning on the edge of the piano, totally captivated, as tears rolled down his cheeks. Ray, dragged himself onto his crutches and began an inebriated dance on the grubby floor. Herbie’s face broke into a toothless grin as he hummed to himself in his native Hungarian. Alma, crotchety as the crotchets that reverberated from the walls and dangerously lethal with her walking stick, turned her weapon into something softer, gently tapping the rhythm on the floor. Sophia, her frail life stolen by wartime rapes, lived on, staring with lifeless black eyes from beneath the shawl that shielded her face. Those sad, sad eyes flickered into life once more.

Finally, Norman (Windsor), cousin to Her Majesty, ceased writing yet another letter to Buckingham Palace and, with dignified step, approached the piano to give a royal stamp of approval to the event. Like so many who sought refuge, a meal, and a bed at the centre, his home was the street. The stroke of a bureaucratic pen had determined that most residents of the “mental institutions” of the day could fend for themselves. So together they drifted alone through the streets, confused and broken. Like a broken piano, their lives had lost potential and purpose.

Apart from the pianist, all are long since gone and forgotten, buried in pauper’s graves. Their faces were captured by a young New Zealand nomad who lived with them for a year. He won their trust and earned the right to photograph them. But they were real people, not much different to any of us. A twist of fate, an accident, a genetic predisposition made the subtle but significant difference. But beneath the tattered exterior the stamp of the Steinway remained.

© Gordon Hammond 2007

(912 words)

Ewan, Herbie and Ray

Sophia

Norm

Alma

George