Mr. Chickarina lives in a tall new apartment building at 400 Lakeside Drive, Lake City. Roderick and Molly arrived at the door of his suite at eight forty-five, and knocked.
A small, balding man with glasses opened the door and, though he was much shorter than Roderick and Molly, looked down at them.
"Yehhhhs?"
"I'm Molly Bloom, and...this is my friend Roderick, and... I'm here for a lesson...are you Mr. Chickarina?"
The man looked at them with disdain for failing to recognize that he was not Mr. Chickarina. "I am Mr. Pufter, Mr. Chickarina's personal secretary. When Mr. Chickarina instructs you to arrive at nine, he means nine, and only nine, and neither before nine, nor after nine. You may enter, but you will wait."
Molly and Roderick entered.
Roderick queried: "Personal secretary? Does that mean you're really Mr. Chickarina's gay "friend"?"
Mr. Pufter paused, and frowned. "Mr. Chickarina prefers younger fowl. I generally cruise the leather bars, or just pay for it. You will sit down here."
Roderick and Molly obeyed, sat in the antiquish chairs, and inspected the marble floor.
At precisely nine, Mr. Pufter returned, and pointed to Molly. "You will come with me." Molly and Roderick both stood up. Mr. Pufter glared at Roderick. "Your young man friend" -- he said that with a mix of interest and contempt -- "will remain seated here."
Molly followed Mr. Pufter down a long hallway whose walls were covered floor to ceiling with framed photographs of Adolph Chickarina performing, Adolph Chickarina smiling for his fans, Adolph Chickarina with famous celebrities, a cocktail napkin with a red smudge signed by Adolph Chickarina, and so forth. Mr. Pufter saw Molly eyeballing the pictures, and gushed: "Mr. Chickarina's life...and work".
They entered a large room with a spectacular view of the lake through floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows. On the far side of the room, there was a full-size concert grand positioned so that the pianist can see the view through the window. Molly paused for a moment, mesmerized by the view, then moved over to inspect the piano.
Mr. Pufter addressed her. "The Maestro will arrive at his pleasure. You will not touch the piano until he instructs you. You will not touch any of the other items in this room. You may stand here." He pointed to a spot on the floor, waited for Molly to obey, and then disappeared.
Molly looked around. It was a beautiful day outside, and she could see for what seemed like a million miles out into the lake. There was a steamship headed towards Lake City.
The room was quiet, except for the slow ticking of an ornate clock. Molly could see herself in a large gilt-framed Baroque mirror. She adjusted her blouse, unbuttoned the second button from the top, buttoned it again. Braless, she double-checked to make sure her nipples did not show through the cotton blouse. They didn't.
She adjusted her skirt. The underwear, which she never wears, was itchy.
Tick...tick...tick...
A large man with longish silver hair and a profoundly wrinkled face entered the room. There were bags under his eyes the size of grapefruit. He wore a deep purple bathrobe; his furry white chest hair spilled over the lapel.
He held a tall glass with clear liquid in his gnarled left hand. With his right, he gestured impatiently towards the piano. "Play", he muttered, and slumped exhaustedly on the sofa across from the piano.
Molly sat down on the piano bench, squished her buttocks into the soft leather and carefully adjusted the height. She checked her hemline. Just above the knee. Good.
She brought her hands to her lap, paused, closed her eyes and visualized the Diabelli. The Tema is the simplest of tunes, a gentle waltz that begins with a dee-diddle-dit, dot-dit, dot-dit beeta-beeta bum!
Molly placed her hands on the keyboard, and began to play. Dee-diddle..
"Noooooooooooooooo!" screamed Mr. Chickarina. Molly nearly fell off the bench. She stopped playing and looked at him, wide-eyed.
Mr. Chickarina stood ominously and glowered at Molly. "Do you theenk Behtofen ees stoopid?", he demanded.
"What?". Molly fingered her hemline.
"Do..you..theenk..Behtofen..ees..stoopid?"
"No", she whimpered.
"Den why dunt you play what's preented?"
"What?"
"What's preented! Preented!". He held a copy of the music, thrust it at Molly and pointed at the first measure. "Behtofen write dynamic ees 'piano', you play 'mezzo-piano', you theenk Behtofen too stoopid to write 'piano' when he actually mean 'mezzo-piano'!"
"No, sir, I don't think Beethoven was stupid".
Mr. Chickarina seemed to calm down. "So you play again, like nice girl, only play what's preented".
Molly felt her heart racing. She paused, brought her hands to her lap, closed her eyes and visualized the opening. After a moment she placed her hands on the keyboard, and began to play. Dee-diddle...
"No!" roared Mr. Chickarina. Molly stopped and turned, quickly, frightened. The maestro loomed over her, threateningly.
"Vivace! Vivace! Vivace!" he screamed through ugly yellow teeth. A fleck of spittle flew out of his mouth and landed square on the F key above middle C. "You theenk Behtofen ees stoopid! You think Behtofen so stoopid he write 'vivace' when he mean 'prestissimo'! You Americans play piano like racehorse, always want to feenish first! Behtofen not stoopid! Behtofen mean 'vivace', he write 'vivace, now you play 'vivace'!".
Molly felt she might cry.
Mr. Chickarina seemed to mellow again. He sat down next to Molly on the piano bench. "Do not be afraid, my child", he leered, and placed his hand on hers. "I like to eat meat, but not...human meat." He displayed his ugly yellow partially toothless smile, and patted her hand.
Molly withdrew her hand, paused, closed her eyes, visualized the opening, placed her hands on the keyboard, and played: dee-diddle-dit, dot-dit, dot-dit beeta-beeta bum! And so forth, through the Tema. This time, Mr. Chickarina remained silent; Molly felt him moving and breathing slightly to the music, as if he were playing along.
At the first variation, Mr. Chickarina waved with his left hand, as if he were conducting the music. Molly followed his tempo, which was slightly slower than she had learned. It seemed to work.
She proceeded through the second, third and fourth variations; through the breathtaking fifth variation; and the virtuoso sixth and seventh, which she played flawlessly. Mr. Chickarina is right, she thought. A slower tempo makes the trills easy to execute. On she played, through the whirlwind tenth variation.
As she opened the quieter eleventh variation, Mr. Chickarina put his hand on her knee. It tickled a little, but Molly ignored it, and played on.
By the time she reached the slow and sphynxlike twentieth variation, Mr. Chickarina's hand had reached the fleshy part of her middle thigh, underneath her skirt.
The diabolical twenty-forth variation came and went. Molly played it perfectly, and continued.
Finally, she reached the Fuga, and none too soon. At this point, Molly was glad she had remembered to wear underwear, because Mr. Chickarina's left pinky was dangerously close to a very sensitive place. She concentrated on Beethoven's triple fugue building to the dramatic fortissimo subject in the left hand, the dramatic sweeping arpeggios, and then...the quiet minuet that closes the work.
Molly played the final chord, paused, released the damper and stood up, removing Mr. Chickarina's hand from her upper thigh. He waved his hand.
Mr. Pufter returned from thin air and motioned Molly to follow him out of the room. "The maestro will send his critique to your teacher", he said as he led Molly down the hallway. "You and your young friend will now leave." They did so, and the door slammed behind them.
It was still morning; they walked down to the lakefront and stopped at a hot dog and pickle stand for breakfast. Roderick had two hot dogs, and Molly had four; she was famished. They sat by the lakeside. Roderick excitedly told Molly about investing in blue chip stocks with high dividend yields. She held his hand.
