Author's notes

Nothing at all

on a noise complaint

My wife was playing through a grade 1 piano book — pieces far beneath her, played for no reason at all. I was on the bed. It was an ordinary evening, just after dinner, until the building's security guard video-called, and when she didn't answer, knocked on the door. The instruction was polite, almost apologetic: minimise the noise.

She kept playing. Gentle, yet firm.

I closed the windows. It failed, of course. The music grew louder.

Defiance is supposed to sound like Rachmaninoff: thunder, ten-note chords, a piano fighting an orchestra. But Rachmaninoff was defiant in another way too. The critics called his music outdated; he kept writing it. The Soviets banned it; he kept playing it. He never raised his voice about any of this — he simply did not stop. Gentle, yet firm. Hers came through grade 1 pieces. Sitting there, that is exactly what I heard. The last line is not a metaphor. It is a transcription.