Gestohlen: A Story of Beethoven's Piano

By Raymond Henry

About the Book
Peter, a classically trained musician, has fallen from grace due to numerous scandals during his tenure as a music teacher and concert pianist for the prestigious Berliner Hochschule Für Musik. Beethoven has been his life-long obsession and may be the reason his life has taken a dark turn.
Like Beethoven, Peter too is easily infatuated with charming, talented women, which borders on obsession. His infatuation stems from his own need to be useful and to educate the deserving on the fascinating world of classical music in the hope that they may see the world as he does, which is impossible due to a condition known as synaesthesia. During his time at the Conservatory, a replica of Beethoven’s famous Broadwood piano under restoration goes missing (Gestohlen). Although absolved of any guilt, his is nevertheless seen as the responsible party due to his gross negligence, which leaves his career in ruins. He knows a great deal more about the replica than meets the eye, but the piano is not in his possession. He is not interested in the replica; he is obsessed with the authentic Beethoven Broadwood gifted to Beethoven himself by the Broadwood Piano Manufacturers in London in 1818. He aims to use the replica to obtain the objects of his obsessions, but he must secure the imposter first before making his play. Which is which? Facts and fiction become obfuscated.
An intriguing sampling of Beethoven’s work is featured in the story, as well as other Baroque and Classical composers such as Bach, Vivaldi, Haydn, Liszt, Schubert, and more, although one does not have to be a musician to enjoy the story.

About the Author
Raymond Henry recently moved back to San Diego, California, after having lived and worked in Spain for over fifteen years, where his son and daughter currently reside. In fact, he wrote most of this book while in Spain. He worked for an international company as a language consultant. He has also travelled extensively throughout Europe and has a special affinity toward Germany due to the professional and personal relationships he has established through the years. He speaks German reasonably well and dabbles in Portuguese.
Before moving to Spain all those years ago, Raymond lived in Orange County, California, teaching AP Spanish, AP Economics and International Relations. Language and culture have always been an important part of his life. Nowadays in San Diego, he currently works for a small enterprise on various projects, although writing is his obsession. He still enjoys tutoring high school and university students in his free time, as well as attending the symphony, natürlich.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Sep 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889255789

Book preview

1

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The Imposter

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Mehr Ausdruck der Empfindungen als Malerei.

—Ludwig Von Beethoven

Antony Finn, Imposter. Perhaps he was an imposter by his very own design, perhaps by genetic defect. He often indeed felt as if he were a rough facsimile of himself. The original copy was what people perceived, or was it the other way around? Just who was who? A man of 45, tall, with high cheekbones and bony-fingered and untamed slightly greying locks upon his head with an intense gaze which was accentuated by two disproportionate pupils. His right pupil was slightly wider than his left, making it appear as though he were scrutinizing everything he looked upon, which he often was.

Which one am I today? he asked himself as he looked at his reflection in the window of The Macondo Café and Chess Club just outside of San Francisco’s business district. It was part of his morning ritual before going to the office. Although this morning he was still debating whether to have a slice of quiche as he contemplated the tuft of hair that was protruding out of the top-right corner of his head in a swirl, interrupting his natural part. He had an unruly cowlick that made it impossible for him to comb his hair properly, thus giving him a perpetually tousled look no matter how hard he tried to tame it. His attention suddenly became fixated on the live interpretation of the third movement of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Nº 17 in D Minor which was softly heard through the sound system.

Hmf! They are playing it too slowly! It is not brown enough. The blue is not blending with the brown, and perhaps it is a little too...runny. Is that what they call Allegretto? It sounds more like they are slipping into Grazioso or even Moderato in some bars. Hmf! It must be played slightly faster, and I am not sure I like the use of the sustain petal. But what is this? Now it is too fast. He shook his head in disapproval. Is my old friend Andreus Scharff the only one who knows how to play it properly? Ah, how I miss Andreus, and this is not Andreus Scharff, he thought smugly. Most pianists cannot find the fine balance that this piece calls for. Although thinking to himself, he was openly irritated. Moreover, it is not how accurately one can play the notes, but how each note relates to each other and how long one holds each note too. The faster speed gives it that mysterious quality, that texture that does not come through if the tempo is not bang on. And what about the intensity of each note? He stared off into space to get a better look at the music, which only annoyed him further.

Antony had the peculiar ability to see the notes as a blend of colours and textures when hearing them. Often, instead of listening to the rhythm, pitch and tempo of the music, which he undoubtedly did, he would also see colours mix and combine and at times quite literally feel the textures of the music, such as the hard surface of a wooden table for the B scale, the smooth silky sensation of a violin played in the key of A-flat minor, or the fuzzy and sometimes grainy or even bumpy aspect of percussion instruments, amongst others. He could see with his ears. He quite literally saw percepts of what he heard, especially music, although the percepts would often trickle over into his other senses. It was not by training that he acquired this peculiar ability, although refined through the years, it was innate.

He first discovered this ability when his father, a classically trained violinist, would ask him what he thought of a certain piece of music, to which he might have replied, It is a soft yellow with some rough green specks, and it is warm. His intrigued father initially dismissed it as childishness, although as Antony grew older this peculiar way of hearing music and sounds grew more refined. His mother had him tested as a child when he was diagnosed with synaesthesia, not to be confused with anaesthesia, or any of the other -aesthesia family of words. Anaesthesia; from the Greek construct an + aesthesis, or no-sensation. Synaesthesia: from syn = together + aesthesis = sensation or perception, therefore joined-sensation. His senses were highly interconnected, making it impossible to experience sensory input without provoking some sort of a perception in one or more of the other senses. The strongest relationship was between his hearing and his visual cortex, although sometimes he would also taste colours and sounds and see colours and sounds when tasting or smelling due to the close association with the olfactory mechanism. These involuntarily percepts of shapes and colours projected into his field of vision upon hearing sounds were accompanied to a lesser degree by percepts of smell and taste. His synaesthesia was polymodal, thus not only enabling him to make quick and strong connections between his five senses but enhanced the understanding of more abstract concepts, such as music and language.

It was not arbitrary, there was a consistent order to the colours and shapes he saw. His mother often told him that he had a gift and a perception of the world that was unique. What was clear by his adolescence was that this peculiar ability enhanced his understanding of music, enabled him to quickly identify notes in their octave, triads and other complete chords whether played together or in succession as well as a variety of other more complicated musical structures; he even saw specific percepts for scale and key. Moreover, he often experienced a very strong, involuntary emotional attachment to the stimuli. This may have been the reason he had developed perfect pitch at an early age. On the other hand, his synaesthesia may have had absolutely nothing to do with perfect pitch and perhaps a manifestation of other genetic peculiarities, of which he had a few.

As a child it was often difficult for him to understand why others could not see the musical scores on the page moving about in full colour directly in his field of vision. Scarlett, for example, was always the shade of the B, and the B played on different instruments such as wind or string were simply different shades and textures of scarlet moving towards red. The A note was golden-white. There was a colour associated and seen or experienced in his field of vision for every note. Sharps and flats, although a nuance of the colour experienced, also had their respective associated textures.

This particular piece softly emanating over the café’s loudspeaker was in the key of soft metallic-blue, that is to say, D minor. However, in this particular interpretation the colours were not blending correctly. Instead of mixing at the margins, as a painter might do on his canvass, they were much too separated at times and much too superimposed at others. He was looking through the window focusing on the colours and shapes that were dancing around in his field of vision when he was startled by the waitress.

Would you like a piece of quiche?

The colours quickly dissipated into the background at the interruption.

Excuse me!? Did I ask for quiche!? If I wanted quiche I would have asked, he rudely stated. No, I do not want quiche. I will not be having quiche this morning.

Terribly sorry. I won’t ask again, the young woman said, flustered. She turned and walked away briskly.

The waitress was taken aback by his strong tone at her intrusion. He, however, went back to the task of analysing the music.

After the piece concluded, Antony shook his head in disappointment. All the notes were certainly there but the music was often missing.

Mehr Ausdruck der Empfindungen als Malerei, he thought to himself.

He looked up to see the sour look on the waitress’ face from a distance and suddenly felt a pang of remorse at the way he had spoken to her. When he was focused on a task, he could be quite irritable and he loathed interruption, a character flaw that he had tried time and again to remedy with limited success. He quickly knocked back what was left of his coffee and approached the counter to pay.

Excuse me, er, I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to talk to you that way. I was stressed about a...a work-related matter and..., he apologised while attempting in vain to conceal his embarrassment.

She raised the palm of her hand toward him and said, No need to apologise.

I understand but know that I really do apologise. I like this café and I like your service. It will not happen again. It is as if I were not myself this morning, that is not who I am, he stated, pointing at the window where his reflection sat a few minutes before.

She was not too convinced as she stood facing him, giving him a look that was devoid of expression, not knowing what to say or how to react. Her eyes, however, were fixed upon the peculiar whorl at the front of his hairline.

Perhaps you might change the music, he suggested lightheartedly in an attempt to soften the tension. Blues or jazz is always fun to see.

The waitress stood with her arms crossed contemplating his oversized pupil. So it’s our fault, is it?

No, but, er....

"Sir, you come in here most mornings at about this time, and you always sit at the same table by the window if you can and you always have a coffee with cream, no sugar, a glass of tap water and most of the time you order a slice of quiche. That’s why I asked you if you were going to be having a slice of quiche this morning," she stated with tilted head and wide-open eyes.

He didn’t feel comfortable being addressed as sir. Although she appeared to be in her mid-twenties, he was only 45.

Do not refrain from asking me if I would like some quiche. I will keep coming in here most mornings, with your permission, and if I forget to order quiche, please, remind me. It is one of the highlights of my day.

A faint smile began to creep over her face as he spoke. His cowlick was comical as it protruded from his head, begging for attention, and was out of place with his rather old-school and sophisticated way of expressing himself; he seldom used contractions. Antony did not like to use contractions when speaking. It was not out of wanting to sound posh, but rather had everything to do with his synaesthesia. The colours of the words overlapped to a high degree and were not aesthetically pleasing. It was much more pleasant to see the colours separately, although he didn’t mind others’ use of contractions since they were not as pronounced as his own which would resonate in his head.

One particular contraction he allowed himself was the use of ‘ve. When have was contracted with a noun or pronoun the colours gently flowed together, such as in I’ve, you’ve, we’ve, etcetera. Nevertheless, he did not like the contraction of has, as in he’s, she’s, and he certainly didn’t appreciate it’s. In the contracted form the s sounded like the s in bits, which produced a colour overlap that was unpleasant. When separated, the s took on the sound of the z and it was much more ascetically pleasing both to hear and to see. Moreover, this contraction could mean either "it is or it has. The colour of it is" was a gentle green, and the colour of "it has" was a soft brown. The colour of it’s was a dirty and scatological, das heißt, scheißgrün, which would on rare occasions actually be accompanied by the slight odour of feces. Naturally he avoided that contraction.

"What’s" was permissible now and again, as was let’s. The colours were not so offensive, although he still avoided them most of the time. However, it did annoy him to no end when people committed a number of specific grammar mistakes, not so much out of being a language purist, but because the colours clashed tremendously. One common example was "There’s things you need to know. There’s is the contraction for there is, which is singular and has a greenish hue. Things" is plural and has a purple hue; green and purple clash and felt offensive. When used correctly, the greenish hue is pleasant, when the singular form is used with the plural noun, the hue turns a pale, sickly green. Therefore, the proper way to say it was there are things… or simply there’re things. The green hue of there and the soft blue hue of "things" went much better together. In German, his other native language, it was impossible to commit these trivial mistakes without sounding ill-educated, the language was very structured. These trivial yet annoying errors were often overlooked by the general populace in English.

I promise to behave accordingly from now on.

You’ve got a deal, but there’s a few things you need to know.

There are…, he thought to himself, then let it go.

I would appreciate a little respect and if you yell at me again, I’ll spit in your coffee, she affirmed with a twinkle in her eye.

Probably well deserved, but I shall be on my best behaviour from now on, he said as he looked at his wristwatch.

He quickly paid, leaving a larger tip than usual, and bolted out the door to walk the half a mile or so to the office.

Antony worked for a software company which specialized in the automotive repair and leasing industry whose biggest clients were amongst the most important leasing and insurance companies in the United States, although they also enjoyed a solid customer base with independent garages who relied on their software for quick and accurate repair estimates. The software was amazingly innovative, it consisted of an exploded 3-D representation of the vehicle under consideration which could be manipulated, zoomed, spun around, and explored as if one was manipulating the actual parts. The technician or mechanic would simply click on the parts under consideration for repair or replacement and an estimate was quickly generated with the cost of parts and labour times, all tallied in a clean, concise report. It had the most complete database of domestic car parts in the country despite the company’s modest size.

Antony knew next to nothing about how the software actually worked or how it was developed. He knew next to nothing about coding or software engineering, nor had he ever used the software in his life. In fact, he had never even been to the official company website; that was not his job. The company was a medium-sized concern called Anders Automation, Inc., who hired him to train and assist the middle and upper management to communicate more effectively with their overseas partners and clients. He was very articulate and spoke fluent German, having spent over twenty years of his life there. Three of those years were spent studying at the Conservatory and subsequently spent the following years working, teaching and playing piano after he got married to a Berlinerin by the name of Petra Bauer.

He had now been back in San Francisco for almost two years with his German wife and their two children, although he had been officially separated for about a year. His marriage had been on shaky ground ever since he and his wife moved into the area. Their discontent could be traced back several years before leaving Berlin. Consequently, he now shared a flat with his illegal English friend David on the panhandle, right in the heart of San Francisco, whilst his children and estranged wife stayed in Lodi, just north of Stockton, after his wife ultimately filed for divorce shortly after arriving in California.

The contentious affair was dragging on far too long. Looking back, however, he now realised that he should have seen the trainwreck coming even before they had committed to leave Germany for California. He had tried to convince his wife to move into the San Francisco area, where they could all be together. She wouldn’t have it. It was as if she were hiding from something.

Upon being served his divorce papers, he immediately accepted an offer from David to share his flat on the panhandle, where Antony already spent most weeknights, in order to save him a long journey to and from work. His wife had been the one who concocted the idea well beforehand and now he knew why.

Although the divorce weighed heavily upon him, he relished the idea of living in the city on a full-time basis. The flat was walking distance from the company and made his morning routine much more pleasant. He had no choice but to leave his wife and two children of 8 and 15 in the hands of his alienated wife. She never felt comfortable in the big city and neither wanted to go back to Germany nor leave Lodi. Perhaps there was another man, a substitute that Antony did not know about or did not want to admit to himself. Lodi was a distant one hundred miles from the Bay Area.

Initially he began by lodging at David’s house from Tuesday to Thursday, which eventually turned into Monday to Friday, and before long he and David were full-fledged flat mates. As a result, he only went back to Lodi to visit his children twice a month and never spent the night. He detested the little town of Lodi. Besides, there was nowhere to sleep; he did not feel welcome in his wife’s house. There was very little social life, and the colours and shapes of the town were not pleasing. His wife and children lived on a farmhouse at the city limits with a couple of Spanish waterdogs, a vegetable garden and a parcel of land, which was simply unheard of in the Bay area for that price. In fact, his share of the rent on the panhandle was twice as much as the rent that he was paying for her house and the adjacent and generous parcel of land. His children were comfortable and had space which was beyond reach in Berlin for the price. He was nevertheless determined to get them out somehow, with or without their mother’s collaboration, although his meagre severance pay from his old job was quickly dwindling.

Antony´s job at Anders Automation was pleasant and could be interesting at times, although he knew that there was no future for him. What else could an out-of-work musician of his calibre do whilst he waited for the next opportunity in his field?

This was a secret that he guarded carefully, firstly because it was a source of shame and embarrassment and secondly, if Anders found out, they might have reconsidered his employment upon reasoning that he would leave soon after the first opportunity in the music world presented itself.

Anders had recently embarked on a joint venture in Europe and therefore his language expertise and knowledge of the continent was highly sought after. They had recently formed an alliance with a German affiliate called Schönberger Tech GmbH and although most of the middle and upper management spoke English reasonably well, there were still many customers and lower-level employees to deal with who insisted on doing business in their native German, natürlich.

Although not born in Germany, he did possess a German passport, and would often be mistaken for German amongst his colleagues and acquaintances, as well as when meeting new people both in the United States and in Germany, which made him question how American he truly was, or how German for that matter. Twenty years was a long time to be overseas. His identity was always in flux, just as the face-vase diagram in Gestalt psychology. Sometimes one clearly sees the face, while at others one clearly sees the vase. For the management at Anders, he was clearly German, which is why they signed him up. As a result, he was compelled to play the part while in the office, which only added to his identity dilemma. The peculiar characteristic about his dilemma was that he was not fully aware of it and gave it little importance; it was more a dilemma for everyone else. He, however, was biting his time at Anders while he waited to seize upon the next opportunity in the world of classical music, his true passion, his true identity. Meanwhile he was diligent and did everything Anders asked of him while relegating his muses to his free time.

One such muse was a charming young woman from the company who was fast becoming a dear friend. Her name was Steffi Hoff, a German woman, though she had not once set foot in Germany. As it goes, she was a second-generation American; her grandparents were immigrants from Germany and her grandmother was also from the Berlin area, in the affluent suburb of Zehlendorf. Steffi’s grandmother moved to America with her parents when she was a child. Steffi knew that she had family in Germany, although knew next to nothing about their lives. She thought that perhaps, through becoming acquainted with someone like Antony who knew the country well, she might reconnect with her family’s past.

Chance would have it that Petra Bauer was not only also from the Berlin area but was from Zehlendorf itself. She grew up in a country house, although modest by the standards of many of the neighbouring houses. Unfortunately, her family was forced to sell when she was a teenager due to economic woes. They were nonetheless able to keep a small corner of land where the barn stood where Petra would often visit and find solace from life in the City Centre where the living was cramped, busy and loud, or so it appeared to Petra Bauer, who was accustomed to a more rural life.

Antony met Petra when she and her family were already living in the city. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why Petra did not want to go back to Germany, to live in a small, cramped flat in Berlin. She missed the suburban life and found a little slice of it in Lodi, as peculiar as it may at first appear. Lodi was nothing like the west Berlin suburbs to be sure, be that as it may, she did have a little plot of land, lots of open spaces, a few animals and a modest vegetable garden. Antony even entertained the idea that Petra and Steffi could have been related somewhere back in their family’s past. It would not have been so farfetched, they did share a fair resemblance, not only in their physical aspect, but with the colours and shapes invoked by the sound of their names which coincided to a large degree.

Steffi and Antony had a lot in common in addition to their connection to Germany which was initially the sources of their friendship. Steffi, it was true, was of German descent, although knew only a thing or two about the country and language from her grandmother. Antony, for his part, had spent so many years in Deutschland, living, working and playing music that he came to wield the language quite well, as well as the peculiar German manner of gesticulation. He spoke and sounded like a native; indeed, his in-laws never treated him like a foreigner, having spent some of the most important years of his life in Germany. One could say that he actually went native, thus enabling him to understand the people and culture to an exceptional degree. There were times when he in fact felt more German than American. Perhaps it was not so much identifying with one culture or another as it was being equally comfortable with both without realising it. He experienced life twice; his American self would experience events and then his German self would experience the events again, and the interpretation of each did not always coincide. And so it was with his senses and perceptions, he also experienced events twice due to his synaesthesia.

Steffi never met her great-grandparents. Her grandparents, however, having also been born in Germany, spoke fluent German and consequently her father enjoyed a fair level of fluency too. Steffi only had a tenuous grasp of the language, although mostly in comprehension. This was initially the underlying reason she and Antony were drawn to each other and eventually became good acquaintances, although they both safeguarded a peculiar distance. She harboured the begrudging feeling that Antony had something of hers that he had no right to possess.

She worked on the graphics design team for Anders Automation. It was a lower-level, yet essential job. Anders would acquire the exact specifications from the car manufacturers, afterwards the graphics team would illustrate them digitally with great precision. They would recreate the entire vehicle virtually, right down to every nut and bolt. The attention to detail was unparalleled anywhere in the industry, and Steffi was one of Anders’ most meticulous graphic designers.

Antony, for his part, was on the communications team, whose job it was to coordinate communication and information between partners in the U.S. and Europe. He also held basic German language seminars for some of the middle and upper management, although his job was primarily focused on organizing meetings and translating communication and other materials from English to German and vice versa. His German skills were for all practical purposes impeccable, his rigour could not be questioned. Although the company was initially reluctant to take him on due to his lack of technical knowledge, he turned out to be the ideal liaison for the company.

Steffi, having a basic grasp of the language, was given the opportunity to participate in the language seminars and workshops in order to groom her for a position of more responsibility where her language skills, once honed, could be more useful to the company, especially in light of the company’s new overseas partnership. Although she had the clear advantage over others, in the end, the management felt that she did not possess the raw material for a more authoritative post and was soon taken out of the programme, although not before becoming intrigued with Antony and he with she, not only through their association with Germany, more so because Steffi had taken up the piano recently as a hobby. Antony knew that he could be of great value to her and encourage her in her musical endeavour. Yet he had to exercise caution, he could not let on that he was a concert pianist and had been a mentor to many young prominent musicians. He was aching to share his secret with her but the more time he kept it to himself, the less he could bring himself to tell her. It was the paradox of desire. Moreover, in Berlin he had a reputation for becoming infatuated with his students. He felt that this reputation was highly unfair, especially since he felt that he often went beyond his responsibilities for the sake of his students. He often said he loved his students, and he did, which caused quite a stir with the faculty as they unfairly misconstrued these words as having sexual connotations. Nevertheless, when a student met two principal criteria, he indeed became infatuated; they had to be both talented, or at least with plenty of potential as in Steffi’s case, and quite charming both physically and in character, as was also Steffi’s case. In reality these criteria are often subject to one’s own interpretation. But Steffi was not his student, not in the overt sense. They had agreed to work together in their pursuit of their mutual hobby. She had no idea what he did in Berlin and never inquired too deeply for fear of Antony inquiring about her personal life which included her peculiar relationship with her boyfriend, whom he never met although heard a great deal about from Steffi herself.

He walked briskly along the avenue, occasionally stealing a glance at his watch. He was one of very few people who still wore a wristwatch in this new era of Smartphones and other Smart devices. He longed for the days when people thought for themselves and did not seek out instant satisfaction from a tiny screen. This need ultimately bled over to other aspects of life, such as the obsession with pop music and artists who produced an instant catchy melody that was a hit today and forgotten tomorrow. For a classically trained musician, the repetitive beat of modern music was tantamount to death knocking at the door.

He needed to be in the office at a quarter to eight, where Steffi would be waiting for him for their morning coffee. She began her shift sharply at eight. Antony´s schedule was quite flexible; not a lot of people knew what his responsibilities were. He floated around the office talking to various managers, carrying documents that gave him an air of prominence, making photocopies and sitting in on meetings where he didn’t appear to belong, yet there he was. Afterwards, he would disappear for a few hours into his office which was hidden away at the end of the building next door to the Anders Foundation offices, a separate nonprofit entity which did charity work for the community and was a nice tax break for Anders Automation, Inc. He had his own office and was always mingling with the management, thereby giving the impression of importance. Most of the staff assumed that he was actually on the management team, which was far from reality. At any rate, title and position were of little importance to him; he was, after all, a pianist. It mattered very little that no one knew nor cared. The interest in classical music by the general public was at an all-time low. Concert halls were seldom at full capacity and the average person could scarcely name a classical piece or composer in the internet age where quick hits and instant satisfaction ruled the day. They were all beat and no melody, no story, no structure, simple themes that repeated and resurfaced again and again, truly a classical musician’s nightmare. People knew more about Britney Spears than Beethoven. No one took the time anymore to delve into the fine arts and classical music was quickly becoming ancient music which would soon be referenced alongside Gregorian Chants in the public library. It was disheartening. Although there are a lot of Britney Spears, there is but one Beethoven.

There was room for optimism. On this particular day he breezed into the canteen to find Steffi, knees slightly bent, carefully taking a cup of coffee out of the beverage machine while holding another in her right hand.

Coffee, black, no sugar, für dich, she said, handing him a paper cup of dodgy vending machine coffee, and coffee with cream and two sugars für mich, she said with a bright smile. Oh, and here’s your glass of water.

Guten Morgen Sonnenschein, dankeschön. A coffee für mich? How thoughtful of you. How did you know?

Bitteschön. It’s Freitag. Steffi always insisted that she treat on Fridays.

They sat at their usual table and conferred lightheartedly about the week’s events both in and out of the office. Antony contemplated her and to him she was intimidatingly perfect. He gazed upon her with pleasure as she spoke about her week and the trivial events outside the office over their morning coffee; it was Antony´s second coffee of the morning and his pupil was more dilated than usual. Her oestrogen-laden lips contorted quickly at times and more slowly at others as she verbalised and articulated the events. Antony was fascinated by the colours emanating from her mouth. She noticed his intrigue but said nothing.

She has also got perfect dark brown hair, and a perfect complexion, and those honey-coloured eyes and… oh, my! She has got a slight gap between her teeth. Thank goodness for that. I don’t know what I would do if she were too perfect.

The small imperfections that Antony occasionally noticed were welcome and, in a counterintuitive way, made her more attractive in that she was perhaps more accessible to him. He felt that perfect people, especially perfect women, were out of his grasp. At any rate perfection was suspicious. Nevertheless, here was Steffi, bright, charming and perfectly imperfect with her small, trivial imperfections that endeared her to him even more. She must have known, although she seldom if ever let on.

They were a fixture in the corner for those fifteen minutes before her shift, which no one really seemed to find peculiar. However, there was a woman from the Customer Service call centre who was always eager to remind Antony that he was a married man. Although true on paper, it was certainly not the case in reality. Antony had been separated for too long, first emotionally then legally and there was no will by either party to make amends. He often thought that the union between two people, which we call matrimony, should be a short- to medium-term contract with the option to renegotiate after a fixed amount of time, every five years, perhaps. A prenuptial agreement should be compulsory by law. How clear everything was in hindsight. Nevertheless, in his Herz he was already divorced, he was just waiting to go through the motions, therefore, getting chummy with Steffi did not weigh heavily upon his conscience. She too was allegedly involved with a young man who went by the antiquated name of Jácquemo, who never seemed to be around despite Steffi conversing extensively about him from time to time. Perhaps he did exist, although a more formal relationship could have been the product of Steffi’s wanting. She was conceivably more in love with the idea, irrespective of the individual who occupied the space where the idea resided.

He was too embarrassed to tell Sylvia about his failed marriage. He never talked about it to anyone, Steffi being the exception, although he never went into detail. He enjoyed her company and began to feel comfortable enough to at least bring up the topic when he had the need to vent; she too would do the same from time to time about her dear Jácquemo. Antony diligently listened as she would tell him the things he did not want to hear while keeping from her what he truly wanted to tell her and needed to know. It was an exercise in absurdity.

In addition to her charm and intelligence, she spoke a colloquial, broken German that was tremendously endearing; best of all she loved talking about music. Her mother, who had suddenly passed away several years ago due to a stroke, had been a professional violinist and a junior member of the symphony in the Oakland area who taught music in the local high school. Little did Steffi know that Antony’s father had been her mother’s teacher for two years when she was at the conservatory in San Francisco as a young woman of 22. Antony had been meaning to bring it to Steffi’s attention, but it always seemed to slip his mind when he was with her. This was a little-known fact from her mother’s past. Antony began to connect the dots due to the inordinate amount of time spent with Steffi, tenfold more than she spent with her supposed boyfriend, to be sure. He knew that his father even attended her mother’s funeral. Was it merely coincidental? Antony did not subscribe to coincidence.

He never found the right moment to bring up the topic, perhaps due to rumours circulating as to the true nature of their relationship, but that was so many years ago and it didn’t matter anymore. His intuition told him that his father must have had feelings for her, not exclusively of a romantic nature, but of the love a teacher feels for his students, or was it infatuation? Or was it one in the same? There is often an ill-defined relationship between pupil and teacher, especially when they are of the opposite sex. The outside observer often misinterprets the true nature of the student-teacher relationship upon simple observation. They often see something more, something that goes beyond instruction; they are often right.

Steffi´s mother did not push her daughter towards a career in classical music, instead she insisted that she take up traditional Irish dance as a hobby and focus on something more financially sound like computer-aided graphic design. After her mother’s death, Steffi decided to take up the piano in earnest. She had played as a teen and thought that she could give her mother’s old piano new life instead of watching it rot in a forsaken corner of the house. She thought that she might keep her mother’s memory alive by playing her piano.

The atmosphere in the company canteen was always tumultuous right before eight o’clock. The team was getting their caffein and sugar fix before their shift. Steffi and Antony regulated themselves in the corner, oblivious to the tumult.

What are your plans for the Wochenende, Antony?

I am going to Lodi on Saturday morning, but I will be home in the afternoon, he flatly stated. He suddenly became very animated, Can I invite you to a coffee on my way back? I will be passing through Oakland about eighteen.

Oh, you mean about 6:00 P.M., that would be nice. Where do you want to meet? The Terracotta Café? The Manhattan Bar? Or perhaps The Central Park Eatery?

I was thinking about The Tertulia Café, over on Telegraph Avenue. It has got a nice atmosphere and they’ve even got a limited menu, in case you are hungry. I have also been meaning to show you Franz Shubert’s Der Lindenbaum. The Tertulia is relatively quiet, we could listen on our earphones easily over the murmur of the other customers.

Okay, it’s a date. And maybe you can teach me a little more German...? Vielleicht?

Natürlich, es freut mich, it would be my pleasure.

It was quite common for them to meet when Antony was on his way back from Lodi, although she always acted pleasantly surprised at the invitation.

Antony, what’s so special about Der Lindenbaum? she playfully asked.

Nothing. Just pleasant memories from Germany. I had a really good friend who used to be quite fond of the piece and it reminds me of our walks together through the Großer Tiergarten in Berlin, along the Spree and the Schwarzwald in Southern Germany.

"That’s not nothing. That sounds very special. I can’t wait to hear it."

They concluded their morning coffee and Antony watched Steffi walk away towards her workstation, where she began to confer with her team about the day’s tasks. He was still contemplating her when she looked up at him. He was slightly embarrassed that she had caught him staring at her, again, but when she smiled, he returned the smile and disappeared down the hall to his office by the Anders Foundation offices.

The week passed without any significant changes to their routine, especially their fifteen minutes in the corner of the canteen, and soon the weekend was once again upon them. Antony spent most Saturday mornings alongside his son on the piano accompanied by his daughter on the violin. It was clear to Antony that neither of his children would become virtuosos no matter how hard he pushed despite holding some promise. He seemed to want it more than they did. Perhaps Antony held the bar too high. Although if they only knew more about his family’s past, they would have a change of heart. Perhaps they were still too young to be delving too deeply into the family history. Nevertheless, it made for a pleasant afternoon despite the circumstances. Perhaps one day his grandchildren would meet his expectations. At any rate he was not there to give them lessons as it was much more about playing music and enjoying their time together. If that was all there was to be had, so be it. He would have to wait for the next generation.

Afterwards Antony would take the two of them to lunch and then back home to their impatient mother, who was always reminding him of the time. Tension was always running high in light of the pending divorce. Antony could not wait to get back on the road, although as tedious as the drive was back to the bay area from Lodi, he was always filled with anticipation to see Steffi again.

Antony swaggered into the Tertulia Café and spotted Steffi straight away. She was sitting by the window with her nose in the newspaper. How quaint. She too liked reading the newspaper instead of reading the news on her computer or Smartphone.

She had her back to him, although he could easily recognise her profile. Her brown hair glistened with golden highlights in the afternoon sun that was coming through the window. Her hair was perfect.

Darf ich? he asked, pointing with his index finger at the chair beside her with his thumb up.

Hi, Antony, Ja, natürlich. I trust you had a nice trip to Lodi, she said without any significant emotion as she stood up to greet him. Her inquiry was more out of politeness than true concern.

They gave each other a peck on the cheek as was more customary in Europe. It was the perfect excuse to get close to her, which she was well aware of but never said anything to the contrary.

There and back again, just about sums it up.

His intonation denoted that he did not want to talk about his bimonthly excursion. He avoided talking about Lodi, his children and his wife, except in those exceptional cases where he needed to vent and she appeared to be genuinely receptive. For the most part, she too avoided the topic. She simply didn’t want to know that much, and he simply didn’t want to