Tempo Tantrums

By Andrea Renae

“With the beat, Master Quintin. With the beat.” The black-clad man paced in tandem with the metronome, his polished shoes clicking like talons on the marble floor.

I would have welcomed an ice pick to my skull over the abrasive tick, tick, tick dictating my every musical inclination. But my parents had made it clear that if I didn’t submit to Mr. Vautour’s tutelage, they would remove my piano privileges entirely. A fate worse than death—even by ice pick.

Teeth clenched, I placed my fingers on the pearly white keys and pressed them in sync with the clacking metronome, barely containing the urge to pound out my frustration.

I always gravitated toward pieces that called for experimentation—the ones filled with accelerandos and ritardandos that posed open-ended questions, to which I crafted unexpected answers. But my instructor, who resembled every bit the vulture he was named after, insisted that a skilled musician needed to subject himself to the purgatory of good timing—or something like that. Thus, Rondo Alla Turka was assigned, and I was certain the tempo-tethered piece would be my undoing.

My fingers slipped. “Fiddlesticks,” I muttered under my breath while thinking of a much more colorful expletive to describe Mozart’s supposed musical brilliance. Madness, more like.

Mr. Vautour loomed overhead, his beady eyes fixed on me like I was a candidate for a future meal. “Concentrate, Quintin. Remember: triumph is worth the pain of persistence.”

I bet a vulture would agree. I stifled a laugh and let the sixteenth notes pull me in step with their frenetic march. Soon the monotony won over, and my fingers struck every hateful beat.

After an hour, I could plonk out the tune without looking. Mr. Vautour appeared pleased with my progress, but I failed to understand why. There was not an ounce of beauty in the jarring rhythm. Then again, vultures do seem to enjoy things devoid of life.

My bleary eyes drifted to the clock above the grand piano, and as I watched the second-hand flit around the circle, I became dimly aware that the metronome’s marching drum had ceased.

Before Mr. Vautour could flap over and wind the mechanism, I pounced at the opportunity to let loose. My right hand turned swiftly to rebellion, dragging out the beats between the left hand’s plonking notes and infusing the melody with delicious rubato. I must say, it felt wonderful to improve upon Mozart’s methods. It was like unbuttoning a tight collar at the end of a funeral dirge. I closed my eyes and exhaled, welcoming improvisation’s call.

When my fingers stilled, and I came to, I looked at the clock again. Its gilded hands were cemented in place. I glanced at my instructor, and he seemed equally befuddled. His eyes were wide, his mouth stuck in a rigid “o.”

Odd.

Shrugging, I picked up the Turkish march where I’d left off.

The clock’s hands twitched forward.

Intrigued, I played the piece in the manner written. Time skipped ahead at the perfect pace with Mr. Vautour bobbing his grim head by my side. But when I bent the song’s rhythm to my whims again, the clock’s hands lagged, then accelerated as my fingers made up for the borrowed beats. I experimented with trying the melody in reverse and was astounded to find that time spun backward with it.

At first, I only cared about the clock, but then strange, garbled squawks reached me. “Q-Quintin, what are… yooou… dooooooiiiiiiiing? Stop it—ti pots—stop this right n—”

I lifted my hands off the keys, and the frazzled man froze in place, his face the picture of incredulity. Hesitantly, I jabbed a finger at his ribs. He did not react.

A thrill twisted my insides, and I stared at the sheet music. Was I the one who’d unshackled time, or had the key merely been hidden within the measures of a song no one with good sense would ever devote their efforts to perfecting? Perhaps Mozart truly was a genius.

Or maybe I was the one going mad.

An impish grin stretched across my face. Insane or not, I would have a riot testing my theory extensively at future lessons.

When I closed the fallboard over the piano’s keys, time recommenced, and my instructor snapped back into animation. He gasped for air, patted down his coat as if to smooth ruffled feathers, then glared at me.

“Thank you, Mr. Vautour, for a most enjoyable lesson,” I chirped as I stood, this time not needing to feign sincerity. His maw fell open. “I think I quite agree with you. Triumph will certainly be worth the pain of persistence.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrea Renae grew up wandering the Canadian prairies with a cat in tow. An only child, she thrilled in stories of all kinds. Writing became a way to process life’s countless beauties, hardships, and oddities. She can often be found playing piano, experimenting with watercolors, knitting sweaters, or practicing for her inevitable fame on the GBBO. Her heart will always be with her family, her friends, and her goofy goldendoodle.

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