Beautiful is a moment

One of the most heartwarming stories in my life happened to me in Florence

It all started with a loud disappointed moan.

“Oooooooh,” cried an old man sitting at the electric piano at the back of the antique store. I was filming him playing from outside.

Two years ago, Dima bought me a rare edition of Turandot libretto at this store. So I liked to come back to it and look at what else they had. Their showcases were always brilliant — they were telling stories of love and wars, countries, and distant stars.

I always remembered a cozy silence inside the store, so when I reached them today, the first thing I noticed was quiet music coming out of the store. I stayed outside for a while and listened to it. The man didn’t play ingeniously, but on the busy street of Florence, he was a wonder.

I try not to collect things, but memories are something I cannot resist collecting. So I filmed a beautiful showcase, hoping the sound would be recorded as well, but my phone failed. I came closer to the door, but in a few seconds, the man turned his head at me and stopped playing.

“Oh,” he cried, “why doing this?”

A long tirade of disappointment mixed with anger and sadness fell upon me.

I stood still looking at him. Then, I excused myself involuntary and walked away. But in a few steps, feelings awakened in me. Why had I to be sorry? What is so wrong with my desire to keep the memory of wonder and share it with the one I love? How long has music through the open door been private?

I turned around and went back. The old man was playing again when I stepped in. I came closer to his piano, feeling very determined. He looked up at me and stopped playing.

“As I remember, you speak English, don’t you?” I said noticing how my boldness began to subside.

“Yes, I do,” he replied, “and I’m sorry for being rude to you. It’s just a hot and noisy day today. And everything seems so senseless. I cannot understand the intentions of people and what’s going on. So I just got furious for nothing.”

His English was perfect. I recalled how it surprised me years ago.

“I just wanted to say I wasn’t about to offend you at all. And what you’ve just said is the best explanation of why I did a record. This city is hot and noisy, and here I come to the place I adore and hear you playing. This music won over all the storms of everyday life. That’s why you played. That’s why I filmed — to share the moment with the one I love. Please, don’t hide it, share your music.”

He smiled warmly. “Now, I feel even more ashamed…”

I tried to interrupt him with my protests.

He rose his palm. “No-no, I promise, I will not. You’re just so nice and beautiful. Excuse my roughness. No more shame, disappointment, or sadness for us today, deal?” He winkled.

“Sure”

We talked about the librettos and old music, and new music, and tourists, and life. And then I left.

“Just don’t stop playing, deal?”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

Florence, September 8, 2020

P.S. When I passed the store on my way back to Santa Maria Novella station, Maurizio was still playing the piano. I couldn’t resist jumping in for a minute.

“Happy to hear you playing.”

“Because I promised.”

We talked for another 40 minutes. Music, families, summer, Florence, writing.

“I wrote about what happened today. Just got to the coffee shop, and wrote it all down.”

“About us? Have you written how I rude I was and how I begged for your forgiveness?”

I paused, I giving him a kind look and a smile.

“I’ve written how I returned to the store furious, ready to prove you were wrong. But found you already understood everything. I wrote what wonderful things you said and how beautiful you made me feel that moment.”

The old man’s hand reached out, he kissed me on the forehead.
“You’re too good for me. I don’t deserve you.”

I didn’t know that man at all, and yet, this gentle sign of adoration and affection met no resistance in my body. “I disagree!” I looked up at him, “I think we’re great in this story together and definitely deserve each other.”