[Written in a dog-eared and paint flecked notebook. Many of the pages have been ripped or scribbled out.]


“Where are we going, Papa?” I had asked. He ferried me down the street, almost like a master to his dog. I danced about, pulling on the hand he leashed me with when something attracted my attention- a cake in the window of a store, a particularly majestic looking tree, other dogs to sniff at.

“We’re going to see Ezra,” he replied, a flicker of nerves in his eyes, “you remember?”

I did. Ezra was a dour American who always scowled. He intimidated me. Throughout the years he’d spent in Paris my father had visited him frequently. There were times when he would spend more time out of the house than in, paying calls to the various artistes of the area that he’d attached himself to. With them he would exchange shrewd and scornful discourse, appraising or condemning the other men around them and the men they were inspired by. Ezra was a particular favourite of my father, and it was with him that he vied for attention.

“Joachim!” he’d announced dramatically. He escorted us in and I was promptly patted on the head and ushered into the sitting room. Papa and his friend then retired to the study to converse in private.

His flat was nothing like our own. It was sparse and functional. His had chairs to sit on, and desks and tables to write at and his possessions were kept neatly on shelves or in cupboards. We had no chairs, we sat on cushions and all of our cupboards lay permanently open, with sheets of scrawled-on paper and all manner of trinkets stuffed hastily inside.

What attracted me most was the piano that sat in the corner of the room. Its paintwork was immaculate, no sign of woodwork like our own and there were no books and sheets piled on top of it.

When it was obvious Papa wouldn’t return in minutes, I finished spying off the piano and ventured to sit at it. Placing my tiny fingers on the bleach-bone keys, I gently tapped at them. The tone was warm and it reverberated richly throughout the room, but when I tried the chords I knew the notes jarred.

I tried to play to no avail until my father reappeared, a sour and defeated expression on his face. We didn’t say goodbye to Ezra, we just left, and once again Papa had to drag me down the street. This time he was much less patient and held me by the wrist and not the hand.

“I couldn’t play Ezra’s piano, Papa. All the keys are in the wrong place,” I had said. He had replied that that was because his was in tune.

We didn’t go to Ezra’s again.