Murder in A-Major

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Madam Vronsky, my piano teacher, politely but firmly removes my hands from the keyboard. Gently she closes the tattered volume of music and places it on the lid of the instrument. She turns to me and gazes intently into my eyes, a questioning expression on her face. For a full minute she stares at me, looking puzzled, sitting on a slim bentwood chair close by, so close in fact that my nostrils pick up the not unpleasant scent of her garlicky breath. She is Russian, warm-blooded but even-tempered, a woman of endless patience. At last she speaks, asking in a voice buttered with sympathy, “Tell me, Inspector Preiss, why are you doing this?”

“You mean playing Beethoven?”

“I mean playing the piano. Why?” She gives me a sad smile and softly repeats, “Why?”

“Because I love the piano,” I tell her. “Because I love music. Because I would love to perform these Beethoven sonatas decently one day in the not-too-distant future. All thirty-two.” I am not a religious person, but for some reason I add, “Lord willing.”

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