Prologue
I’m
satisfied. All I ever wanted to do was
create music, and that is what I am doing.
Everyone said the piano would bring me fame and fortune, and it has
given me enough of both to make me happy.
If the prophets were unduly optimistic I really don’t care. I have everything I want.
As
long as I can remember, I devoted my life to the piano. But the piano is just a servant of Music, and
Music is an unforgiving tyrant – a merciless mistress. She demands total, unwavering servitude from
her subjects, and in turn I was a willing, dedicated slave, totally faithful to
her – almost. Only once did I
rebel. (How could it be possible not to
revolt against such a tyrant? Is there a
serious musician anywhere who never questioned the wisdom of his all-consuming
dedication?)
In
her defense, however, this tyrant of a mistress gave herself back to me, enough
to make keeping her worth whatever it cost.
But like the other kind of mistress, she kept me in a perpetual state of
anxiety, lest I give her too little, or somehow give her cause to abandon
me. On those rare occasions when I did
protest, my protests were never overwhelming.
Above all, they were temporary.
But
Music is a ruthless mistress. She
demands more than is humanly possible to deliver.
This
is the story of my affair with the piano, and a few other affairs as well. Some were also demanding, but never as
demanding, never as uncompromising, never as
unforgiving as the piano.
Chapter 1
Houston, Texas, 1915
Pop
had always wanted a boy. So had Mom. All
Jewish parents want boys, and the Steinbergs were no
exception. While Mom waited for her
first child, they pondered the future of their son-to-be. Mom wanted a doctor. Pop wanted a son to assist in, and later
inherit his clothing store. Either way,
a son would bring nachas [honor, joy] to the
family name. If Pop and Mom disagreed on
details, at least they agreed they wanted a boy.
Fate
settled the issue, for the baby was a beautiful girl, whom they named Shirley.
Six
years later, Mom waited for her second child.
“This one will be a boy, because we already have a fine little
girl.” By then Mom’s position had
softened somewhat. She would have
settled for a lawyer or a professor. Pop
remained nearly as unyielding in his desire for a son to share his store, but
he would have settled for a rabbi, or even a chazon
[cantor]. Again fate settled the
matter, for their second baby was another beautiful daughter, whom they named
Irene.
Girls
were nice to have around, and these two sisters received much love from my
parents. Still, it would take a boy to
make the family complete. Their boy did
not come along until four years later. I
was their first and only son, and I – Samuel – entered the world with a
mission: To fulfill the dreams of fame and wealth for the Steinberg family.
Both
Shirley and Irene grew into doting, motherly sisters, hardly able to wait until
they too would bear children, preferably boys.
I entered this world in the Roaring Twenties. I am told it was an exciting time to be
alive. The Great World War was finally
over; the Armistice was almost seven years old when I was born. Houston was a small but spirited Southern
city in the southeastern part of Texas, not far from the Gulf of Mexico, and
Houstonians had just done the impossible.
They had dredged and widened a muddy creek. If you are not impressed, ponder this: They
dug so deep and so wide that large ocean-going ships now steamed up the Buffalo
Bayou, ending their journey fifty miles inland at a large, man-made
harbor. Within a few years, land-locked
Houston was transformed into one of the world’s leading international
seaports. Optimism and prosperity were
in the air, almost to the moment of the Crash.
Pop
spoke of Houston’s accomplishments with a pride that bordered on chauvinism. It was not necessary that he be involved
personally, for he was quite content to root for his team, and live its deeds
vicariously.
By
profession, Pop was a businessman.
Steinberg’s Clothing Store was successful enough to make our family
comfortable, but never affluent. The
Steinberg family did not personally experience poverty; it would have been hard
to know that by listening to Pop. He talked as though his financial world
constantly tottered on the verge of collapse.
“