Chapter 5: Passion

Notes: See the In The Dark home page.

Disclaimer: Although this is inspired by the Vampire Chronicles, all characters and situations are MINE. However, if you want to use them for non-commercial purposes, *I* won't sue you, I promise. ;)

Writer Contacts: To contact Wiebke (and especially if you would like to link to this site or any of the stories), email wiebke@juno.com.

I entered my teen years. While much stayed the same, certain things began to change.

My mother no longer took me to my lessons, but trusted me to take the subway there and back on my own. The lessons were still at night but there was no way around that. I asked my teacher if we could meet earlier now that I no longer relied on my mother, but he told me that he preferred to meet in the evening after dark. He was adamant on this point actually, that the lesson take place after dark; he'd even adjust the appointment time depending on the the time of year. Of course I always felt this was peculiar but many things about Mr. Hoffmann were peculiar and no matter what, I still saw him as a saint, the fulfiller of all my dreams, and so of course I did not dare argue. What was the point? I was getting what I wanted.

The lessons continued to be rigorous, in fact more rigorous than they had been. Instead of twice a week, I went to Mr. Hoffmann three times a week. In the winter, when the lessons could start earlier in the evening, I would stay longer than the usual two hours, stretching it out into three or four. More than once, as I grew into a high schooler, I remember catching the last train home. My parents were worried the first few times, but quickly they learned the correct response: Call Mr. Hoffmann and remind him of the time. Finally we agreed that I would leave no later than 11. It wasn't good for a young woman to be out walking so late at night and while my grades in school were still as good as always, but my parents were concerned. I needed sleep, they told me.

But back to the lessons themselves. I've already described them as "rigorous" but that adjective doesn't begin to do them justice. Uncompromising? Severe? The best hours I ever spent? Words fail me. I can say that his passion only grew with the years. The more I was able to play, the more I was able to assume the power of an adult pianist, the more he gave me -- more discipline, more exacting standards to abide by, more formidable pieces to play. He began to challenge me, playing a piece and then wondering if I could do better. We played duets and tried to top one another improvising on themes of Mozart or Bach or Chopin. It was fun. It was all such fun, even if it was difficult or maybe because it was difficult. It was what I wanted to do. I wanted to become a great pianist and what Mr. Hoffmann was giving me was what I needed. It wasn't a bitter pill to swallow, the work I had to do; it was as sweet and strong as almond liqueur.

I wasn't entirely drunk on the pleasure, however. There was one peculiarity of Mr. Hoffmann that irked me in a way that his insistence on having lessons at night did not. Simply stated, he would not see me perform in public! After the disappointment of the school show, he'd encouraged me to go out and present my talents to the world. He'd made arrangements for me to give local concerts at community events and then local recitals and competitions. By the time I was 14, I was playing in statewide competitions and by high school I was in New England regional competitions. Mr. Hoffmann would pay for all the travel expenses and prepare me for the concerts. He'd give me pep talks and describe to me the world of the concert pianist, explain to me the psychology of performance, explain how the judges thought.

Still, despite all this support, Mr. Hoffmann would not attend my performances! I would always ask but he would always say no. At first he would make an excuse every time. Business. Bad time. Out of town. Too far away. Didn't want the publicity. I tried every means of persuasion, offered every option and work-around I could think of. Still, he would not give an inch. Eventually I would ask him but not expect a real answer. All I would expect was the usual: "I am very sorry, Vera, but you know I cannot attend."

In some ways the situation was difficult to accept. Despite my special upbringing in the world of music and the hours I spent at the piano, like any teenager I had my insecurities, my need to feel validated. My parents did their best to attend every one of my performances and this appeased me, of course it did, but for Mr. Hoffmann, my teacher, the man who had, in a way, given me life, to practically boycott any event where I would be playing in public? It broke my heart.

Which reminds me. Speaking of my heart, there was another reason I found myself, on occasion, feeling put out, neglected, disappointed. It was the same reason that I never let the bad overshadow the good -- and there was so much good. The reason was that I loved him. By the time I was a junior in high school he had known me ten years. Some people would expect that he would have been like a second father to me but he wasn't. I already had a father. Mr. Hoffmann was... more than that.

It pains me to have to make something clear at this point, but let me do so: My teacher never touched me. We were never intimate in any way whatsoever, except for the times when we would play duets side by side or he would instruct me on my posture or hand position. No, we were lovers of a different kind. I loved him not as a father, but as someone who was to be treasured, someone so selfless as to match the goodness of the God I had heard of but never believed in.

Mr. Hoffmann was a handsome man; I must have written this earlier somewhere, I'm sure. He reminded me of a 1930s movie star. And with his beautiful brown eyes and his pale pink lips, he would watch me with such a loving gaze at times, and I would catch that gaze. He would look into my eyes with such intensity and I did not look away. I stared straight back at him. There was no reason to be afraid. I knew he would not touch me, at least not yet. First, I had to become a great pianist. That was the goal. I was to grow and grow and grow and someday, so I hoped, I would be enough. And Mr. Hoffmann would be there for me.

It sounds unseemly, unhealthy even, when I describe it, I know. My parents, whom I'm asking to have this published, are probably going to be shocked speechless when they read this. Their daughter, their precious daughter, being eyed by the man they most trusted! But as I said at the start of this essay, that man is dead. And I'd like to also point out, just for emphasis, that Mr. Hoffmann wasn't the only one doing the eyeing. I'll write it again because it's so late and I know I'm coming closer and closer to the end with every breath and there's no reason not to say it anymore: I loved him.

Ah, but where was I? Oh, yes, Mr. Hoffmann and his phobias. Did I mention his phobias? No, I didn't. Well, that's what I finally concluded. I was 18 years old and finishing up high school when I took a psychology class and decided that there was a rational explanation for his refusal to attend my concert. He had a phobias. Perhaps he had multiple phobias, I concluded. Certainly he had agoraphobia or maybe a better term for it was anthrophobia. Or maybe sociophobia. I went to the library one day and dug through a whole list of terms looking for ones that fit. I'm trying to remember some of them now. I know I thought he had a fear of light. He didn't even have many lights in him home. I believe that's photophobia. There was another one that was more specific having to do with daylight and sunshine. I think that was phengophobia.

In any case, he had phobias -- fear of people and fear of the daylight. How else could I explain the two peculiarities in this otherwise perfect individual, my beloved? I felt sorry for him really, but it wouldn't do for me to fight him. I loved him and there was so much more we had to do. So many songs to be played, so many concerts I had to practice for. By the time I gained acceptance at Berklee, just a short walk from Mr. Hoffmann's home, I was touring. I was getting calls to play concerts in other states. I began to play with small orchestras. I competed in some of the top competitions in the country -- and I did well. I owed much of my success to Mr. Hoffmann.

Of course, this brings up yet another peculiarity. However much I wanted to tell the world about Mr. Hoffmann, to brag to my teachers and classmates, I could not. It wasn't only that I couldn't thank him in public at concerts. No, Mr. Hoffmann made me promise not to speak his name. If there was a reason why I had to give out the name of my teacher -- an application for a scholarship or a competition entry or a required biography -- then I could fill in the name, but otherwise he did not want his name in circulation. He guarded his privacy and he would not have people coming to him and taking that privacy away.

And so the questions began, questions that finally have led to write this article. It is draining me of my strength, I know, but until I finish what I have to say, I will cling on to this life. I have more to say.

What else is there? Oh, yes, there is one thing left before I go on to the end. Remember how at first it was difficult for me to do without Mr. Hoffmann's support during my concerts? And that I finally comforted myself by thinking that he suffered from phobias? Well, I had two or three other reasons to become less bothered. First, I was in love with the man, as I've written -- and once again, I hope it doesn't shock my parents, but it's perfect true. Second, I learned that even though my teacher didn't attend my performances, he kept a scrapbook with articles and pictures taken from the newspaper, prints my mother had made doubles of. He did care -- I knew it as soon as I saw it.

The final reason why I grew less bothered was because of something Mr. Hoffmann began to do that made me very happy. I'm sure my parents can well remember the first time this occurred. It was before a concert in Western Massachusetts. I was playing a concert at a small college. The event had been advertised and there was a sizable crowd considering the size of the hall. I was in a stuffy back room sitting at a table with my parents talking when in walked a delivery man with a package. It was a long green box with a lid tied on with a crimson ribbon. I opened the box. Roses. A dozen long-stemmed red roses. I could hardly believe it.

I put the flowers to my nose and drank in the scent. I rubbed the soft petals up against my cheek; they were cool and silky. Inside the box there was, of course, a note from Mr. Hoffmann: "You are the perfect student. Best wishes, Franz." My parents exclaimed that he had outdone himself. But he hadn't. No, outdoing himself was when he decided to send me roses prior to ever concert. It never failed, but continued on all through college, right up through the second to last concert before--

But I jump ahead of myself. I am rushing and it is not good. The longer I write, the longer I can remain alive. Or so I hope. I have been writing this for days, it seems. Summer is coming. All the leaves have come in. The baby birds are learning to fly. The air is beginning to get that hot and sticky feeling that's so awful here because no one has air conditioning. My mother has put a fan in here and it's enough for now but soon... Soon it will be summer. I don't know if I will ever seen the summer.