我八岁开始学习钢琴，老师换了一个又一个，钢琴课总是让我欢喜让我忧。63岁时，我终于发现：原来人生可以有更好的选择。
IwaseightwhenImetmyfirstpianoteacher. Iremembereverythingabouther.
TuesdaysafterschoolIwoulddragmyreluctantlittle-girlselfdownthehilltowardherbrown-brickhousebytheshoefactory.[1]
EverytrudgingsteptookmeclosertothedoomIknewawaited.[2] Sameness[3] ruledinthepianoteacher’shouse—let’scallherMrs. Kaufman. IassumedtherewasaMr. Kaufmanstuffedawayinacornersomewhere, butIneverlaideyesonhim. TheonlydressIrememberonMrs. Kaufmanmatchedthecolourofthebricksofherhouse. Hergreyhairwaspulledbackinachignonsotightlythatitstretchedthecornersofhermouthintoatautblueline.[4]
I’dstepintothegloomofthehallwayandhangmycoatononeofthewoodenpegs.[5] Shewouldushermewordlesslyintohersittingroom.[6] Theheavydamask[7] curtains, Iimagined, hadneverbeendrawnduringthe 200 yearsthatIwascertainshehadlivedtherewiththeinvisibleMr. Kaufman.
Mrs. Kaufmanwouldbegineachlessonwithathroat-clearingsoundthatIroughlytranslatedinto “takeyourseat”. Iknewenoughtoleaveroomonthehardbench[8] forhertojoinme. Ontheshelfbythemusicsatherlongwoodenstick, meanttorefashionrecalcitrantschoolgirlfingersintowell-roundedarches.[9] NowandagainI’dfeelitslighttapuponmyknuckles.[10] Onoccasion, Mrs. Kaufmanwoulddaub[11] theendofhernosewithalacehandkerchief. Thehankywouldthendisappearintothefoldsofherbrowndress.[12]
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