The atmosphere was cosy and homely. Like the old woman in the large-size reproduction of Young girl at the piano by Paul Cezanne that adorned the wall, she quietly sat in the deep soft-leather armchair and played the piano. A lazy grey cat was sleeping at her feet, its head on her feet covered by woollen socks. From time to time, it stretched itself, opened its mouth in a wide yawn, and went back to sleep, cuddled up.

It was early spring and a bit cold. Though she was at home, she wore, as usual, a long dark old-fashioned silk robe. Her appearance was striking – a fine nose and small thick lips framed by an oval face. A large beauty spot enhanced her gracefulness. Her small round spectacles (also old-fashioned) were suspended on her nose. She usually looked over the lenses, rather than through them. Despite the rather deep wrinkles on her face and the silver curled hair, it was obvious that she must have been a beautiful woman from a well-to-do traditional family. If one had to choose an original Hanoian, typical of the old intelligentsia, both refined and conservative, it would be her. It seemed that the new, pragmatic and bustling life outside did not affect her and the small room in which she had lived for almost seventy years in the least. The room and its furniture were ancient and quiet, like their owner. She was one of the very few pianists who stayed on with the revolution after the liberation of the capital city; she was the first teacher at the Hanoi Conservatory. She had taught many generations of artists. Some had won prizes at international contests. She had retired from work a few years ago with the title of "People’s Teacher" and "Emeritus Artist." Her husband was an army officer who had laid down his life at Khe Sanh. They had no children.

She’d been living for a long time with her cat and her piano, an old and aristocratic Bekker like her. Few visitors called on her. She liked that. Twice every week, on Tuesday and Saturday, she gave piano lessons to her sister’s granddaughter, a ten-year-old girl with a great aptitude for music. She wished to train her and make her talent blossom. But the girl like to chew gum while learning. And she preferred jazz to Mozart or Schubert. The old woman did not utter a word, but she felt sad. She was sad because many of her students went every night to hotels or bars to play the piano for gruff eaters. She also received former students who occasionally came to see her, especially on March 8 or November 20 (Vietnamese Teacher’s Day). Then it was the old man who was playing the piano in front of her at this moment. Not an invited guest. He came in the 15th of every lunar month. Why on the 15th? She did not know or ask. He did not either, it had just happened that way a few times and then became a habit which had lasted for 20 years or so now.

He was a worker (some called him an artist) who tuned piano strings. And he was the best in Hanoi. He came to fix her piano regularly, despite the fact that she seldom played the piano these days, and the strings did not need to be adjusted. But he continued to come, and it did not vex her one bit. They were friends since their youth. And the piano was the bridge linking them. He would make many adjustments before deciding the tone was just right. Then, slowly, he would place his tools in his box, and at the same pace, begin to play For Elise by Beethoven, a sad piece of music that the celebrated musician had written for Elise in a hopeless declaration of love. Then came a piece by Chopin, Sadness. Only those two pieces. She did not know why, and never asked. After he finished playing the two pieces, carefully put the lid on the piano, and with a duster wiped it until it shone. Then he sat near her and drank tea, exchanged a few pleasantries, and left for home. He was very courteous, taking off his old felt hat and bowing low.

But today seemed to be an exception. After the two immutable pieces of music, he played Nocturne by Chopin, and then Farewell No 26 by Beethoven. She was very surprised, but continued listening silently, not raising her eyes from the knitting needles. He did not play very well. It was not amateurish, but it was not professional either. Born to a bourgeois family under the French, he had learned piano in Paris with her. She was a talented student and steadily advanced, while he, after many ups and downs, accepted that he would not become a great artist, and chose the career of a piano tuner, although very few people consented to do this and job did not bring in much money. He did it simply because he could not live without the piano. If he could not play himself, he could take care of it for others to play. And he was happy with it. And now, playing a long and difficult piece like Farewell, he felt a bit embarrassed. The old Bekker, a grand piano, which occupied nearly half of her room, groaned under his old fingers. The white keys which had turned a yellowish ivory, danced reluctantly. Their notes were not clear and distinct. By force of habit, she stopped knitting, knocked the side of the chair with the needles, and then spoke out aloud as if to a student who’d not learnt his lesson: "Forte! Forte!" or "More sentiment! Slow down! Slow down!" He obediently followed her instructions, stumbled a few times, and finally stopped playing. He turned towards her.

"Your piano is too old!" He gave a long sigh. It was a good piano that her parents had bought for her from France. As she was an old lecturer at the Conservatory, she had been many times offered a new one, but she’d refused. "And you are not old, are you?" she reacted, half derisively, half critically. As if the piano had been wronged. "I’m old. And you, too. What must happen will happen." He sighed again. "You have stopped giving lessons for a few years. Now it is my turn. Today is the last day I come to tune the piano. Do you know for how many years you and I have been attached to it?"

Surprised, she stopped knitting and answered: "Nearly fifty years. For the last time? Why?" "Because I am finished. That ‘s right. Because of my age. It seems that it had gone wrong long ago. But out of pity, out of deference for me, they did not say anything. Last month, the Opera House did not ask me to tune the Steinway for a Dutch pianist. I guessed that something had gone wrong. Only yesterday did I hear by chance that my ears were no longer sharp, and I had tuned the strings wrongly. It turns out that they asked young Ha to fix the strings again at the Opera, the Musicians’ Association, the Voice of Vietnam studio, and the concert room of the Conservatory. (Ha used to be his apprentice who’d been sent to the Czech Republic for a one-year refresher course, and had replaced him to take care of pianos in the Conservatory. However it was his responsibility to tune the pianos for special occasions.) You know I have to depend totally on my ears. And as they are failing now, I am out of work. Deaf Beethoven could compose music because he could hear it in his head. I need to hear the actual sounds distinctly. Maybe, it is also true that you also kept silent after I tuned this piano wrongly the last time I came here out of pity. Isn’t that so?

She kept silent for a while, then answered in an undertone: "No. I found it correct."

She looked at the old man with sorrow. She did not have the courage to tell the truth. She knew, not only last month, but long before, that his very sensible ears had begun to fail. However, she did not want anyone else to touch her beloved piano. She understood the pride he took in doing this, and the love he had for his work. It was his happiness and raison d’etre for living. For more than 50 years his passion for the piano had been undiminished. Besides, he did not do anything else to earn a living. Society needed him just like he needed those pianos to live. For all these years, people saw him ride on a battered bicycle to the Conservatory at O Cho Dua, to the gymnasium of the Dancing school at Mai Dich, and at concert halls in the city. Many times he was taken by car or by plane to a distant city to tune a piano. Usually, after the work was done, he stayed on for a few days to enjoy the achievements of his labour. He would proudly and happily listen to the artists’ performance, or gaze at ballerinas dancing on their toes to the sounds of the piano that he had tuned to perfection. He would be surprised and guilty at the slightest fault that his sharp ears could detect.

Over the past ten years, as the country opened to the outside world, many bars and hotels vied with one another to buy expensive pianos and hire students from the Conservatory. Those pianos needed regular maintenance. And as a rule, they invited him to do it. But he usually asked Ha or his friends to do it for him, though the fee was much higher. For them, it was some nonsensical work to be done by old and retired people. To do them justice, few outsiders could understand the value of his work. But this was not the case with true artists. They set great store by him, and regarded him a master. After a performance many world famous pianists had sought him out, shaken hands and thanked him. The small gifts that they gave was a prized collection that was given pride of place in his house.

Like her, he lived alone. In fact, he had lived by himself all his life. Nobody knew why, and he never explained. Rumour had it that he loved her, very deeply. But as she was a success and a beauty, she was rich, and he.... He knew his fate and never declared his love. People asked both of them whether it was true, but they always smiled instead of replying. They never raised the question themselves. For so many years they were want to treat each other as friends and it seemed they were content thus.

"And what do you intend to do. Without fixing the pianos, what will you do?"

"I don’t know. Perhaps I cannot live in Hanoi. The pianos here sadden me.

I have a relative in the midlands of Phu Tho. I intend to spend the rest of my life there, enjoying gardening and breeding hens. That’s all right, isn’t it? What do you think?"

"I think you suffer from some mental disorder. Not only is there a problem with your ears, but also with your brain." She was smiling, but her heart was not fully in it. "Do you think that it will be easy to live in the countryside after living all these years in the capital?

"You will see".

"It is up to you. But is this why you just played Farewell?"

"Yes."

"But you played badly and stopped mid-way."

"That right." He answered sadly. "Because I did not play it for a long time, I’d forgotten. And it is so difficult."

"When are you leaving?"

"Next week. I have made all the arrangements. Today I come here to bid you farewell."

They sat in silence.

"I want to ask you this. All these years you’ve only played the For Elise and Sadness. Why?"

"Haven’t you ever guessed?" He asked softly, not looking up at her.

"Never." She answered. "And why should I? One should tell openly what one thinks, isn’t it better?"

They fell into silence again. The silence lasted longer than before. Finally, he spoke, hesitatingly.

"Could you play any piece of music for me? You’ve never played something special for me."

She raised her eyebrows, but did not say anything. She stood up, walked to the piano and sat down, every movement carrying aristocratic grace. It was as though in front of her was not her old friend, but the knowledgeable audience of the Opera. She placed her wrinkled but fine hands on the keys of the piano that had turned from white to ivory, her head proudly tilted back. The ancient piano vibrated with strong and distinct notes. It was amazing that such a small and old woman could produce such strong and wonderful sounds. She played with passion, her eyes half closed, swept away by that grand, melodious and attractive music.

He recognised it immediately. Prelude and Fugue No 29 by Bach. It was a piece of music difficult to perform, both technically and emotionally. It was this that he had failed during the exam at the Paris Conservatory that chilly winter. All connoisseurs loved this piece of music. For him, it was the apogee not only of Bach’s music, but also of piano music itself.

She had finished the grand Prelude and shifted to the lyrical Fugue, the best part of the piece. The music was intertwined, and responded to each other like unfinished messages of love. The pure and sacred notes enchanted him, and his eyes were filled with tears, from when he did not know. He started, wishing she had not seen his tears, lost in the music she was creating.

***

A month later, on the fifteenth day of the lunar month, he returned from Phu Tho and came to see her.

"How is your business over there?" She asked did not seem to be surprised at his return.

"It is as usual. Everything is all right. What about you?"

"What change can I have? Didn’t you bring your tools with you?"

"No. I missed Hanoi so much, I missed the piano so much. But I intend to stay here for one day then I must go back there."

"It would be regrettable."

"Why so? What is wrong with your piano?" He sighed. "I’m sorry that I can no longer lend you a hand. My ears have gone wrong, as you know. Let me tell young Ha... "

"No, your ears are as good as before," she cut in. "Moreover, my piano has got used to your hands. It is too old and weak. It should be given regular care. Without you, it seems it is not itself. Haven’t you ever thought of that?"

He was at a loss. She stepped forward and looked straight into his eyes. Her voice was very serious as she spoke. "I have a suggestion. If you think it all right you can accept it, and if not, you can reject it. It is up to you. My piano needs fixing every day. To save time, you could stay here to do that. What do you think?"

He understood. It was a great surprise, he kept silent for a while, then said hesitatingly: "But your piano and I are old. I think that it will not be proper to do so... "

"Nonsense again! Although your ears are good, your brain is sometimes out of order."

And as if to spare him the embarrassment, she sat down at the piano, as aristocratic as ever.

"What did you play just now? I have never heard it before." He asked when she finished.

"That was the The old man and the piano. I have composed it for you. It was an impulse. This is the first time I have composed music. It’s amateurish and is composed under force of circumstances. The old man is you, a mentally disturbed but pleasant old man. And the piano is: you can guess. The old man and the piano is an interesting name, isn’t it ?"