THE PROFANE PIANO TUNER

6 9 R T H E P R O F A N E P I A N O T U N E R M A R Y J O S A L T E R I finally let him go, the man who’d tune our innocent piano twice a year or so. He knew his stu√, and for a while, that was enough: I’d leave the room so that he could hit B flat again and shout, You little shit, Come on you bastard, pounding and pounding it. Hour after hour he’d swear You filthy whore, Oh don’t you dare, You stinking, stupid bitch – a litany of abuses which he couldn’t hear, though blessed with perfect pitch. One day I understood. Why pretend I’d tuned him out? What good could come from smiling through profanities like black, ill-tempered keys against the white – black rage in twos and threes? He said when he was done: A perfect day! Hey look, we’ve got some sun. I answered We’re in luck! and handed him his check and watched his truck back out the driveway, thinking You dumb fuck, 7 0 Y not knowing I would think that. Very strange. My daughter, who’d been out of range all day at school, sailed in and sat down, lifted up her profile, and played a Chopin prelude like an angel. ...