The Real Sumgai
A pianist buys some sheet music and an old Waterman with a music nib in a Manhattan antique shop, and the pen leads the narrator to the mother who gave them up for adoption.
It was not my plan to walk in Nasten's Antique Store in Manhattan that Tuesday morning, the music books in the window caught my attention and of course, I just had to walk in. Between the aromas of old books and dusty shelves, my sinuses were painfully advising me to get out. Of course, I would not let a little pain in my skull which would soon be a massive migraine stop me from perusing the orchestrations on the banged up roll top desk. Sifting through the sheets of music I found an interesting piece called "We'll Always Have Paris". As a second rate pianist who could easily sight-read, I found the piece to be absolutely lovely.
In the front where the cash register stood was Mrs. Nasten. A woman who looked every one of her 75 years with fingers curled from arthritis and nails yellow from years of smoking unfiltered Camels. Her thick cough stopped long enough for her to speak in the raspy voice of a woman who has smoked for 50 years telling me I can try out the music on the old piano near the display case. It was my first time in the shop. In the back, the piano that she played so many years ago had not been touched in a very long time. Between the dust on the keys and the broken bench, it was easy to see how no one took her for a spin in a while.
The sheet music was placed on the music desk of the upright and I played this beautiful tune. It was haunting. Of a woman who longed for her lover who was never to return again as she wringed her hands in agony. With tears shed during an autumn night under a full moon where the cries from unrequited love stopped every night creature. Then the slow march to solace from despair finishing with a longing never to be healed, never to be forgotten, never to love again.
When my composure was regained Mrs. Nasten came by telling me there were other sheet music pieces by this composer. I took them sight unseen.
As the items were placed in a folder for me Mrs. Nasten took out a box holding a pen. She opened it and it was none like I had ever seen before.
"This belonged to her," replied Mrs. Frayter, "she wrote those pieces with this pen. She loves this old black Waterman. Look at the art deco clip. It works using this lever. They don't make them like this anymore. I remember when I used a Waterman. Used them all the time. Loved them, best pen ever. This one was hers." Uncapping the pen revealed a strange shaped point on it, she turned briefly to cough for a bit, then faced me again. "This is the nib honey. You fill up the pen putting it into a jar of fountain pen ink, the pen sucks it up and you write with it until it runs out of ink and fill it up again. When it was left here, my late husband restored it and it is as good as new. He owned a stationary shop back in the late 40s when he was just 19. I met him in 1955 and it was love at first sight. That piano in the back was mine. I cannot play anymore but I always kept it in tune. The music you were playing was the music of a student of mine. Laura Rafaela. Nice kid. Was going to be a big star but met up with a guy who gave her a gift and then fled town when she told him it was his. She had the baby and then the day after her birth she was adopted by a couple. She came by a few days later, left me her music and the pen and fled. The pen belonged to her mother who was a concert pianist and gave it to her." She spoke long enough and then the coughing began and she needed to sit down.
"How many years ago was this?" I asked.
"Well, must have been 1955, or was it 56, maybe 57, or 58, I don't remember the exact year when she was born, but her mother lived in the brownstone on 76th Street around the corner. Mom played a few times at Carnegie Hall in the recitals then went to work in the orchestra of a few Broadway shows. It paid her pretty well and I gave Laura piano lessons in the 60s when she was a tyke old, barely enough to sit down on that bench at that piano in the bench until she was accepted into Music and Art High School in the 70s. She moved on to a much better teacher because she needed one. She was going to go to Julliard when she graduated."
This was getting a bit intriguing. "Please go on Mrs. Nasten."
"She started hanging around with some guys in her senior year and one of them said I love you. It was a brief affair from what I can remember. He was older and easily took advantage of her. She was supposed to start college at Julliard in the fall but instead had a baby on the way. Her mother sent her away and I took care of her until the baby was born in October, I don't remember the year, 74, 75, 76, 77 something like that. When she had the baby, a girl, she was placed up for adoption and the agency took her. A nice family from the city took her in and that was the last I saw of the baby. The music that you played was written during the time she stayed with me and Lou. I took her to the hospital. She had the baby, signed her away, said goodbye and that was that. Never saw her or heard from her again. Sometimes though in my sleep, I dream of her, I hear voice. But they are just dreams."
"How much for the pen and the music?" My heart was racing. I wondered if I skipped a beat or more.
"Take everything for 75 dollars. Look at the nib, it is a music nib. You use it to write music. You can write letters but you use it to write the notes on the music paper. I got an old bottle of ink here, you can have it too. Might as well give the pen a home. I won't be using it. Might as well give it a home. See on the side, her name? My husband engraved her name on there in the 60s. Laura Rafaela. That's Helvetica print. My husband loved engraving pens, pens needed to be personalized, that way you knew it belonged to you."
She showed me how to fill the pen, clean off the drops, and use it to write then empty and fill with water to clean. I bid her farewell. I wanted to play the music.
As I mentioned earlier, I am a rather second rate pianist who took lessons as a child but lacked the skill to be able to perform on the big stage. I was better at guitar than the piano earning a nice living playing weddings on weekends with my trio. During the week I worked part time as a freelance paralegal for a wonderful law firm. I was paid quite well by them working about 24 hours a week and they took care of my medical. It also helped that my brother was the senior partner. I had enough time to go off to exotic NY and NJ venues to sing to my heart's content with my group while couples marched down the aisle hand in hand. The Irene Williams Trio was quite well known. We were booked for over a year in advance. I was lucky to have parents who saw some musical aptitude making sure I had lessons.
Getting home to my apartment in Queens from Manhattan later that day after going to an afternoon recital at Lincoln Center energized me. I knocked on the door of my neighbor Mrs. Ida Tremont and asked if I could play her piano for a bit. She was a rather lonely senior citizen who was sweet, who made wonderful coffee and made sure I had chicken soup when I was sick said, "of course".
I played all of the music, 11 songs in all. I was drained. I was emotional. I was distraught. I was angry. I was alone. I was not alone. I wanted to escape to my room. I felt the angst of a teenager who had no one to turn to when she was alone and pregnant during the turbulent years of the 70s. There was so much pain. Mrs. Tremont also felt the pain. She made a small meal but our small talk was about my day. We both knew I needed to go home and have a glass of wine. I showed her the pen I purchased and she said it was lovely. She too owned a Waterman as a teenager but preferred her Sheaffer pens until the ballpoint made life less messy for her.
In my bed I tossed and turned. Then walked to the living room, sat down, then back to bed. Back to the living room and my guitar was removed from its case. With the fountain pen in my hand I composed a piece for guitar. I took out my sheet music, wrote the notes and chords writing a classical tune, my first in a long time. I went to bed finally and slept a dreamless night. I never wrote a song such as the one I just composed. My hands just flew on the paper. Each note was written with my pen knowing what to place on the paper.
In the morning, I went over to my guitar and started to write another song. I loved holding the pen, getting variation and flair to my writing. It was incredible. When I held it in my hand, I felt different. I do not know what it was, but I felt different. I wrote differently and what I had written was oh so different. It was as if, something from the past needed to be heard.
After breakfast, I went to my friend Google asking it to find Laura Rafaela. No trick of mine could find her. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all. I knew I had to see Mrs. Nasten.
I took the trip into Manhattan walking briskly to the antique shop. Arriving at the storefront I saw the place empty. It looked as though it had been empty for over 6 months. The sign in the window said to lease or rent just call this number. I did learning it had been empty for almost 4 months. Mrs. Nasten had died and a woman came and carted everything away. I asked if they had the phone number for her and it was given to me. The number was called but the phone had been disconnected with no forwarding number. I just needed to go home.
The next day I had an appointment to interview a couple that wanted to book the group for a party. I get up to the apartment and the door opens and I see the wife. We stare at one another in shock. She looks at me and both of our jaws drop. We look like one another. I mean, we look like each other right down to the cleft in our chins and the adorable dimple in our right cheek. Our eye color is the same and one eyebrow is up in the air. When we finally stop staring and the desire to faint is over, I come into the apartment and sit down. The husband comes into the room, drops the pitcher of water in his hand and looks at both of us. Now things are getting quite strange.
"We kind of look like each other don't we?" I asked to try to break the tension. The woman whose name was Kansas answered back, "Yeah, this is weird. I need to sit down. No! I need to get my mother, come in. Just let me get her."
Out of the bedroom comes a woman who looks like me. She was older, about 18 years older than me. She looks at me, looks at Kansas, looks at her son in law Gui, and sits down by the piano. She starts to play a song named which was familiar. It was the one from the sheet music that I purchased the other day. I looked at her and handed her the pen that was in my pocket.
"I believe this is yours?"
"Yes, it is. I could not find it when my teacher's store closed months ago. I have been unable to write since I left it behind. Mrs. Nasten was a wonderful woman. Did she visit you too?"
"Yes she did."
"Good. Sit by my side so I can tell you a story. I was a teenager who loved a man who was not right for me. He left me when I told him I was pregnant. I chose to have the baby and then move on. I did move on. I met someone else. We married then divorced. We divorced. I had a second daughter who I chose not to give up for adoption. It was a hard life being a single parent. I wanted to search for you but I could not. The records were sealed. I met a psychic who told me to send out to the universe that I was in search of my first-born. I did. Mrs. Nasten heard the call. She opened her store once again, one last time, just for you to make an appearance. She brought us together and now my family is complete. You will play for the party that I planned to announce to everyone that I found my daughter. Take the pen and let us write a song together."
And we did.
We performed together in concert venues over the next two years. We composed music that made that made very wealthy. I found the woman who put me up for adoption. I found my birth mom.
Epilogue
It has been two years since I purchased the music pen with the name Laura Rafaela on it. It is a great pen indeed. I use it daily for my journal and my music is brought to life thanks to it. Yesterday I passed by a small antique shop on the Lower Eastside of NY called Gussie and Dave's. I walked into the place and looked around. In a cup was a pen that caught my eye. It was a Waterman, very pretty, very lovely medium blue with a music nib. I purchased the pen to see what kind of luck it would give me for the future. There was an interesting inscription around the barrel. "To my lovely wife Betty on our wedding day, with love, Lou Nasten".