I have had an electric piano standing no further than a meter from my monitor for many years, both at home and at work. When I go on business trips and get stuck there for weeks, I start to crave playing and look for a place in the city to play. Almost every trip, I find something somewhere without much trouble. This year has not been great for business trips, but there is a story from past years.
So here I am in city X. I punch in the conservatory on the map. Found it! The doors are open, four floors, no security (as usual everywhere in Europe and the U.S.). I ask the students if I can play here. Yes, says a girl, downstairs in the basement there are practice rooms on two levels. Many of the rooms are locked, but there are some that are open. “If there’s no one there, then probably no one will kick you out.” Small rooms with good pianos.
I settle into one of them, playing to my heart’s content. An hour, another.
And then I go out to the restroom, and for some reason, I slam the door behind me. It clicks, locks, and the electronic lock beeps. I already understand what has happened. Even before touching the handle. The doors there open with cards, close automatically, and some students just don’t bother to close them behind them. That’s why so many doors are open. Until you close them.
All my stuff is inside. There’s a backpack, laptop, passport, hotel keys, bike keys, well, everything. For the next 10 minutes, I look for at least one student to help. Inside many of the rooms, someone is there, but the doors are closed. Hooray! One is walking down the corridor. I ask.
“No way,” he replies. “Here, the cards only open the rooms we reserve in advance through the website.”
I go upstairs to give up. There, under the “information” sign in the “aquarium,” sits an old man. I try to explain in English that my things are inside, the door is locked, I want to get back. He doesn’t understand me, because English is not the native language in that country. Took 10 minutes to try to explain with gestures. Unsuccessful. And suddenly:
“So you speak Russian? Great, start over, I didn’t understand a thing. What are you even doing here?”
I explain. In Russian, he understands! Simply a lifesaver.
We go downstairs. Two floors down and a long corridor. We’re silent. I try to smooth it over:
“Decided to drop by, see how modern students are learning, and here’s a piano in an empty room. How could I not play it. And how can I do this officially? I’m willing to pay a little somewhere.”
“No way,” the old man replies. “Actually, non-students are not supposed to play here. But, hmm.. On the other hand, there’s really no one to forbid you to play here, nor to keep an eye on it.”
“When I lived in Moscow, I used to go to the Bolshoi Theatre,” he continues. “So I really understand you, but formally I can’t allow it.”
He opened the door, I took my things, but the weekend was over, no more time was found, and I never made it back to that conservatory.
Hi, I'm Rauf Aliev. 