Last night was the last night of twelve years of piano lessons in five countries.
Stefan's first piano teacher, Mireille, was a Julliard-student-child-protege. After living in the U.S. her entire life, she had been deported, forced to move back to her birth country of Niger, because her Christian-missionary parents had never legally adopted her. We borrowed a keyboard from the neighbors, and the first piece Stefan learned was "Fur Elise." He played frequently, many times throughout the day, not so much practicing as figuring things out, which maybe is the same thing.
When we moved to Moscow, I gained 500 pounds: we had our Petrov piano sent to us from storage. Kyril was Stefan's second piano teacher, an award-winning Beethoven concert specialist from the Tchaikovsky conservatory who wore a long black coat, carried a man bag, and taught Stefan to transpose every piece he learned. Stefan learned many pieces, and started composing, which Kyril discouraged because this guy didn't fool around with composing until you can play the Beethoven's entire oeuvre in every key.
In Bucharest, we found a gypsy-orphan piano teacher named Triain. In spite of growing up in a Romanian orphanage, Triain went to college and got a degree in music. He was so playful, so musical, and his approach with wild metaphors ("pretend you are giving a girl a flower") pure fun. Stefan learned what seems like hundreds of pieces from Shostakovitch to the Japanese composer Yarumi's A River Flows in You, (which I requested so often he pretty much now refuses to play it.) Triaian said Stefan was "made for music" and at times, whether because of Stefan's genius, or Triain needing the money, Stefan had lessons twice a week.
If we had eaten dinner before piano lessons, Triain would always comment on the food, and we frequently had him join us for a meal, or offered him a plate of what we had had for dinner. He would eat every last bite we served, including once using a spoon to finish off half a jar of mustard. He loved the blanket we gave him for Christmas, and once showed up crying because his car had been damaged in a parking lot.
Triain was such a good piano teacher that we encouraged him to apply for a music teacher job that opened up at the American school. Once employed there, he acted like a crazy person, criticizing the other tenured music teacher in front of students and not showing up for work. He was let go before his 30-day probationary period was up. All the Americans who used him as a piano teacher and had recommended him, including my boss, were mortified. My boss continued to have him teach his children piano, until Triain ended the relationship, and his run with American-community goldmine, by exposing himself to my boss's child.
Sad story of a really good teacher who was raised in an orphanage but was never really socialized or learned boundaries.
When we arrived in Kyiv, Stefan was 12 and campaigned to not have piano lessons anymore. Why? So he could watch more Minecraft videos on Youtube?
My philosophy has always been that I didn't care if the weekly piano lesson was the one hour a week he played, I wanted him to have that one hour. And that one hour usually sparked hours of playing. I also had Stefan give input on the teacher we hired, and tried to have two teachers come out and give a sample lesson so Stefan could see who was the best fit for him. In Bucharest, the other potential teacher was more old school, and was a great teacher for the family across the street, but not for us. We needed a talented orphan misfit who would eventually totally sabotage himself.
In Kyiv, Roman knocked quietly on our door once a week, and wore the same sweater for three years. He was the son of the pianist for the national orchestra. He barely spoke any English, but he did say "mmm" and "very good" with a lot of soul. We helped him buy a car, (Peter got tired of push-starting the old one) and a computer, and gave him money when he had his third baby. I once mentioned to Stefan that Roman hadn't really done much as a teacher, and Stefan sat down at the piano and said, "What about this (plays Dubussy) and this (plays Wonderful World) and this (plays Rachmaninov)?!" Roman was so low-key I hardly noticed how far Stefan had progressed.
When we got to Muscat, at age 16, Stefan thought I was going to give up looking for a teacher. Are you kidding? This was going to be my last chance to force Stefan to have lessons from someone who barely speaks English, is psychologically damaged, and maybe whose car doesn't run. We got a recommendation from the ambassador's wife, and have had the pleasure of getting to know the organist and keyboard coordinator from the Royal Oman Symphony Orchestra, who disappoints only with his lack of problems. Stefan lately has been bringing the house alive with a beautiful Schubert piece he and the teacher have worked their way through.
He's written an opus piece for the dog, "There Goes Bea," created a song for a four piece band to play for 8th grade graduation, was invited to join the honors choir because the teacher heard him playing in a practice room, and composed a variation of the Russian national anthem because Triain refused to teach him the original. The piano at Spaso house, the American Ambassador's house in Moscow, has been played by Vladmir Horowitz, Ray Charles, Dave Brubeck and Stefan Chordas. He's written and forgotten more pieces that most people will ever play.
We said good bye to the piano teacher last night, but agreed that when Stefan is back for winter break, maybe he'll do some refresher classes. Before he leaves in a couple days, I'll have to have Stefan play one more time, at night, when he thinks the piano sounds better, before he leaves for college and the piano becomes very quiet. But at least for a while I won't have to pay for lessons, and by pay for lessons, I don't just mean the teacher. This year, I've had to pay Stefan (into his flying lesson account) as much as I pay the piano teacher.
Totally worth it.