The Spare Room Comes with Applause

How it begins

The first applause came through Mira's floorboards while she was deciding where to put the piano.

It was not a large piano. She had measured the room three times and argued with the removal company twice. Still, every possible position made the bed look like an apology.

Below her, someone told a joke about a man buying a canoe.

Silence.

Then one person clapped.

Mira sat on the piano stool and played three sympathetic notes.

A knock came almost immediately.

The landlord stood outside holding a microphone and half a sandwich.

“Did you do that?”

“I can stop.”

“Please don't. It's the best response he's had all evening.”

His name was Gus. According to the tenancy advertisement, he managed a performance venue. Mira had imagined a small theater, perhaps experimental dance. She had not imagined a room of people paying to watch someone reconsider his canoe purchase.

“I need practice hours,” she said.

“I need something that sounds like confidence.”

He looked past her at the piano, then at the bed wedged behind it.

“Also, apparently, a smaller wardrobe.”

They went downstairs after the show. The club smelled of old wood and warm lights. Four empty tables faced a stage no bigger than a respectable kitchen.

Gus tried a joke.

Mira waited.

He tried another.

She played a brief descending scale.

He laughed first. Then she did.

The sound surprised her. For six months she had practiced in borrowed rooms, apologizing for the hours, the instrument and the amount of herself it required. Here was a room designed for noise, with an owner who looked pleased that she had made some.

Gus put the microphone down.

“What if we had an arrangement?”

She looked at the empty tables.

“Written down.”

“Absolutely.”

“With actual quiet hours.”

“Yes.”

“And no jokes about pianists.”

He considered this.

“Could be a difficult commercial restriction.”

Mira played the descending scale again. This time he bowed.