An Old Theatre

A gentle touch on my left arm.  'Are you all right?' I heard her saying.  
 
'I'm fine, thanks.'
 
The inside of the theatre was like the Big Screen at the cinema: really steep, as in no good for anyone suffering from vertigo. I nearly missed a step. Everything slowed down, and I saw myself tripping, plummeting down to the bottom, head crashing against the steps: bang, bang, bang.  Then the déjà vu again.  
 
'You must be exhausted,' the girl said.  'I'll get you a cup of coffee before we go.'
 
A grand piano stood in the centre of a flat stage, several hundred feet down  - or, at least, it seemed like that from where I stood.  A man in miniature sat at the piano in the semi-dark, with the lid high, pounding his way through the final section of the Chopin Ballade.  I could just about make out shoulder-length hair, carefully groomed.  
 
Designer suit.  Aristocratic air.  I could tell that straightaway.    
 
I shivered and glanced around. How can I describe it?  I had been here before, standing in this spot, staring down at the man playing the piano in miniature.  Definitely.  Me and a group of musical kids from around the country watching the man play the piano on a stage  - this stage  - in a darkened theatre. Maybe a few years ago.  The same dark, musty dusty setting.    
 
Impossible.  
 
The next moment, the man at the piano seemed to vanish and a skeleton sat there, playing Chopin and then, a split second later, the man reappeared.  
 
Had I seen right?   What was going on?  'Who's the man?' I said.  
 
'The Head Of Studies,' the girl said.