The House of Silence (13 page)

Do you think she plays well? he asked me that day in the kitchen, to change the subject. I knew he was talking about Miss Teresa, but I pretended I didn't: Who do you mean, sir? Her, he clarified, and there I couldn't get out of it because we both knew
full well who “her” was in that moment, the woman who had been spending a lot of time on the sofa in the past few months, longer than the others had lasted, surely because they were preparing more concerts together, not just one, and so that extended their relationship. Mr. Karl, his mouth filled with hot chocolate and whipped cream, was waiting for my response, and I left him waiting, because I always thought,
What if I stick my foot in it?
because, obviously, he just kept asking me what I thought about how this one or the other one played, but I could make a mistake. I didn't dare to say anything about Miss Teresa at first: I don't understand, sir, I'm not one of you, I'm no musician, you should ask someone like—I ended my sentence there because he cut me off, banging his spoon against his cup and almost choking as he rushed to tell me, Maria, don't say that, you have an excellent ear and it's a shame you weren't born into a musical family. Then I piped up, with dignity, and said, pardon me, sir, but I
was
born into a musical family. He gave a start: Really? Yes, I answered, my parents were
cantaores
in Andalusia. Since he was shocked speechless, I explained: They played and sang the popular music of the South, flamenco music, and my mother danced, too, and they wanted me to dance and sing, but I left there when I was very young and I only ended up singing at my First Communion.

I could see that Mr. Karl was very surprised, and you didn't learn to read music? he asked. No, sir, I said, it was all by ear, we do it differently down there. I didn't know what else to tell him, and I wasn't sure why I had got into all that. Then he said, as if talking to himself, oh, now I understand why you sang at the beginning. I felt vindictive and, in an offended tone, I said, yes, but you didn't like it,
sir, and I stopped. He had already finished his hot chocolate, and I took away the cup and saucer to wash it. I was waiting for him to leave but he didn't, oh, Maria, now I feel bad after hearing that, he said in the end, but it was impossible for me to play or compose with you singing like that.

I didn't try to figure out what he meant by singing like that, I just let it go. Instead, I put down the rag for a moment to look at him and say, Mr. Karl, you taught me to make real music, and I'll never be able to thank you enough. I didn't know how else to tell him that I was deeply grateful, that was just how it came out. He muttered something and left. I remember that the days were short, that Christmas was approaching, because there were lights and joy on the streets, but it was already quite dark and it wasn't that late. I remember that, just as I was heading to my room, he rang the bell from the piano room, and I thought,
What does he want now?
I was tired, that day, I don't remember why, but I wanted to turn in for the night.

He was waiting for me beside the piano. First, he said, forgive me, but you didn't tell me what you think of her playing. He didn't say Teresa, just her, all the time. I'll get straight to the point, sir, she's the best you've ever had. Mr. Karl was still for a moment, then he nodded slightly. Then, without saying a thing, he handed me the violin. It's already tuned, he said. Please, play the song about the shepherd and the peasant girl. He had a strange expression and asked me as if it were a matter of life and death. I didn't dare reply and I picked up the violin, that student instrument that, in spite of everything, I knew had a soul and produced such sad sounds that they inevitably hurt when you tried to reproduce
them. I got ready to play, and then he said, one second, and he began an introduction on the piano. I don't know where it came from but I had never heard it before. At one point he lifted his chin to mark my entrance, just the way he did with all those other women; he wanted me to play with him the way they did, and he offered to accompany me like he did for them. I began and the first slide of the bow came out shaky, but that was it. It was like heaven with the piano. The room, the house, all of it, had ceased to exist; it was only me and Mr. Karl and the music, and the story of the love between a shepherd and a peasant girl that, according to what he'd told me, didn't end well. The sounds that I myself was making transported me to another world. I understood why they say that music calms the savage beast, I understood why they say that music has healing powers, I understood why they say all those things about music. I understood it that day, all of a sudden, playing a German song about a peasant girl and a shepherd with Mr. Karl.

When the song was over, I opened my eyes and he got up all of a sudden, in quite a state, as if he were having trouble breathing, as if he'd been very moved by the music. He came over to me and I stayed stock-still and I thought,
Holy Virgin of the Macarena, we're about to end up on the sofa.
Mr. Karl stopped in front of me. At first he didn't do anything, he was just a few inches from my face, rocking back and forth as if he were dizzy. Then, it seemed that he made up his mind, and he looked at me for a few seconds with an expression I'll never forget, and all he said was, take off your uniform please. I didn't make him ask twice and I put my hands
behind my back to untie my apron. He gave me a last look, one of those that fuse with your soul forever, and then he left. He went out of the room and, shortly afterwards, I heard the door to the street open and close behind him.

The hall is filled with people. When I made my entrance, the orchestra stood up and everyone applauded. I turn and look at the audience and am completely blinded because all the spotlights are on me. I have butterflies in my stomach, I always do before a concert, the adrenaline pumps up and down and ends up settling where it needs to settle to create that mix of excitement and fear. Later, we replace that fear with satisfaction; that must be what we are all looking for when we break out of our usual routine, when we do things that make us nervous, that shake us up, and that we do despite all that. That must be it.

I didn't think to ask if there was a microphone. I clear my throat and start to speak loudly, projecting so that everyone can hear me. Soon there is absolute silence.

“Good evening. As you all know, my father died ten years ago, on his way to Vienna, after conducting a concert identical to the one we will perform tonight, here in Berlin. My father was from East Germany, but he fled and settled in Barcelona. He was already
a well-known conductor and the Catalans offered him political asylum, a home, and the working conditions he needed. But he always wanted to come back here, and he was able to with a concert at the Staatsoper, where he had played and conducted in more difficult times. Now the theater is temporarily closed, which is why we are here, at the Schiller—”

I took in a large breath before continuing:

“This concert, as you've seen on the program, is a selection of baroque music that includes some of Monteverdi's
canzonettas,
some arias by Purcell and Handel, and a few short pieces by different composers in the first part. The second is devoted entirely to Bach, and it ends with the
Concerto for Two Violins
, a piece that meant so much to my father, and which we have chosen to play here with the same violinists he chose for the Berlin concert ten years ago. Thank you so much for your support.”

They applaud again and then there is silence, that silence before the start of a concert, that holding your breath before launching an attack, a musical attack. I had been wondering if I should talk to the audience about myself and my experiences in East Berlin, but in the end I decided not to. It's also exciting for me to come here, even though the renovations mean we are in the West at the Schiller instead of in the East at the Staatsoper, the Staatsoper where I had attended so many concerts and where I had also played the cello with the orchestra. But if I explain that, they won't understand why my father was in Barcelona and I wasn't, and then it all gets too complicated, and I don't want to make him look bad; after all, he didn't even know I existed.

I hope he didn't know, that is; there are always doubts about
what really happened, if he knew that my mother was pregnant and whether or not they told me the truth. I hope they did, and I believed my father's shocked face as he read the letter I brought to him in Barcelona from my mother, when he looked at me suspiciously as if he wasn't sure that I was really his son.

But Mark, how can you worry about such things now?
There's no point. We always have our doubts, always. I also doubt Anna sometimes; I know that there are things she hasn't told me and never will. I only know that she never lets me leave her side; it's as if she needs me constantly, and that sometimes feels like it's suffocating me—because I don't know how to live like that, I need my space and I need to work alone, I'm a musician. At first I thought that it would pass, but later, I realized it wouldn't, it wouldn't pass, because it was going on for too long. And now she's been grumbling because she wants to have a child, and I can't really imagine it. I don't have time to take care of a child and I don't think she does either, because she spends all her time with her Stainer. It's when she's practicing that I can slip away, because otherwise it's impossible. And, since she needs to rehearse for hours, I get the time I need. It's also good when she is working for someone else; they hire her more and more because they say she's the violinist with the most agile fingers in all of Europe. And I'm not sure she really is, but she is definitely agile and can play fast passages at supersonic speed. If the baroque composers could see her, they'd be amazed. I don't think there was anyone in that period who could play so fast. Now we do everything in a rush, rushing to try to get everything done in time, with the clock ticking, and Anna is that way too, sometimes only just managing to prepare in time for her concerts and tours.

How could we take care of a child under these conditions? It's impossible. And it doesn't make sense to have kids just to leave them with a governess; I think children should be with their parents. Besides, I suspect she only wants to have a kid to keep me with her. And since she's getting older, she must be worried that she's running out of time. And she really is running out of time, and she really should get on that. But not with me, no way, not with me.

This morning I took a pregnancy test and it came back positive. So I'm more nervous than ever about this concert. Mark and I are going to be parents. I know that he doesn't want to have kids, but I don't care. And when I go back to Barcelona, I'll go to the doctor so he can tell me what I need to do, because at my age you have to be extra careful with a pregnancy. Today, I feel like jumping for joy; today, everything is different, because I know that I'm going to have a child, and that Mark won't be able to leave my side.

I always get nervous when I'm waiting to start playing, it's true, but today is different: I'm even more nervous because I have to play Bach's double concerto, Karl's favorite piece. He knew it so well it was almost as if he'd composed it himself. I've stayed in the dressing room to avoid waiting at the stage door with Teresa; I already have to be next to her through the whole concert. Look, that way we'll both be more calm. That way I can also practice my part of the piece, even though she's the one who should be practicing, and instead she's just standing there, calm as can be, beside the stage.
How old must she be now? Something like sixty I'd guess, because she was already a lot older than me when I was her student. She won't be playing for much longer, no, she won't be able to. And she can't keep up with me; she's not fast enough. But Mark refused to listen to me and he had her come for this. He said that his father would have wanted it that way, and that there must be a reason for that. Honestly, I think she and I are like apples and oranges in every way, including musically. Teresa and I are absolutely nothing alike.

The little baby inside me must be starting to move even though it's a tiny little thing, like a pea or maybe even smaller, I don't know because I don't know about those things, but my little guy is in there and someday it'll be a child and maybe play the violin or maybe the cello like its father, or maybe the piano, or maybe it'll be an opera singer. Or maybe it won't be a musician, I don't know, but it will be my child and will stay with me all my life, and Mark will stay with us too; he'll stay with me and we'll parent together and have a family like no other in the world. A family like the one I never had, that has nothing to do with my mother, or my father, or Teresa.

That evil witch didn't even come to see me when I got out of the hospital. I asked the doctor not to allow any visitors. I did that so she would want to see me even more, so she would need me, and so, when I got out of the hospital, she would be there for me. And none of that came to pass. I had no one, I needed her and she didn't come. I hated her then as much as I do now. She forgot about me, she abandoned me, she left me to my fate, like everybody else. She totally deserves that I keep her Stainer and parade it around in front of her.

She also totally deserves to have lost her Maties. But I don't. When she told me that Papa had died, I thought my world was ending. What point was there to him dying and not me? I had done that so that we would both die at the same time, so we would leave this world united forever. And so she would find out that we had an accident and we were both dead and that she was left alone. And so Mama would find out some day too, even though at that point I didn't know if she was alive or dead. I only knew that on that day so many years ago, she had left all of a sudden, off to some paradise where there were no little girls who wiped snot on her dresses, and where there were surely men waiting to take her out, where she had someone like Clara on hand to hear her announce, around seven in the evening: Today, I won't be home for dinner.