The House of Silence (22 page)

The violinmaker, who at first had looked at me with distrust and mockery, was waiting for me with tea and cookies prepared, and he asked me to sit down and said things like, ma'am, I'll bring out your instrument in a moment, it's all ready, and I don't know what else. But I felt like getting back at him and I said, no, thanks, give me the Stainer and the copy, I want to have a good look at it, and if everything is as it should be, I'll pay you what I owe you and
I'll be on my way. And he bowed down to the floor, well, not to the floor, but almost, and then he went to find the violins and he brought them to me, and first I made sure that he hadn't done anything to the Stainer and I checked the signature and everything, looking through the long hole, and then I looked at the other instrument and, God, it was really identical to the Stainer, it was hard to tell the difference except for the signature, and the sound, of course. And I know because I played it a little bit in front of that violinmaker, who stood there with his mouth open. And, with his mouth still open, I paid him what I owed him, and said thank you and goodbye. And I returned the Stainer to Mark's house a day before they came back from their stay at the spa with his wife much better, and he called me to say, so, was everything in order? Everything in order, sir . . . I mean, Mark. I can never thank you enough for all you've done for me, Maria, he then said. No need, I replied, condescendingly, and to myself I thought,
you've already thanked me, you have no idea.

The other violin also had soul, I discovered. Mr. Karl, I still don't understand how we can see violins' souls and not people's. But the form our souls take makes flying much easier, of course, and when mine leaves me it will rush off to find you. And, when we've found each other, we'll have hot chocolate with whipped cream in the kitchen of our house made of colorful clouds. And, if you'd like, you can have ladies on active duty, sir, it doesn't bother me at all. People can get used to anything. And it's been so many years.

I didn't know when I could switch one violin for the other, and a lot of time passed, and finally I thought that maybe I never would pull it off because I was getting old, but, well, at least I could
pretend I was playing the Stainer because it really did look so much like it, and now I practiced with the new violin—and even though it wasn't the Stainer, it sounded good, very good. And when I'd pretty much accepted that I would never be able to get my violin back, because it is mine, because you gave it to me, well, when I thought I'd never get it back, Mr. Mark called me to tell me about the concert in Berlin and asked me to go, saying that it would please him very much. And I said, but what about Mrs. Anna? And it seemed he wasn't so hung up on her anymore, pfff, forget about her, he said, I want you to come. And I said no, and he said yes, and no and yes, and in the end the idea came to me and I said, okay, I'll come.

I was very tired and my stomach was starting to hurt. But just a little bit, and I didn't give it much importance. And, besides, I wanted to do the job, and I wanted to do it well. I remember that when I was planning it, I would sing that bit about, “Here I go, cleaning the house, cleaning up the whole house . . .” because Mr. Mark had told me that in Berlin they would play the Sunday morning music, that that was the whole point, and it had lyrics because I had added them, except then they didn't have the music in the background to go along with them. And one day, Mr. Karl, you know what, well, I went to a record store, and I asked if they had that music, and I sang a little bit of it, and the salesperson blushed and went to ask someone else who worked there, and finally the one in charge of classical music came over and said, oh, you mean the concerto for two violins, by Bach. Exactly, I exclaimed, because the part about the two violins fit perfectly with my idea, of course; you played that music with two violinists, so that must be it. And
then I bought the record, actually it was one of those little ones, CDs they call them, one that I could play on my stereo, and I went home and from then on I had music to accompany my singing. But, Mr. Karl, every time I put on that Bach CD I would cry my eyes out because I could see you, standing there, big and tall, laughing and scooping up spoonfuls of hot chocolate, I don't know why I saw you laughing and scooping up spoonfuls of hot chocolate. Like now, I see you dipping your spoon in it again, it's as if you never do anything else, eh, you've never stopped doing it all these years, but I didn't make it for you this time, because I can't move, and I think I have something on my face, in my mouth and neck, right now I couldn't swallow a thing. Blessed Virgin of the Macarena, I wish they'd take these things off me for a little while and I would go with you, I'm fed up with all this. If I could move, I'd take them off myself and end this story, but I can't move, I can't manage to make the effort I need to rip out this tube for once and for all.

I bought a ticket for a flight one day earlier, and I told Mr. Mark that oh, I have a sister who lives in Berlin, and she told me to come the day before to spend some time with her. Of course, I have no sister here, I don't even have a sister, and all of my family stayed in Andalusia when I went up to Barcelona, but Mr. Mark believed it hook, line, and sinker. He asked me if I had a ticket, and I said I did. He told me that he had also bought one for me, but that I shouldn't worry, he could cancel it. But, Maria, you're full of surprises, he said, slightly chiding me, I didn't think you even knew how to buy a plane ticket. He told me over the telephone and I laughed a little as I thought,
Who do you think bought your father's tickets?
but I didn't say anything, no. I had gone to the agency, the same one as ever. I'd
had to drag myself over there, that was a month ago, well, a month before I ended up here, of course. Because I don't know how long I've been here, I don't know if it's been an hour or twenty days or three months, oh, lord, I'm so exhausted and confused. And I found another travel agency closer to my house, but I wanted the one I'd always used, and I went there. And when I was there I looked to see if I knew anyone, and yes, there was still an older man who I knew, oh, he wasn't as old as you or I, Mr. Karl, but he was the man who'd replaced the woman who used to help me when she retired. And he helped me with everything, he gave me the tickets, both ways, apart from the group, because I don't even know how many people came to Berlin. Boy, it was like when you came with the whole orchestra, but I didn't buy the tickets then; it was too complicated. And the man at the travel agency, who had me sit down and treated me very well, he also found a hotel for me to stay in that one night before the others arrived.

And that was how we did it, Mr. Karl. Are you surprised? I can see that you're not. The day I came to Berlin I took the copy of the Stainer to the theater. I went there in a taxi, and they held it in the coat check for a modest price after a bit of back and forth in gestures with the girl in charge. In fact, I didn't know when to do the switch, but I had gotten it in my head that I would do it here, in Berlin, for you and for everything, and also because Miss Teresa has suffered so much in this life, poor thing. It's true that Miss Anna has also suffered, and maybe she's suffered more than any of us, but you'll agree with me that she needs to take a good fall so she can learn to get up again with a different attitude. Don't look at me like that, it cuts me to the quick, and deep down you know I'm right.

And they arrived the next day, and we all met up at the hotel, and Mrs. Anna made such a scene, you can't even imagine, it was as if I gave her a rash, and all I was doing was sitting in a chair because all the coming and going had left me worn out, and they were discussing the details of how and when they would rehearse and how they would get to the theater and all that. And that was when, at lunchtime on the first day, they mentioned in passing that Miss Anna had the habit of rehearsing in her dressing room before a performance and then, at the last minute, she would leave her violin by the stage entrance and go out for some air. She even blushed when someone laughed a little, because the orchestra, I saw that clearly, made fun of her all the time, laughing under their breath, and I don't know if she realized it. But she would lift her nose more and more, pointing it upward, and since hers is so narrow and small, it looked like a needle. I just don't know, Mr. Karl, how you could have her on active duty, because that woman is just so stuck-up. Anyway, I'm not going to reproach you for that now, don't worry.

The rest was more or less easy. I wasn't counting on not feeling well, that wasn't in my plans, and I started to feel very bad, Mr. Karl, really very bad, because my stomach was on fire and it was terrible, worse and worse, and sometimes I couldn't even breathe at all, but I had to last long enough to make the switch, and make it here, in Berlin, and I did it. When I had done it, I left because I could barely stand and I didn't want to hear Mrs. Anna's reaction when she started to play the Bach concerto. I had already had my fun, and that would have been too much, they would have found me dead right there in my seat, and that wouldn't be right. It seems rude to die in a
theater, and I was dressed in a very, very fancy long dress that I think is here in the wardrobe too, next to the violin. So I left, I went by the coat check, got back the Stainer that I had left there earlier, planning to pick it up the next day, but in the end I took it with me. I picked it up because I couldn't take any more, Mr. Karl. Once I'd done what I had to do, I felt myself dying. I touched the letter, your letter, which I've been carrying with me ever since you gave it to me, the one that's now in the drawer of the bedside table, ready to be sent to Miss Teresa, and I won't tell you where I carried it because now I'm embarrassed. But you can imagine, and I said to myself that there was one more thing I needed to do before I left this world. And I stopped a taxi and I said, best I could, take me to Kollwitzplatz. And, I know it's hard to believe, but he understood me.

There was a tree with a pointy top, Mr. Karl, with a bench beneath it. A pretty tree, even though it was dark and had no real charm. I reached it along a path of leaves that blew up into the air with each step because I couldn't lift my feet off the ground. The violin weighed heavily on me, I didn't know how this would end, but I knew what I had to do.

There, beneath the pointy yellow tree, I began to play the peasant girl and the shepherd. I could barely breathe, I could barely move, my whole body was in pain, but I put the violin on my shoulder, the violin that Mrs. Anna had tuned perfectly. Everything was wet, but it wasn't raining and the moon had risen, round as an orange, a moon that caressed my face as if it were your hand, as if you were stroking me yourself. I closed my eyes and I played the Stainer. The violin did its magic, and all of a sudden, I was no longer in that park but beside the piano, in the living room, with
you. And I imagined myself dressed up as a peasant girl, and you dressed as a shepherd. The hot tears warmed my freezing cheeks, because you know, Mr. Karl, this city of yours is the city of cold. And I couldn't stop crying. And the song continued, to its end. And, when it was finished, you got up and came by my side and you said, take off your uniform, please.

And I don't know anything more than that, I don't know what happened. Now, look, I've managed to open my eyes. There is no one here and now that I've regained some consciousness, I realize that, with a bit of effort, I can pull out this tube that's so uncomfortable. I'm going to give it a try. If I succeed, Mr. Karl, I'll come to be with you forever among the colorful clouds, and not even my soul will be left down here.

Maria,

I'm not one for writing letters. I only write music and I'm not sure I can even remember how to string together an entire line. But there is something that I want to tell you and I haven't dared in all this time, so I finally opted to write it out on this paper and, since I'm such a coward, I'll give it to you right as I'm leaving for a few days.

The violin that you threw onto the garbage cart by mistake forty years ago is now yours. I got it back for you. Keep it and play those German songs you play so well, as often as you can, especially the one about the peasant girl and the shepherd. You play with a delicacy that I've never heard from anyone else, ever. And all you were missing was a violin like the Stainer. When my father brought it back from Salzburg and gave it to me, I never imagined it would end up in the hands of someone who made it sound so lovely. Yes, I know that you don't have the agility or the perfect technique of other violinists because you haven't had the opportunities that other musicians have had. But you do have what many would kill for: the ability to leave breathless whoever listens to you play. Like me, for example. You've made me cry, Maria, and you don't know how hard it is to make a musician cry . . .

But that's not what I wanted to tell you. What I wanted to tell you, Maria, is that you have captured my soul. Perhaps that's why you play so well: because you have two souls, mine and your own. For forty years you have moved silently by my side, you've made me feel so at home in this house, you've made sure I never lacked for anything, you've made me that exquisite hot chocolate that I enjoy mostly for the pleasure of some time conversing with you . . . you who've laughed and cried with me . . . you have truly touched my heart. I realized it the first day when you played our song so beautifully . . . the day I asked you to take off your uniform. I had to leave to keep from taking it off myself, it was very hard for me to hold myself back. Imagine what you would have thought of me if I had, if I'd taken off your uniform right there, when you already think God knows what about the way I live my life . . . Maria, I've tried to get you out of my head, but I cannot. And this is the first time that's ever happened to me: I met my wife when I was very young and in special circumstances. I fell in love, that's true, but I don't know if I was drawn into it by the atmosphere and by everything that was happening around us in those days. And all the other women who I've slept with have been nothing more than moments of musical intensity . . . it was like changing tone in the same composition . . . I don't know if I'm explaining myself well, and I don't know if you've ever fully understood it, but I don't know how to say it any other way. But, with you, recently, I've had to stifle my desire to kiss your hands and your face and your everything, every day, and my desire to tell you how I feel. My desire to tell you that I love you. Forgive my honesty, it's how I feel and I can no longer keep it to myself, even though I don't dare say it to your face.