The neighbors fed us for a few days. They didn’t have extra money, but the man worked—and, at least, they had enough to eat. Mother was so weak that she couldn’t sew while she was recovering. Now what will you do? the neighbor lady asked her in a whisper when she thought I couldn’t hear. At first mother began to cry—but then she said: As soon as I get better, I’ll find something; the girl needs me strong. And that was how Mother thought up our work at the dump.
Bach consumes me. Mark always looks me straight in the eye to tell me to start the first note, my job; the first note has always been my job since Mother died. She didn’t die then; she couldn’t afford to yet; she still had to raise me. She died a few years later, when I was already teaching at the conservatory and was no longer cleaning apartments—because for a while I cleaned like she did. By then our trips to the dump had stopped. There were ladies who looked for women to clean their apartments at the other end of the city, and they wanted you to work by the hour, a few each day. You would arrive there and do everything: iron, wash dishes, clean bathrooms. Then you’d pick up the kids after school and take them to the park for a little while.
I cleaned apartments and I played the violin.
Maria
Mrs. Anna made sure to put down her violin case so that it rammed into my legs. I guess she does that to make me complain, but I’ll never complain about not fitting into a taxi because of a violin, even if it’s the Stainer. She does everything in her power to make my life impossible. I suppose she does it so I’ll leave. She doesn’t know that I can’t leave now; I have to stay, because I have a job to do.
I made a mistake and threw the good violin into the trash. I don’t know how it happened. I mean, I know how it happened—because, really, he was the one who made the mistake: Throw out the violin that’s on the chair, he told me. I grabbed the violin that was on the chair and I threw it out. Now that I’m so slow to do anything, now that I drag behind as we walk to the taxi that will take us to the theater with the strange name—like everything in this city—I think of how quickly I grabbed that violin, and I went and threw it into the cart with all the trash. I was singing, since I was out of the house and he couldn’t hear me. And I went back to the house singing, calm as could be. Now when I think of it, my hair stands on end. Especially when I think about what Mr. Karl said.
He noticed a few hours later, when it was already time to go to sleep. Where is my Stainer, he said, because that was a violin that had a name and its name was Stainer, which was quite a mouthful. At the time I thought it was a very pretty name, but surprising for a violin. After a moment of shocked silence, I answered: Sir, you told me to throw it out. Then he was the one who was shocked. After looking at me incredulously, he let out: What are you saying, Maria? I told you to throw out the broken violin. He had a note of desperation in his voice, but I had no intention of letting myself be intimidated: No, sir, you told me to throw out the one on the chair, and that’s the one I threw out. Then Mr. Karl began to say O, mein Gott, O, mein Gott, and he kept saying mein Gott, looking all over for the other violin until he found it beneath the piano. He lifted it up with both hands and said, this is the violin to be thrown out. Petrified, I looked at the violin that wasn’t even a violin anymore because it was like inside out. Mr. Karl held it up in front of my face and told me: This is worthless; I left it out in the sun, and look. And I looked at it and it looked strange, like deformed, as if someone had sucked the lids from the inside. The truth is, if I hadn’t been feeling such terror and regret, I would have burst into laughter at that ludicrous situation and that funny-looking violin.
Where is it? he said suddenly, meaning the good violin. He placed the destroyed instrument back where he had found it. In the trash, in the cart, I already told you, I said without blinking. Yes, but where does the cart go? he asked me. To the dump, I said, stupefied, and nothing more came out of my mouth. We both went out to the street and, when he looked at me questioningly, I told him in a thin voice, the dump is very far away. He stopped for a moment and I had my head lowered, but I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck. Then I saw that he was hailing a taxi, and I went into the taxi dressed as a maid, with apron, cap, and everything, because he pushed me inside it. He got in himself and ordered: to the dump. The taxi driver, without saying a word, took us there. It was far, out in the middle of nowhere, and the trip was horrible, because neither of us spoke. But Mr. Karl’s leg moved on its own every once in a while, and it made me jump every time. We arrived, and Mr. Karl told the taxi driver to wait while we got out and looked over that immense pile of rubbish and stink. They must have already emptied all the carts in the city because there wasn’t a single one there. It was very late. Come on, said Mr. Karl, and he took me to the very edge of the garbage. You couldn’t see much. I knew there were people who rummaged through the trash, but they did it during the day. Now you couldn’t see anything. But Mr. Karl didn’t let that stop him: Go on, get in there, he told me. Who? Me? I asked in alarm. Yes. Mr. Karl didn’t want to hear any excuses, I could see that. I picked up my skirt and took a step. And then another and then another. And that was how I went straight into that disgusting dump, something I had certainly never done before, not here and not in Andalusia and never again since. Virgin of the Macarena, help me, I whispered. And I started to pick through all kinds of rubbish with my hands, and I got all dirty, and everything smelled really rotten, but I had to find that violin. I rummaged through everything I could for a good long while—up and down, there where the carts were emptied out, and it turned out that the violin wasn’t there. I felt lost, it’s not here, sir, I finally said, rising out of the filth. I saw him backlit, dark. I couldn’t make out the expression on his face. I only heard him say, Come back. I went back and I couldn’t find him. Mr. Karl had gotten back to the taxi and I thought he’d forgotten about me. I didn’t say anything, I let him leave and I thought I’d have to walk home, and I tripped and I fell facedown and split open my forehead. Then I saw that the taxi was still there and that the rear door was open, waiting for me. I leapt toward the car. Mr. Karl didn’t even look at me. He was glued to the other window, with his hand furtively covering his nose the whole time, but his leg no longer moved of its own accord. The taxi driver gave me a look through the rear-view mirror—a look that made me think, Maria, you must stink to high heaven.
Reaching the house after a trip in silence, I went to my room and washed up, cleaning the wound on my forehead as best I could. Then I packed my suitcase. What a way to lose a good job, I said to myself sadly. I’d only been working there for six months, but I’d realized that I had found one of the best houses to serve. I was happy there, and it seemed that Mr. Karl had been pleased with me. But all good things come to an end. With my coat on and my suitcase in one hand, I went to say goodbye to Mr. Karl. I found him sitting on the sofa, looking up, sighing over the lost violin. I said: Sir, I’m terribly sorry about what happened; forgive me. He looked at me in surprise and asked: Where could you possibly be going at this hour? I’m leaving, I said, confused; I figured after what happened . . . He got up and addressed the piano saying, don’t start with that nonsense now; I was the one who told you to throw out the violin on the chair. And take care of your forehead; you’ve got a gash.
Teresa
The harpsichordist needs help to move her instrument over a bit. Two cellists have gotten up to assist her, along with some other boy who came out of nowhere and looks like a Goliath. We always think that people who seem strong are—until, in the end, they prove themselves to be people. I thought my mother was strong until she showed me her weaknesses, that she needed to eat in order to live, like everyone else—and, what’s more, that she needed someone to give her support. Someone who wasn’t a little girl who was really a burden, who made her have to work more just to get by.
I learned to recognize strength in people’s eyes. When I met Karl, I saw strength in his. That wasn’t my thought when I saw Anna’s eyes, despite her showing up for the first
time all sassy and ready to take on the world. She came with a maid, who took her around everywhere. Normally, at least for the first class, the parents would come to introduce me to the child and tell me what their expectations were or simply to meet me. That never happened with Anna; she came with the maid on the first day, and every other day as well, and Anna was already old enough to get around on her own. The maid would wait for her outside, and I sometimes would stick my head out the window and watch as they walked toward the Diagonal to catch the bus—because, as the girl had explained to me, they lived on the other side of the city, near the park with the lake.
I had spent a lot of time at the park myself. I brought children there to play after cleaning their kitchen, after ironing and scrubbing their floors and bathrooms. I say bathrooms because those folks had two and, sometimes, three—for me, that was quite the luxury. I had never seen a house with more than one bathroom. And what bathrooms they were: They looked to me like the ones in the films I watched on television. I was fifteen then, and that was when mother told me, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead: We’ve both got to roll up our sleeves now, girl. My childhood was over.
Maria
Traveling in this taxi along the streets of this sunless city, I saw a display window filled with all sorts of bonbons, and it suddenly brought back the memory of when Mr. Karl caught me red-handed with my chocolate. That made me smile.
“And what are you laughing at?” Mrs. Anna snapped, her tone mocking.
“Oh, nothing,” I said evasively, thinking how that woman was always watching my every move. “Just that—I like chocolate.”
Mr. Mark looked at me for a moment and smiled. Mrs. Anna, when she saw her husband smiling, grew silent and stared out the window with a sour expression.
Mr. Karl usually spent the mornings at home and the evenings out. That was if no one came to visit him, obviously, or to practice, and then they would all play or sing in the piano room, and they’d close the door. Normally he would call out, Maria, we’re not to be disturbed. Two months after arriving in Barcelona, he could already make himself understood. I don’t know which language he spoke to me, but I understood him. And when he couldn’t find a word, he would use body language.
After the violin incident, we had a silent period, a time when neither of us said more than was necessary. I did my work, and when I finished it, I retired to the kitchen or my room or I went for a walk. Until one day, when I had just gotten paid, I went to buy powdered chocolate, a bit of whipped cream, and some ladyfingers from the bakery. I sat in the kitchen to eat it all up. There was a café nearby where I often saw mothers taking their children for a snack. Sometimes there was also a maid there, but normally that was something mothers did, something they did with their kids. It was like a reward once a week or once a month. The children entered with their eyes gleaming, and they left with their faces all messy, and I was so envious.
I didn’t dare go into the cafe and that was why I made a version for myself at home. And so, there I was with my mouth full of thick hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and scooped up on a ladyfinger that fell apart on my tongue, and I could hear the heavenly angels singing. I couldn’t understand how that wasn’t everyone’s favorite food. Just then, with my eyes closed, I heard Mr. Karl’s voice saying, I see you take good care of yourself. It still makes me laugh when I think about it, but I try to hold it in so Mrs. Anna doesn’t get mad at me. That day I opened my eyes and found him standing there. I hadn’t heard him come in; he’d been so quiet. I smelled something from the living room, and I thought you were up to something, so I tiptoed in, he told me later. Mr. Karl was like that occasionally: playful. And I couldn’t think of anything else to say besides I bought it with my money. Then he started laughing.
I had never heard Mr. Karl laugh before, and it made me laugh to see him laugh, because he was so large and he laughed so hard that you couldn’t help but join in. And I was choking with laughter, and he didn’t stop, and I didn’t know what to do. I finally managed to swallow the bite of ladyfinger and was able to laugh comfortably. And then he stopped abruptly and said, won’t you offer me some. So I did, because I had just been thinking that I’d overdone it with the whipped cream, and there was plenty of chocolate to go around. Of course, I said, I’ll bring it into the dining room. No, no, he said—and, to my surprise, he sat at the kitchen table with me, his legs spread wide on a stool, and waited for me to heat up the chocolate. He told me that he had only had thick hot chocolate like this once before, and that he’d liked it. Because in my country it’s eaten in bonbons or bars and, anyway, not that often, he said in a somewhat sad tone.
Then, as he savored the chocolate, whipped cream, and ladyfingers, we shared a table and both took pleasure in one of the world’s best combinations. He told me where he came from and what his city was like. He explained that they were putting up a wall that would divide the country in two, because people fled from one region to the other and they belonged to different sides. He had grown serious as he explained it, and I didn’t dare ask who the two sides were. Recently, I had heard the news on the small kitchen radio where I listened to those afternoon radio serials I found so thrilling. And on the news they talked about that wall, but I didn’t really get it; it had seemed so remote. And now it turned out that Mr. Karl was from there, because he was German and that I already knew. But I didn’t know that he was from that place that was always on the news. I did ask him why they couldn’t go from one side to the other; I didn’t understand, since I could go anywhere in Barcelona and out of it as well, and to other countries if I had a passport. He sighed and said that he didn’t understand it either, but that was just how it was. He also explained that in his neighborhood there was a square where he would meet with other musicians to play, a very pretty square. Even when it was cold, we would play, and that made us forget about everything, he said—and he smiled slightly as he spooned a bit of chocolate into his mouth. I didn’t dare to say anything; I didn’t want to interrupt those thoughts that seemed as sacred as a Sunday mass, and I could feel my heart beating faster because Mr. Karl was explaining them to me, and because it seemed that his thoughts had taken him out of my modest kitchen for a few seconds.
Yesterday, here in Berlin, I saw pieces of that wall they had been building as we shared hot chocolate for the first time. Over the course of my forty years with Mr. Karl, they’d had time to put it up and tear it down again. Yesterday I saw that Mr. Karl had been telling me the truth, that someone had built a wall cutting through the city—You see, Maria, Mr. Mark explained, I lived on one side and they wouldn’t let me go over to the other side, only when part of the wall came down was I able to leave. And I looked at the piece of wall and I thought, Well, it looks like it was solid enough to last for many more years. And again I thought that I didn’t understand why they didn’t let people cross from one side to the other and vice versa. They had us all counted, said Mr. Mark softly. And then I thought I understood what the problem was: If they switched sides, it would mess up their count.
Teresa
Now comes that moment when the orchestra seems like a buzzing beehive because everyone is warming up at the same time. It made me think of my first attempts to play my violin from the dump. The neighbors were frantic, and Mother too. I had picked up the violin with sure hands. It must have hit hard when it fell into the pile of rubbish; the wood was peeled in one spot, but that didn’t affect the sound. In fact, it sounded wonderful. Well, it sounded wonderful to me. My mother was sick of hearing it on the very first day, and the neighbors only held out a couple days more. They weren’t the ones who had saved Mother years earlier; they were others with whom we only had a hello and goodbye relationship, and they knocked on the door to ask if I could, please, go out to the beach to play the violin. There the sound of the waves would drown it out. Forgive me, I muttered, mortified. And I grabbed the instrument and took their advice, I left the house and I went to the beach. We lived beside the sea, even though we
couldn’t even see it; the streets faced away from it and we never saw the sand or the water. The road leading there was filthy; that was where everyone threw their junk, the things they didn’t use anymore but that were too big for the trash cans. Where are you going, girl? my mother asked. I didn’t answer her; my throat was choked with tears as usual. I took my instrument and entered the beach along a narrow street, and leapt over all the obstacles between me and the sand. It must have been March; the day was cloudy, damp, and cold, but I didn’t notice that. I breathed in the scent of salt water, of fish being brought in by the fishermen, who I heard coming in every morning, shouting. Soon I felt the wind mussing my hair and, gradually, as I drew closer to the water, I heard the sound of the waves coming and going—a sound that filled my ears and my thoughts. I set myself up right in that spot, because surely no one would hear me there. I put the violin on my shoulder, closed my eyes, and ran the bow along the strings, putting my fingers carefully on them. The sound that came out was bloodcurdling. I couldn’t take it anymore. I broke out in sobs, put the violin down, and sat beside it with my head sunk into my arms. I felt like I was close to the music, but that it was just out of reach—that the door to that vast treasure was closed to me.
After a little while, I walked back home slowly. I dried my tears, and I told myself that it must be that some children were destined for one thing and other children destined for another. The girl in the book played the violin and I went through trash at the dump. And there was nothing that would change that.
The House of Silence Page 2
