Mark
She always finds me; she’s always clinging. I can never be alone, not on the street and not even on stage like I am now. It feels as if I’m imprisoned, walled in again.
The day the wall fell, we all went out walking like automatons, and we didn’t stop until we had reached the other side. Now it’s hard for me to mentally reconstruct that wall that I’d grown sick of looking at—from a distance, of course, because getting close was dangerous. It was solid in every sense, with no holes through which to flee, as evidenced by the many failed attempts that ended in tragedy. For those of us who always dreamed of fleeing, those tragedies made our blood run cold in our veins.
And, suddenly, one day, there were holes through which to flee—holes filled with light, holes that led to freedom.
We were streams of people searching for one of those holes, a hole that finally connected us with the outside without the danger of death for trying to peek through. They had come looking for me the night before, and they had told me that it was all coming down—that you could get to the other side, that they weren’t killing anyone, and they were shouting it. They were my classmates at the conservatory, and I was terribly frightened. I said shhh, they’ll hear us, because in those days we never shouted; we said everything in a whisper, in silence. We couldn’t raise our voices; we could only be discreet, paint discreetly and play discreetly—always beneath the attentive eye of the police who made it abundantly clear that we were not free. Ours was a silent country, a country of tiptoeing, a country where car engines were barely even heard. And then they were shouting, and they grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me: Mark, we’re free, we can go to the West.
I didn’t go that night because of my mother. She was very ill by that point and I couldn’t leave her alone. She did live long enough to taste freedom, because the next day, when she found out, she got up, got dressed, and came over to me with shaky steps. Mother, what are you doing? I cried out, when I saw her in the hallway, dressed in street clothes and ready to go out. Come on, let’s go, she said. And all that pain that she constantly carried, etched into her brow, seemed to melt a little bit, allowing a light to illuminate her forehead for a few hours—that light that came through that hole that had just been made in our enduring wall. I didn’t try to dissuade her, I understood that she needed to experience it, that she didn’t want to leave this world without knowing what was on the other side. The West Berlin that she knew was the Berlin destroyed by the war, by a war that she had been born into and that had forced her to grow up with the hardships of the postwar period. She had been born into prison and lived there all her life, and now she wanted to know what freedom was like. I want to see what’s there, she said, grabbing her coat and heading toward the door. I followed her, I took her by the arm and we walked for a long while until we found the hole everyone was going through. And on the other side, freedom was shining. You are trembling, Son, she said, looking at me with a smile. It was true. I was trembling; I was terrified to leave there, I have always been afraid of the unknown, even when it is a synonym of freedom. For a while she was the strong one and I was weak.
Today, I can’t believe how we lived in such a backward civilization for so long. But there is one thing I miss: the silence, the obligatory peace that forced us to put all our interest into what we really loved. There were no distractions, there was nothing that sidetracked us from our focus—which in my case was music. And in my neighborhood, the artists’ neighborhood, we felt part of a special secret: the secret of knowing we were liberated by the art that came out of our instruments, or from the paint that filled our square with colors, or the clandestine pen that worked to disembowel the regime.
The sound of West Berlin was overwhelming, with all those cars passing by, faster than the wind. And the people didn’t walk like those in East Berlin; they ran instead, they were rushing to who knows where. It seemed they were late for everything. And the West was all full of light, dazzling colorful light—with names of brands that I’d never heard of, which seemed further proof of the brilliant West that we had always seen, from the other side, as the best of worlds. Mother and I were mouths agape. Welcome, shouted some boys who came over with a bottle of wine and a few plastic cups. Mother and I drank with them, but soon they went to greet others who had come across like us. In fact, we moved forward impelled by a crowd of people. Of people who wanted to take on the world.
Let’s go, Son, my mother then said. I looked at her and I realized that the pain etched onto her brow had returned. And it never went away; she took it with her to her grave. Surely, the effort involved in walking so far that day had accelerated the process of her illness, since she had little strength and had pulled it out of somewhere. When we got back home, I was carrying her; she couldn’t do the last few meters on her own. Still, as I put her in bed, she found the energy to tell me, with a smile: I couldn’t die without seeing it.
She died two days later. It was a month of death for some, a month of freedom for others. I buried her and then I thought about what I could do, if everyone was leaving home and looking to make a better life in the West. I thought of my father and I set off in search of him. I took my cello and my scores, I sold my piano and I landed in Barcelona on Christmas Eve.
Anna
“Let’s get started!”
Mark taps the music stand with the baton. I get my violin in position. I haven’t said hello to Teresa, haven’t even looked at her. But I have tried to locate Maria—and after just a glance her way, I felt her eyes fix on mine. Her eyes have a supernatural shine to them. Maybe she’s a witch. An evil witch in the audience and an evil bitch playing the violin beside me. But Mark is mine. And I want to take him to the river. I have to find my soul, and my soul is in the water, in water everywhere around the world, imprisoned there ever since the day it was carried off by the water in the lake near my house. Let’s go there, I said to Mark this morning. You go, I have to rehearse, he grumbled. And now I have to go find the river all by myself and I don’t know how. Maybe it, like Karl, has ceased to exist.
Karl was the first real man I ever met. My violin teacher with the hawk nose was more a woman than a man, Mama’s friends were no more than bees buzzing around her, and I didn’t really meet Papa until Mama left.
It was Teresa who opened the door to the larger world for me, when I started to study under her. Maybe you think that’s the end of the violin for you, Mama said after that series of smacks, looking dangerously into my eyes—but now you’ll go to the conservatory, and you won’t get personal attention there; that’s where everyone goes. Everyone means that’s where the poor go, those who can’t afford a good private teacher. I remained stock still as she spoke to me, impassive, holding her gaze to see if I would get a slap—but that day there were none. Oh, girl, you exasperate me; I don’t understand how you turned out like this, she said with a sudden wave of her hand, and vanished on a pair of spike heels that I was very impressed by because I didn’t know how she could walk on them. And then, that day, I don’t know what happened to me, but something came from deep inside me, I was able to make out a latent crack in the inaccessible wall that was that woman whom I so loved and hated at the same time. And I went up to her from behind and I hugged her. And for a moment, for a brief moment, she stopped, and her heels stopped tapping—and, to my surprise, she stroked my hand. But it was just an instant, as if a moment of weakness, and then she said, not now, my girl—but without forcing me to let her go, just waiting for me to do so on my own. And, when I let her go, she left without even turning around.
I went back and found Clara watching the scene, crying.
Maria
First, the opera singer came out on stage. Miss Teresa and Miss Anna will play later. But now out comes this woman, not as blonde or fat as the one I saw on the sofa with Mr. Karl. When Mr. Mark indicates the entrance, and the orchestra has already played a few bars, she sings over it with a sweet voice—much more beautiful than that other singer—with a po
lished voice, with a voice that touches me where it should, some place inside where I have a sensitive string that can’t resist this onrush; it shakes me up and tears me to bits, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
In that moment, so many years ago, the first day the fat, blonde opera singer came over, when I pulled away from the keyhole, I decided to look for a boyfriend of my own to kiss me the way Mr. Karl kissed her. By the way, she came by the house a few more times and the scene on the sofa was repeated. It’s worth mentioning that after one of those sofa scenes, Mr. Karl was very relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. I should also say that I kept my eye out for that particular visitor—and, may God forgive me, I peered through the keyhole every time she came.
That was what made me think I needed to find a boyfriend. Since I only went out on Thursday evenings with a girlfriend who was also a local maid, it was no easy task. But finally he showed up on his own without my having to look for him. I mean that I didn’t find him out with my friend but by going to mass. He was a young man who always kneeled at one of the last pews, like me—because that was a church for ladies and gentlemen, and those like me would keep to the back. I had noticed him before, because he seemed very lonely, but one Sunday he waited for me outside. It seems he had noticed me too, and when he saw me he said hello, what’s your name? And I told him my name, and it turned out his was Pepe. It was one of those sunny winter days, and he was between me and the sun, and I couldn’t really tell if he was smiling or what his expression was, but to me he looked a bit like another sun. We could take a walk, he suggested. And I said, okay. And that was how we started to date, and we went to the park with the lake and went around it a few times before I went home. He told me that he lived in a house close by—a very large house, with his parents who had been in service there for many years. And I always played with the children of the owners, he said, lifting his chin and acting important. And he pulled out a cigarette and asked me if I smoked. I didn’t smoke, but I said yes. And I put the cigarette to my lips and I did what he was doing, which was inhaling the smoke. And I swear I almost died, because I started to cough and cough and I couldn’t breathe. And he patted me on the back and told me with a smile: You don’t have to smoke if you don’t want to; it’s not required. I got up from the bench we were on and, as I was still wiping away tears from the smoke and coughing, I said, I have to go. And he got up too and smiled and said: Let’s meet next Sunday, all right. Yes, let’s meet next Sunday. He was missing two teeth and I hadn’t realized until he said goodbye. Those two missing teeth made me like him less, but I figured that wouldn’t keep him from kissing me the way Mr. Karl kissed the opera singer. So I didn’t think much of it.
Sundays were different from the other days of the week. Sundays were different because I always went to mass bright and early and because, when I returned, I always found Mr. Karl sitting on the sofa with his eyes closed and moving his arms as if conducting one of those songs that never end and have no words, one that I now know is called Concerto for Two Violins by someone named Bach, and his name is pronounced with a Spanish j at the end but softer. Mr. Karl taught the piece to me one day, but I already knew it by heart and had even added lyrics, lyrics that went like this, “Here I go, cleaning the house, cleaning up the whole house,” and that kept me occupied while it played and I dusted the bust of Beethoven—his name I did know—and I said gut’n Tag to it just like Mr. Karl did, even though I didn’t know what that meant. And I would sing, softly, as always. Then there was another part of the concerto that was slower, and it seemed like it was for dancing—and, since I had no partner, I put down the dust rag, picked up the broom and got started. And then the concerto would speed up again and I would go back to my singing. It went on like that ever since I made up the words. Every Sunday was the same, until one day, as was to be expected, Mr. Karl caught me in the act. I was spinning with the broom with my eyes closed, and going na-na-na and swaying as the melody continued. Suddenly, I tripped and fell to the floor with a little yelp. It turned out that I had tripped on Mr. Karl’s shoe as he drew near me. My temper flared, to his surprise—to mine too, of course. What are you doing? I exclaimed. Be careful, man, didn’t you see I had my eyes closed? As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I had stuck my foot in it, and that I, a simple Maria, couldn’t scold Mr. Karl just like that—it should be the other way around. And I apologized right away, turning redder than a beet. But Mr. Karl laughed, the way he did when we shared hot chocolate in the kitchen and he got the giggles. And he helped me up and said, come on, and he took me to the piano room and sat me down on the bench. But what are you doing, sir? I complained. Come on, Maria, you sing and dance very well—you like music, don’t you. Well, yes, but, I tried to say. But nothing, he said, give me your hand. I gave him my right hand, kind of embarrassed—it wasn’t a manicured hand; it was a maid’s hand and not a lady’s, and it smelled of bleach and disinfectant. But he didn’t mind and he took my fingers and somehow placed them on the keys, and had me push with my thumb and he said: Do, as a sound was heard. Then with another finger: Re, as another sound came out. And mi, and fa, and sol. And that was all it took for me to feel like all the fireflies I sometimes saw at night in the park through the living room window had come to light up my brain, and I felt my face grow damp with tears of joy I couldn’t hold back. Then Mr. Karl said, Maria, you are going to learn to play the piano. I was shocked. He was already on his way out when I called out to him: Sir. And he turned and said, what. And I said, but we won’t tell anyone. He smiled a little: Okay, we won’t tell anyone. And he left me there, wiping away my tears.
I dried other tears, the ones from my boyfriend’s cigarette smoke, on my way home. When I got there Mr. Karl had already finished listening to that Bach concerto. And I felt my heart sink a little. Then I saw him appear from behind the bust of Beethoven. You’re late today, he said, tickled. Oh, I got caught up, I answered, turning so he wouldn’t see me blush. What do you say, let’s have a class, he said. What class? I blurted out. Piano class, he simply said. I was slow to react: Ah, okay, well sure. I followed him into the room as I took off my jacket with one hand and my hat with the other. Mr. Karl isn’t rehearsing opera today? I asked, with ulterior motives. But he didn’t seem to realize my motives and he just said, ah, that’s over, now I have some concerts with the orchestra. I made no comment. I just let him teach me. Mr. Karl took up my fingers delicately, and then he had me do what he called a scale, from do to do—moving my thumb under the other fingers when I got to the end of the hand, because, obviously, that scale had eight notes and my hand had only five fingers, and the other three had to come from somewhere. And now the left, he would say, and we did it with my left. Up and down the scale, first with him helping me and then on my own. And next week we’ll do it with both hands; just you wait, he said.
On that day I wished the lesson could continue. Going up and down like that, if you could do it fast, had to be a real surprise for anyone listening. Maybe it wasn’t so hard to play the piano. Maybe even a Maria could do it.
That week a lot of important things happened. The first was that I learned, very gradually, to go up and down the scale with both hands. I was thrilled. It seemed incredible, and yet I was doing it. I was overcome with emotion as I went up and down the piano. And Mr. Karl seemed very pleased too. He would clap and say, I think we’ve earned ourselves a hot chocolate with whipped cream.
The second thing that happened was that, at midweek, the doorbell rang and—when I opened it, the opera singer was there. I mean the one with the kisses and the sofa. Before I had time to say anything, she elbowed me out of the way and went straight to the piano room. She could hear that Mr. Karl was in there practicing his music. What do you think you’re doing? I started to say. And Mr. Karl also started to say, What do you think? And here is where it all ended—because that day there was no kiss—instead there was one of those smacks that was so loud it echoed through the whole neighborhood. Mr.
Karl was shocked. And the woman had the gall to say, before leaving: So you just wanted me for the opera. And she left with her head held high, wiping away a tear that I saw, even though she tried to hide it.
The third thing was that my boyfriend kissed me. He filled my mouth with the taste of smoke, a taste I wasn’t sure I liked—but, after all, it was still the taste of a kiss like the one between Mr. Karl and the opera singer. I felt like he was sticking everything inside me, and I didn’t know if I could breathe or not. And then he smiled at me with his two missing teeth and asked if I’d liked it. And I said yes, because there was nothing else I could say. And then he walked me home, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. And I slipped my arm around his waist. And when we got home he kissed me again before saying goodbye.
I opened the door and I found Mr. Karl there with a strange expression on his face, one I didn’t know how to interpret. You have a boyfriend. I saw him through the window, he said. Yes, I answered, realizing that there was no way I could deny it. Mr. Karl passed by me before heading off to his bedroom, where he usually never went unless it was time for bed. And, before he disappeared up the stairs he looked at me and he said, because you are very pretty. Very.
As soon as he was gone, I ran to look at myself in the mirror. Having Mr. Karl say that to me was as if there’d been an earthquake and suddenly all the birds in the trees of that park had flown over to land on my head and all started chirping at the same time. I stared at myself for a while and, on that day, I found myself lovely too.
The House of Silence Page 4
