The House of Silence

by Blanca Busquets

We are too trusting. Time has passed and she hasn’t changed. Fortunately, I have. And now Anna is an adult, now she has Mark and doesn’t need anything more. Maybe she’s finally found what she was searching for.

  There in the ICU, I wiped away her tears with the tip of a handkerchief, with the only dry corner I had left after drying my own tears, over losing the love of my life. I’d flirted with the occasional fellow teacher, but it had never gone past that. And then when I had found Maties, I’d lost him. As I haunted the hospital hallways, waiting for visiting hours to start so I could see Anna, because I didn’t want to miss a single day, I didn’t want her to feel alone if I could be with her; I wondered how I would tell her that she had lost her father, when the time came to do so. I can do it, I told the nurses. But not yet, they replied, you have to wait until she’s out of intensive care; it is a risk to her recovery right now. I obeyed, when you’re in a hospital you always obey the nurses, and that gives you the feeling that someone knows what is going on and is concerned for your grief. Later, when you’ve left the hospital, you miss that kindness that’s inevitably habit-forming, because you feel bundled up in pillows at all times, surrounded by the smell of different medicines that you can’t get out of your nose, but which inexplicably, on your first days out, you think you even miss.

  And I waited for Anna to be out in the regular ward. That move out of intensive care is, in a hospital, like graduating, like getting your basic diploma: Okay, now you can continue with your college prep. You haven’t finished school, but you’ve gotten your first certificate so you can go out in the world and get a job and prove that you’re good for something.

  The day they told me that Anna was out of the ICU, I was so thrilled. I went running up the stairs; that was great news, even though next came the worst part, having to tell her about her father’s death. I went into her room. Anna was a bit broken everywhere, but the danger of internal hemorrhaging had been resolved, and she lay in a white bed in a room for two. She no longer had tubes coming out of her, just the serum that went into a vein through a needle they’d stuck into her hand. And one leg in the air, and one arm in a cast. In the other bed, another girl with a leg in a cast was flipping through a magazine.

  I went over to Anna’s bed, with my back to the other girl for a bit of privacy. She looked at me as if she’d never seen me before. There was a mix of incredulousness and hatred on her face. What are you doing here? she asked. I was a bit shocked but finally answered, I’ve been with you in the ICU all these days, don’t you remember? No, she said curtly. At first I was surprised, but then I recalled that no one ever remembers anything about the intensive care unit; God knows what they put into your blood to make you forget everything. So then I screwed up my courage to tell her, as gently as I could and fighting back my tears, Anna, your father didn’t make it.

  It wasn’t the look she gave me then, but the one after that, that I’ll never forget. This first one, her reaction to the information I had just given her, was blank; it conveyed nothing. She was like that for a few moments, and then she turned her head to the other side, as if she’d had enough bad news and couldn’t take any more. I touched her softly as I whispered her name. And that was when she lashed out, when she turned suddenly, as suddenly as she could with that arm and that leg, and that was when she spat venom at me, get out of here, you evil bitch, I don’t ever want to see you again. And that was also when she gave me that look weighed down with all the hatred in the world. I’ll never forget that look, which has evolved into this one here, a look somewhere between hostile and mocking that stays with you forever.

  I got up and staggered out of the room. I felt as if I had been shot in the heart, in the lungs, I couldn’t breathe, I could barely take in air.

  I tried to go back the next day, but they told me that her doctor had banned visitors. It was clear that she really didn’t ever want to see me again. It was over and I had to get past it somehow.

  I had to forget Anna’s conclusive and final goodbye that was so tragic and hurtful, but I also had to forget Maties. At first it was terrible, I saw him everywhere, around every corner. I imagined I saw him on the street, even though I knew full well he was dead because I was the one who had organized his funeral because, with Anna still in the ICU, there was no one else to do it. Accepting the loss of someone’s constant presence in your life is a dreadfully grueling test, Maties had been always by my side and when he wasn’t we spoke on the phone, checking in with each other about our concerns and problems. We had been together for a year and, if it weren’t for Anna, we surely would have been living together soon. And every time I saw Maties in my head, I saw Anna next to him, looking at me with that hateful gaze and saying, get out of here, you evil bitch. For the first few days, that hurt me more than losing Maties. Anna had known exactly where and how hard to throw her poison dart to wound me deeply, and forever.

  So forgetting it all was a long, very difficult process. To tell the truth, I haven’t forgotten any of it, but at least after the first year I began to be able to look toward the future and think that I had to find my own way to go on. Before that, I hadn’t been able to walk without dragging that festering wound with me, reopening with each step, causing me excruciating pain. The image of Maties blended with the image of Anna. I told myself that one day, after much time had passed, I would talk to her again, because I couldn’t stand to think that it had all ended like that. Sometimes, in the middle of class, I would leave my student alone, saying I had to go to the bathroom, and I would go cry because I couldn’t take it anymore. The student would look at me afterwards with an expression of pity that spoke volumes; it was obvious that I had gone to break down in tears.

  Later, I decided to let go of the problem with Anna. There was nothing I could do about it; it was a waste of my time and I had to accept that. And I think I did accept it. The wounds were starting to heal. It would still be a long time before I felt entirely better, but I learned to look ahead, to see what was around me and listen to the birds, smell the flowers, and make real music again. Some colleagues at the conservatory asked me to be part of a quartet, and I agreed. We started to perform concerts around Catalonia and then some farther afield. We did that for a few years, we had a good time, and that worked as a medicine on my pain. Between that and the teaching, I was back to my old self. I didn’t see Anna again, I suppose she was avoiding me, requesting a class in a time slot when she knew I wouldn’t be around. And she must have been almost done with her studies anyway; that is if she continued them after the accident.

  And a few years later, Karl called me. He left a message at the conservatory saying he wanted to talk. I called him back and, in his German-inflected Catalan, he explained that he had heard me in a couple of concerts and really liked my playing. That, if I was interested, we could do a test with several pieces he had to perform in a series of concerts. It wasn’t the tour of Bach’s double concerto yet—but, of course, I said that I would be thrilled to audition. I mentioned it to the other members of the quartet. Watch out, the cellist said with a smile, that guy stops at nothing. What do you mean, he stops at nothing? I asked. Just that; that he’s broken the heart of every musician who’s played with him. Come on, that must be an exaggeration, I said. Suit yourself, she replied mysteriously.

  After her comments, my curiosity was piqued. But that was the least of it. I was so proud that Karl T. had called me; he was a German who asked for political asylum in the time of the Iron Curtain and became the voice of musical truth in this country. I had originally been wary of the whole operation. The truth is, I don’t trust those kind of categorizations, and when someone is so renowned I always think that there must be personal and political interests behind their reputation. But I bit my tongue when I heard his orchestra, which he had created here with people I knew, who played the best they could in dreadful groups—but he was able to bring them together and channel them in such a way that baroque music, Bach in particular, began to sound like I’d imagined it sounded
in its own time. I left that concert convinced that, from that moment on, I would consider the name Karl T. a guarantee of quality. And that was why, when he called, I came running.

  We did a series of concerts around the country, coming and going; Karl didn’t like to spend too many days on the road. But first we did the audition, that test of my soul. You have to use your fingers more and your soul a bit less, he said, so I would understand. And then I played differently, in a way that seemed rigid to me: more like Anna would have played. And then he was pleased, you’re hired, he said with a smile, and for me it was as if it had suddenly started to rain in the middle of a summer drought. And I thought about the dump, the Stainer, Maties, Anna, and I said to myself that, with what was happening to me now, I was finally over it.

  Karl wasn’t much of a talker, but he did demand a lot of rehearsals. We will do them here, at first, you and I, and then we’ll join the orchestra. And when he said here, he meant at his house, in a house where we were alone except for a maid named Maria, and his German son, Mark, who was never there because he was always studying or playing abroad, according to what I heard from my colleagues at the conservatory, who knew everything.

  We began to rehearse. Karl was tough, he wanted everything perfect, we would go over it again and again, one more time, he’d say when I thought that I’d finally gotten it right, but he had a way of interpreting the music that he wanted me to capture exactly. And we worked for many, many hours, and we started to understand each other. Karl had a gaze that went deep into my brain. I began to think that I understood perfectly what he wanted, and that he and I understood each other wonderfully; I started to feel drawn in by his gaze, it was Music with a capital M, what I had been searching for, what I wanted most, and which Mark, with all due respect, has never been able to reach.

  I would have done anything with Karl. He had wiped Maties from my memory, along with Anna’s cutting words. All that was left was him and the music. Until one day there was something more because, before I began to play, he got up and asked if he could address me informally. Of course, I said. And then he approached me, closer and closer, and it was as if I were hypnotized and couldn’t move. First, he kissed me gently and then ardently, and I returned his kiss with ardor. We ended up on the sofa, like a couple of teenagers without a bed in which to make love.

  Maria

  When I heard Miss Teresa play, I thought that she deserved a Stainer like the one I had thrown out, that she would have done wonders with it, because that lady had real soul. But when things ended up on the sofa, Mr. Karl wouldn’t call me in to listen, he didn’t seem to need an audience for that.

  One day when Mr. Mark was at home, it must have been Christmas or some other holiday because otherwise he was never around, he came to the kitchen to see me when his father was out, because he was looking for someone to talk to. I didn’t understand him very well, honestly; he spoke a strange Spanish that he seemed to have learned at school, and his Catalan was non-existent. And he mixed in German words, the way Mr. Karl did in the beginning. Well, Mr. Mark sat down and told me all about his life. I didn’t ask him to, but he wanted to chat and he said, oh, Maria, if you knew what it was like there and how things have changed, I go back often and I can hardly believe it. And he said, imagine, they could kill you for going from one side of the city to the other. And my eyes grew wide as saucers and I didn’t ask why, because I already knew that one side would kill the other side, but Mr. Mark told me a string of horrible stories that seemed to go on forever, about neighbors, friends, acquaintances, who had tried to get across that wall because, just imagine, it was like a wall of a house in construction, but on one side there was nothing, they had demolished everything; it was barren land, or boarded-up windows so no one could escape, and those on the other side would look to see what was happening on our side, through their own windows, and you would see them there in the distance, and they symbolized freedom, you know. He looked at me and, as if he suddenly realized who he was talking to, said, forgive me, you don’t know what I’m going on about, do you? Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Mark. All right, Miss Maria, he said with a smile. And then I would realize, oh, sorry, I meant to say Mark.

  Mr. Mark sat in one of the four chairs around the little kitchen table and put his feet up on another. I only met my father now because my parents separated before I had even been born, and my mother didn’t want to tell him that I existed; she never told him, she only left that letter. He was referring to the letter that he had brought Mr. Karl from his ex-wife when he showed up in Barcelona. I don’t know if she didn’t want help, Mr. Mark said, or if she was afraid that he would try to see me and then it would have been worse, you know, because those in power thought that my father had no family in East Germany and so, when he fled, they couldn’t take reprisals on anyone. Mr. Mark was yawning; it was late and we were both tired, and I was thinking that he should head off to bed and leave me to my things, and it seems he had read my mind and was getting up as he continued: My mother always criticized him, she said that he was a skirt chaser, she never understood him. When he said that, Mr. Mark looked at me and I suddenly blushed without really knowing why. Luckily, he didn’t notice, and before leaving he concluded, you see, Maria, you know him better than my mother did; my father is celibate, he’s like some kind of musical monk. I couldn’t help adding, your father goes to the depths of music. He turned from the doorway: exactly, that’s what I meant, good night.

  I stood there with my mouth hanging open, watching him head off to bed, I couldn’t believe he could be so blind, and I told myself that sometimes it seems we know everything about somebody and, really, we know nothing, or very little. And Mr. Mark knew nothing about his father just like he hasn’t a clue about his wife, Mrs. Anna. And maybe it’s better that way, maybe it’s better to float on a sea of innocence, there are fewer problems.

  They just played the last note of the Bach concerto, pulling me from my thoughts. Mr. Mark gives some instructions. Mrs. Anna listens, as does Miss Teresa. Then they each go their own way without even looking at each other. Mr. Mark turns and searches for me with his eyes.

  “Let’s go, Maria,” he orders.

  Let’s go, let’s go. I get up heavily, my legs hurt and my stomach is churning. Miss Teresa notices and comes over to help me.

  “Come on, Maria, we’re done. Tomorrow is the real concert. You have to wear that lovely dress you showed me—”

  I laugh a little. She and Mr. Mark treat me like a little girl. Anna treats me like a leper.

  Mr. Karl treated Miss Teresa with kid gloves, honestly. He would lay her on the sofa and caress her everywhere, and she looked like she was in ecstasy; she wasn’t like the other women, not like that first opera singer who just laughed and yelped like a madwoman. Teresa was very young, maybe fifteen years younger than Mr. Karl, but it was obvious she was enthralled with her conductor and I felt very bad thinking that it would end, because it always did. I was very shocked, because on the first day they rehearsed at home, he told her she had too much soul. And that was more or less just what he had told me.

  One day he’d told me that not only do people have souls, but that violins do, too. And he had me look through the long hole in the instrument’s box, the sound box, as he called it. Do you see that little stick? he asked. Yes, I see it, I answered. I saw a little stick that went from the bottom to the top, beneath the bridge that held the strings. Well, that is the violin’s soul. I looked at him thinking he was pulling my leg, but he was very serious, so I realized he wasn’t. Ah, was all I said, like an idiot. And that image, of the soul in the shape of a little stick, stayed with me. Who would have thought that a soul could be like that, even if it’s just an instrument’s. If the priest from my town found that out . . .

  We practiced German songs. There was one that I was really taken with. There were lyrics on the score but, of course, I didn’t understand a word. What does it say? I asked Mr. Karl one day. Well, it talks about a shepherd’s love for a peasant gir
l, and that his flock is white like the peasant girl’s skin; that’s what it says. And I thanked him, and then I played it knowing what it meant and, oh, that made it so much easier to make music, because you knew who you were talking to and what you were talking about. And I closed my eyes and played it like never before, and that was one that Mr. Karl had made me go over many times, always correcting me. And when I finished, I opened my eyes and was surprised to find that he had been crying. Very good, Maria, thank you, he said. And I already knew that when he wanted me to leave he would always say thank you. I placed the violin down gently on a chair and I left, passing as quietly as I could past Beethoven on my way to the kitchen and my bedroom. And I wondered why he had cried, maybe because he hadn’t managed to teach me what he wanted to, even after so many years. But it didn’t matter, I found it moving and that was what counted.

  We didn’t have class for a long time after that. I missed playing the violin and, when he wasn’t there, I would pick it up and practice a little. Sometimes I played the German songs, and sometimes I tried to interpret the notes that Mr. Karl had written on some score that he’d left by the piano, or somewhere else, because we never lacked for scores around that house; I could have my pick. Among them were some real tests of skill, frantic races to play note after note and maintain a speed throughout, that I was incapable of doing. Secretly I tried it; I spent a whole week when Mr. Karl was traveling, but I couldn’t do it. And, when I realized that I never would be able to, I began to cry. I cried softly for a long time. It was obvious that I could put soul and feelings and whatever else into it but that I’d never be really fast, it was impossible—for that I’d have to spend a whole lifetime doing exercises like the ones that Mr. Karl and Miss Teresa and all the violinists who came over to the house had done. Obviously, Mr. Karl told me one day that he no longer went fast because he no longer played the violin, and he wouldn’t be able to do a presto, he said it like that, just the way it sounds, presto, and I didn’t know what a presto was, but I nodded because it sounded like pressured, and later, I found out that it was a piece of music played very fast, so I thought, Look at that, I was right. Brava, Maria, I said to myself.