I’m done with my practicing. I put the Stainer to one side and sit down in the armchair in this dressing room. At intermission I will head toward the stage and wait for the moment to play the Bach concerto—the moment to do what I love most in the world, which is to show off my agility in front of Teresa, who’s already on her last legs as a violinist, but also as a human being. Because time passes for everyone including her; there’s no way around it, no matter how much make-up she wears. A few more years and I won’t have to worry about seeing her around because she won’t be able to play any notes, not the fast ones and not the slow ones. Just have a little more patience, Anna.
Maria
Today of all days, I would have stayed under the covers, I don’t even know how I sit through an entire concert anymore; this is really getting to be too much, when I get back to Barcelona I’ll have to see the doctor. But I can’t lose my courage now, not now when I have work to do, because I have to follow through on what I came here to do.
Miss Anna showed up at the house six months before Mr. Karl died. Oh, it wasn’t that he had ended things with Miss Teresa, no, not by a long shot, instead they both spent time on the sofa, at least until they were both practicing together. Before Miss Anna, the whole time he was with Teresa there was no one else, and I’m talking about at least two or three years. I thought that Mr. Karl was getting on in years, and that when he’d asked me to take off my uniform it had somehow been a turning point in the way he looked at things.
I had taken off my uniform, just as he asked, and I put it away in the closet. Then came the difficult task of having to buy clothes, because, obviously, if I didn’t wear a uniform around the house, I had to wear something, and all I had were things I wore on Thursdays and Sunday mornings, I had never had the need for anything more. When I took off my uniform, I realized that I was getting older. I tried to put on the dress I used to wear when I went out with that boyfriend who wanted me to let him touch me, and it didn’t fit anymore. I looked in the mirror and, suddenly, I discovered a face run through with sunken lines that had become wrinkles, some big ones and a lot of small ones. And I looked at my hair and saw it was gray. I no longer wore that ponytail from when I went out with that man after mass, but I did always pull my hair back into a bun so it wouldn’t be in my face. All of a sudden, I wondered if I should have let him touch my inner thigh, and maybe I would have had a husband and kids, and maybe I would have lived in a different house—smaller but just for me, like the apartment I have now, or on the other side of the city, who knows? But I definitely wouldn’t have learned to play the violin, and I definitely wouldn’t have had Mr. Karl for a teacher. I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt the way I felt in Mr. Karl’s house, doing whatever I pleased and setting everything up the way I wanted to, as if it were my very own house. And I definitely wouldn’t have had a Beethoven to dust and say gut’n Tag to.
I like it better this way, without a uniform; what do you think? he’d asked me when he saw that I’d taken it off. I looked at myself a little, I didn’t know what to say, I don’t pay attention to these things, but I guess I agree. Come on, play, he said then, and he closed his eyes.
I was surprised that he asked me to play when Miss Teresa was still on active duty; I mean, while Miss Teresa was still spending time on the sofa at every rehearsal. Normally, when there were women on active duty, he would forget about teaching me. But after that thing about the uniform and after Miss Teresa, everything was different, and Mr. Karl kept up his classes with me. So I kept playing and studying with him, and he no longer cried, but he was distant and so serious that I sometimes thought he was mad at me. And I would play and play, all those German songs that tore at the heart of whoever heard them. Mr. Karl had given me a record so I could hear how they were sung. And now you have to do the same with the violin, he told me. And I was about to reply, sir, but the violin can’t sing, but I bit my tongue because I suddenly realized that it wasn’t true, that the violin can sing, of course it can, and it could sound even more melancholy than if you added lyrics, and that was what Mr. Karl was talking about.
When he wasn’t there, I played even more. I would play as much as I could, more and more each day. I let myself be carried off by those songs that spoke of distant lands but with a sadness that was universal, the same sadness that women and men feel all over the world. Sometimes I had to rush afterwards to finish all my daily chores in the house, because I would get carried away by my playing; I couldn’t stop. I knew all those songs by heart. Mr. Karl congratulated me every time he heard me playing them, and he told me that he would have to bring me another score because I already knew that one very well. He would smile and say thank you, in that distant tone he often had then, and I would leave but not before nodding my head slightly, like the start of a bow, which I always did, since the first day I had shown up at that house, something my mother had taught me I had to do with gentlemen who had more money than us. And, from that first day, I had figured that Mr. Karl had quite a bit more money than I did.
Everything I’m hearing is lovely; it’s music that reaches the depths of your heart, and the singers aren’t like that first one I heard on the sofa. No, they’re much more discreet, and they sound more like they’re talking than screeching to break glass. It’s almost as if they’re playing the violin. And it is really a switch, as if the violin were the human voice.
Mrs. Anna, who also plays the violin, showed up at the house like the next big thing. Today, one of the country’s top violinists will be coming, Mr. Karl told me early one morning, prick up your ears and have a listen, Maria. Yes, sir, I said obediently. I already knew that Mr. Karl was going to tour Europe with the orchestra, one singer and two violinists to perform the Sunday-morning Bach concerto. One of those violinists was Miss Teresa, and I was pleased about that, because, even though she would spend time on the sofa with Mr. Karl, she’s obviously a good person, always smiling and kind with me—not like some of the others who acted like they couldn’t even see me, and would go straight to the piano room without my permission, when I was the one who was supposed to allow them in or not, according to what Mr. Karl had told me to tell them.
Miss Anna was one of those. And, when she finished the first, strictly musical, session with Mr. Karl, he came to find me in the kitchen and asked me what I had thought of her playing. I didn’t know what to tell him, because early that morning he himself had told me that she was the best violinist in the country, and I didn’t get that impression at all, but in the end I screwed up my courage and said, she plays notes. He lowered his head, yes, you’re right, she plays notes, very, very fast, but nothing more; this one has no soul, she’s the opposite of Teresa, and I have to put them together to do this tour; I think I’ve made a mistake with this girl. That day he didn’t have any hot chocolate, just a glass of water, and he left again. I need to think, he murmured, and I could see that he wasn’t in a very good mood. When he passed by Beethoven, instead of saying gut’n Tag, that day he gave him a slap, as if he was blaming the plaster musician for all the world’s evils.
Mr. Karl ended up taking both of them on tour. I think he decided to try to find a common meeting point, somehow bring them together. That was what I deduced after listening to him instruct them. He had only given Miss Anna one audition, but he gave her another chance. He told her to put a little more of herself into it, and then I remember that she did and that Mr. Karl was satisfied with that. Now I think that she didn’t really put more of herself into it, she just pretended to; she knew how to fake, musically speaking, a sensitivity she didn’t have. And that faking is what got her where she is now, and also into the arms of Mr. Mark who seems like he can’t live without her.
Miss Anna spent time on the sofa when it seemed like she was the violinist that he needed. It was the day she brought in the Stainer. I also thought she played very well that day, even though I didn’t like her at all, not only because she ignored me when she walked through the door but also because of the attitude she al
ways had, whether she was walking or sitting still or playing the violin. She was tall and thin, with very dark hair and skin, she seemed more from my region than from Catalonia, and she walked confidently on stiletto heels that would have surely made me fall over. There was silence when Mr. Karl said, okay, you’re hired, and then I put my eye to the keyhole and I saw what I was expecting to see. Another woman on active duty, I remember thinking, and this time it didn’t seem that Teresa had been dismissed yet. Nor did it seem he had any intention of dismissing her, Mr. Karl was doing a concerto for two violins, and so those two violinists, both of them, had to be protagonists in his life. That was new; it had never happened before and I wasn’t sure how Mr. Karl would pull it off. I hope they never run into each other, I thought.
Of course, they did run into each other. And I’ll never forget that day. It seems that Mr. Karl hadn’t told either of them that the other one would be there, and they found out for the first time right then, one day when they came to rehearse together. And, Holy Virgin of the Macarena, it seemed they knew each other and didn’t like each other very much. I still remember when I opened the door to the piano room so Miss Anna could go in, and Miss Teresa was already inside. I couldn’t see Miss Anna’s face, but I could see Miss Teresa’s, and it was a mix of shock, incredulousness, and exasperation. She didn’t smile. I remember that Mr. Karl said, this is her, and I remember Miss Anna announcing, we’ve already met. They didn’t even shake hands, and Miss Teresa said, wow, it’s been years. Then, Mr. Karl, who thought on his feet and saw that something was going on, started to talk about music, and all three started to play. And that they did well together, and I was shocked to see how Mr. Karl truly managed to bring them together, to unite those two different ways of making music, one that flowed from the soul and the other based in agility and technique.
But about a month before that, just days before that strange, curious encounter, the thing with the Stainer happened. Miss Anna came to the house with the Stainer. I’m sure she wanted to impress Mr. Karl, and she did, but not the way she was imagining. He asked her for the violin for a moment and came to see me with the instrument in his hand. And I, who was pretending to dust Beethoven, almost fell to the floor trying to get away quickly. Maria, he called to me when he found me in the entryway. Either he hadn’t realized I’d been behind the door or he didn’t care; all he cared about was the violin. He looked at me with his eyes gleaming, is it ours, he questioned me in a whisper, and he put one of the instrument’s long holes up to my face so I could read some letters inside that said something about Stainer, and that was when a little light went on inside my head after all those years and I understood why he called the violin Stainer. And look at this, Mr. Karl suddenly pointed. And I looked and it was the mark of a crack on one corner that someone had repaired. I understood; maybe when it fell from the cart or at the dump, I suggested, blushing, but I don’t know, it’s been so many years. Yes, he said, looking at it, and then he repeated, it’s been so many years.
He had said ours, and I found that unsettling. Despite that, I looked at it as professionally as I could. The truth is that I had never really looked at it when it was in the house, except for that day when I threw it out. I’m not sure, sir, I answered. I am, he said, it’s ours, it’s the one from Salz—something or other. And before heading back to the piano room, he said: Obviously someone made a business out of that garbage.
I kept quiet so I could hear what Miss Anna said, but he didn’t ask her where it had come from. Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass her for having pulled a violin from the trash. Or maybe she had bought it from a junkman, even though she seemed to have money. Whatever the case, and knowing Mr. Karl, he surely must have thought that if he asked her where she had gotten the Stainer, he would have made her look bad. That’s how Mr. Karl was. But she must have felt she owed him an explanation and, in a voice loud enough for me to hear, she said, oh, I’ve had it for many years; it was a gift from my father. He bought it here? Mr. Karl then asked. And she replied, I don’t know, but he’s dead now so I can’t ask him. And that was the end of it. I didn’t hear anything more. They spoke softly and quickly, and the telephone rang and I had to go answer it. I returned just as another sofa scene was starting. I didn’t hear the violin again. What I do know is that Miss Anna eventually ended up giving him the instrument in exchange for something. I only learned later what it was. And that was how the Stainer with the crack, that incredibly valuable violin that I had thrown into the garbage by mistake, came back to the house after many years. And one day, Mr. Karl had me come to the piano room and said, play one of those songs, and he handed me the Stainer. It was an emotional moment for me; I had thrown it away before I knew it could make such sounds, and now I was able to play it.
With trembling hands I took the instrument and began to play. I already knew that when Mr. Karl said “one of those songs,” he meant the ones from his country and particularly the one about the peasant girl and the shepherd. So that was the one I played. I was captivated, because it turned out that the violin made magic: It was as if it held the sun inside it or something like that. My God, I exclaimed, stopping after a few bars. Oh, keep playing, please, said Mr. Karl, exasperated, as if I had cut short the ecstatic state he seemed plunged into. Yes, I said, yes, slowly and gently. And I started playing again. I played alone, without the piano. I closed my eyes and let the Stainer do it all. And I reached the end of the piece as if I had traveled in an enchanted ship. Finally, I opened my eyes and said, sir, this is a magical violin. He said yes, without even looking at me and my heart sank a little because lately he was so odd.
It seemed like I should leave, and that was when I thought of something even stranger, which was that when Miss Anna played there was no magic. When Miss Anna played the Stainer, it sounded like a normal violin. So it was obvious that the Stainer wasn’t always magic; it depended on who was playing it. I went to the kitchen, perplexed and silent as the grave, and Mr. Karl just kept staring at the piano without even saying goodnight to me.
I was able to play the Stainer from then on, but only occasionally, when he wasn’t there, because he didn’t allow it when he was. No, play the student violin, he would say, that’s what it’s for. And he gave me the other one, and I played like always, and I went through the lessons he had told me to learn. I played as best I could, but obviously I noticed a big difference between that violin and the Stainer; it was like night and day.
That was a very unusual period. Mr. Karl wasn’t himself, and the Stainer was back. But I was starting to think that, despite the magic it made, maybe it would have been better if that violin had stayed wherever it had been. Because now that we had it back it was as if it had cast a spell on us, like the ones Andalusian gypsy women would cast if they didn’t like you or if someone asked them to bring harm to you. Everything had changed color and we, he and I, were getting old. And it made me sad because I thought that maybe Mr. Karl had expected more of me when I played the Stainer and I’d disappointed him because, after all, I was just a maid, and maids aren’t violinists, not in or out of uniform.
And that day came when Miss Anna and Miss Teresa met up, and then they began the rehearsal. And there were no sofa scenes when they were both there, and I don’t know if he was thinking of having them both on the sofa at the same time, but if that was his plan, it didn’t come to pass, because they obviously couldn’t stand each other. And, of course, in order to do certain things with another person, you have to really be able to stand them.
So from then on, I only heard music when he was with those two women, the same ones who will play at the end of this concert, and it was always one piece of music in particular. I got used to hearing them rehearse Bach’s double concerto, a live version in addition to the recordings played every Sunday morning. Miss Teresa would come in first, a sweet but decisive entrance, compelled by a force that, despite everything, that woman obviously had in her. And, shortly after, Miss Anna would make her entrance, and it seemed she
was competing, even though I knew they would both reach the end of the piece at the same time. And they went on like that, with Mr. Karl interrupting them every once in a while and making them repeat certain bars and passages, all very serious, all very strict. And then, when they’d finished, they’d each head off in their own direction, and Mr. Karl would stay there staring at the piano, and I would think, there’s something wrong with this man.
And that was when he said, we’re leaving next week. I’ll be away for fifteen days.
Teresa
I hear Anna doing scales in her dressing room. We’re opposites, she and I. I leave it for the very last minute, just warm up my fingers a little bit, while she spends those last moments walking. She did the same thing when we were on tour here ten years ago, too. I don’t know if she’ll do it today. I take a look and it’s raining, and all the leaves on the ground have turned into a skating rink. And anyway, you can’t see a thing. This country is so dark . . . I don’t know if the concert was a good idea, opening up old wounds that took so long to scar, at least for me. Every time I see her, that dark, painful story comes into my head, and every time I have to pull myself together and bite my tongue to keep from saying something I’ll regret.
The House of Silence Page 11
