Four Doors and Other Stories (12 page)

People and objects seemed covered into a semi-transparent veil that muffled their voices and softened their lines. Everything was strange and different. Even her body, which acted like it had gotten a life of its own while she, the pianist, was watching helplessly as an unseen witness.

She accompanied her body to the backstage cabin which was full of flower baskets. In this heightened state she witnessed her own body changing the silk dress to a comfortable wrapper, sitting down in front of the makeup table and leaning heavily on the padded chair’s back. She saw herself taking a few deep breaths and then refreshing her face and hair, by adding some powder to the cheeks, some violet on the eyelids and some gloss on to her lips. Also, tightening her pigtails. Putting on a violet dress made of net, she, the princess of the ivory keys.

A hasty knock at the door and another woman entered the room. She gave her an enthusiastic embrace:

“You were stunning, as always! You knocked their socks off! They could have applauded you for hours. Coming back home was the smartest move you could do. I’m glad you took my advice,” she said in French.

This woman was the pianist’s publicist, the same person who, after the failure in New York, encouraged her to disappear for a while until the scandal’s echoes would die away and then return home as a world-acclaimed star.

“Whenever I feel lost, I go back home,” she had told her. “I turn off my cell phones, disconnect my Internet connection and cuddle into my mother’s arms, in the house I grew up. It is the best way to get back on my feet and find the right answer to any problem. Why don’t you give it a try as well?”

The pianist had agreed right away. She wanted to get back to her roots, to the very place where their love story had begun. Forget about all the hatred. As long as they had loved one another, her career thrived. Nevertheless, as soon as ill blood crawled in, everything unraveled, like a worn-out tissue, and reached its peak during that night in New York, when she got off her piano right in the middle of the concert, leaving the stage.

At last, she was back home, to the same place where, years ago, a little girl with a serious countenance and plaited hair had set foot on a stage for the very first time. It was nanny’s day off and her mother, a flautist, had to bring her along to the orchestra rehearsals. She was a big-eyed, quiet child—maybe too quiet, with a wondering gaze, and it was unlikely that she would cause trouble. The pianist remembered everything as if it happened yesterday. Despite her tender age, the moment she had seen him, she had fallen in love. Forever. Pour la vie…She remembered his looks, she remembered his voice and his touch. She remembered also that she had wandered on stage, grazing the violas, the violins, and the cellos until she had found herself in front of the piano. She had climbed the stool and started playing. Her mother was in shock: her child had never taken any music lessons yet her fingers were flying over the keys, making the instrument sound beautiful. Shortly after, the press were speaking highly about the wonder child pianist.

“I totally agree with you,” the artist answered with her best mood in weeks. “Especially that tonight I had felt him supporting me, like in the good old days. He was there for me, unconditionally.”

“I saw it coming, I told you. You two are indestructible, not to worry.”

The limo was waiting for her at the back entrance. The restaurant was nearby, at a walking distance but her publicist decided that she had to make a stunning, diva–like appearance. As she got out of the car, camera flashes started to light up. The pianist took a few steps with a serious smile on her face, without turning her head to the right or to the left, and disappeared behind the massive doors. All by herself, like so many times, but feeling him close to her, so close.

She sat down, at the big, round table circled by posh ladies and gentlemen. Ambassadors, executives, even two very well-renowned actors had gathered there to see her. To sit next to her and look at her, because everybody knew how generous she was when it came to her talent, being ready to sing from dawn until dusk, as skimpy as she was with her words. Whenever in public, she spoke little, putting on a display of mystery and reticence.

The truth was that all these people, as gifted or fascinating might have seemed to others, bored her to death. The pianist kept hearing only his voice all the time. These people’s chit-chat was nothing but an annoying buzz that prevented her from listening to him. Especially tonight, when he had started making himself heard again, after a long and painful silence.

It was almost dessert time when the pianist got up from the table, excusing herself and telling the guests she would be back in no time. Instead, she headed to the exit and, without asking for the limo, headed to the concert hall. The door attendant at the back entrance greeted her with utmost respect, a little surprised to see her again at such short interval. She passed him by without replying, went through a corridor and then reached the auditorium. The chandeliers were off. Only the green exit lights threw some faint, green rays that softened the darkness. The stage had been emptied of all instruments and stands, except for the piano. There it was, majestic, the concert grand piano.

The woman sat down on the stool, opened the clavier, and touched the keys. At once, the etheric being that, since the end of the earlier concert had floated around as a silent witness, was now reunited with the flesh and blood being. She gave a sigh of relief. Her gaze, usually one so serious and deep, became playful and intense. At last, she could be herself.

“Hello again, my beloved,” she whispered while embracing the piano and gently touching the pedals with her toes.” It feels so good not to pretend anymore. You know you are the only reason I play. I do not care at all about them. Their applause, their adoration leaves me cold. I couldn’t possibly end such a magical night away from you.”

The song of love was heard throughout the darkened auditorium.

The darkened room was filled with couples, swinging to the rhythm of salsa music. The bodyguard had greeted her as usual, with a large and friendly smile. As if he said: “Here she comes again, this incredible beauty!”

Here in this nightclub she hated when it had opened, but where she had been returning week after week after week. It had been a year since she began living a life that was strange to her. Same, as it happened on the dance floor, she indulged into being led, instead of leading. There were times—not few, she would say, when she would have liked to take other steps, interpret music differently, have a break or a styling movement, but the tide was too strong and carried her away.

There were no familiar faces on the floor that night. Luckily, she knew some of the people who were hanging out by the bar. Among them was the Spaniard. He must have been in his forties. He was a tall, well-built man, with a resigned look on his face that might have been easily mistaken for kindness. He lived in a luxurious mansion and always ordered the best champagne. There was something about him, nevertheless, that screamed unhappiness. What was really going on under that exterior?

She liked him only because they communicated. This had always been the missing ingredient in her love affairs. They communicated with words, with gestures, with glances. He was not a dancer—he had never taken dancing lessons but had this innate gift of feeling music and expressing it in a swirl of steps, poses, and arm movements. The evening before, he had asked her to dance rumba. With no previous preparation, with no input from a trained director, the dance unraveled graciously as if from a music video directed by a gifted choreographer.

“Eres todo en mi, solo tu, mi amor...”

The singer’s coarse and sensual voice transported them into a parallel world inhabited by only the two of them. The walls around the dance floor were its boundaries, the amber, yellow and red lights in the ceiling, its sun. In this world there was no air only cigarette smoke. Temperatures were always high and the skin, slightly moist and shiny from sweat.

He had fallen onto his knees. She had turned slowly, lustfully around him, with feline moves. Had not her lover been there, she would have pushed the Spaniard with the tip of her red leather ankle-boots, making him roll on the ground. She still found it awkward that a stranger clung to her like this, holding her so tight that she could barely breathe, his sweaty shirt wetting her white lace top, her arms and her palms, but this was the way dancing went sometimes. In fact, these were the ways of this world. A world where music, booze and smoking broke down all barriers and taboos. A world she had entered by accident, where she did not belong. The household usually left around five or six in the morning. She got sleepy around two a.m. They would keep drinking shots. She would keep drinking still water. They would be very friendly. She would find it odd to be so friendly with people she saw only at night.

Unlike yesterday, the Spaniard had company. A petite, long, blonde-haired woman was hanging from his neck, kissing him passionately. As she entered the room, while kissing the other woman back, he stared at her. As if he was undressing her with his eyes. She felt a mix of disgust. All right she was provocative enough. She was wearing a short, olive dress that revealed her smooth, bare back. However, he was making out with another woman. The Spaniard was just one among many who were giving her the eye. As much as she enjoyed being an object of desire, the dull atmosphere bored her. She would have rather been at home in her bed.

She went into the entrance lobby to get some air and sat in one of the swinging chairs. The bodyguard had fled and the place was deserted. She swung back and forth for a few moments until boredom gripped her more intensely. She was preparing to go back to the dancing floor, when the Spaniard came forth. It was the first time they had spoken that night.

“How are you? Do you think we can dance later?” he asked straightforwardly. “I enjoy dancing with you.” He had also confessed this the night before.

Indeed, she enjoyed it too. She enjoyed his close proximity, but up to a point.

“Of course,” she answered. “Provided that your girl doesn’t get upset.”

“Nor your boyfriend…”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

“She wouldn’t mind, either. Even if she would, who gives a damn?”

“Let’s go back….”

The blonde welcomed him with a prolonged kiss. Watching them, she was wondering who was a greater liar: him, for accepting the love gestures of a woman he did not care about or her, who settled for so little when she could have so much.

They finally danced, a bit more formally than usual, keeping the distance, because he had company.

Before leaving, while her boyfriend was holding her hand, the Spaniard whispered to her ear:

“I’m here every weekend night. On Fridays, I am alone. Will you be here next Friday?”

The sledge was running fast on the beaten path. The driver was making the horses gallop. They were big, stout, dark horses with plaited manes. She would have happily given up her warm blankets for them but the man had told her that horses did not feel the cold. Given their merry high-skip steps, he seemed to be right. From a distance, the sledge seemed empty and unusual. An absentminded passerby might have noticed just a pile of fabrics standing upright in a strange manner. On closer inspection, one might have observed a white-tufted cap on the top of the pile. That was all that could be seen of her: a white cap with a white rabbit fur tassel and a pair of round and dark eyes that were squinted because of the light. The sun was shining along with everything that existed on earth. She had become one with the valleys, hills, trees and the animals hidden in the feverish heart of the soil, pulsating with energy despite their apparent stillness. Each second that passed was sealing her union with this vibrating world. She was alive, more alive than ever in past years. She was smiling, with her face and with her entire body. She was as shiny as the landscape.

This sledge ride was not an ordinary one, I must say. Nor this realm. Legends and stories spoke of a magical land, where everything was possible for those who had eyes to see and ears to hear. No wonder that those who stayed within the comfy confines of the sky slopes, nightclubs and modern hotels were unable to discover these mysteries. They were taking fast slides, without noticing the curious squirrels in the trees or hearing the birds’ songs. They were going on sledge rides, without asking for “the magical tour” for fear that they might miss dinner. There was only one man who was giving the magical tour. Not to everybody but only to those he believed would appreciate it most. To those who had messages to unravel in legendary places he was the only one to know. “The Magical Tour” was not to be found in travel agencies’ catalogues. People were telling other people. Therefore, it was easy for him to turn down the unwanted:

“It’s just a rumor, nothing more,” he would answer.

“But we would love to see the evergreen tree,” the visitor would insist.

“There are plenty of green trees around you,” he would answer with a mild smile. “I suggest a half-hour journey so that you can enjoy them. The snow is so perfect for a sledge ride.”

At this moment, children would become frantic, clapping their hands and clattering with joy and eagerness while their parents, eager for a slice of supernatural would give in, get in the sledge, and settle for a mundane experience. The owner of the sledge and the four black horses could tell a seeker of the truth from a seeker of lurid. Still, that morning, he was unsure about her. He was able to read people at a glance. Now, he was hesitant. The young woman looked at a loss and abashed. Nothing but the usual tourist, lost in her own life. Yet, beyond this, he could sense utter beauty.

“Are you here for the magical tour?” His question popped up from his lips before he controlled it.

Why was she here? What made her leave her cozy hotel room and get out in the cold? Some last night images flashed in front of her eyes. The fight in the nightclub. Feeling incomplete. His vomit scattered all over the bathroom. Snuggling up on the other side of the bed, trying to put as much distance as possible between them. The urgent need of purification she felt as she woke up. She had dressed quietly—she would not want him to wake from the world of dreams—and left in a hurry. Her steps had brought her here.