The House of Silence (12 page)

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.

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 girl, 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.

This plush hall is nothing like my little apartment, and nothing like the house where I lived for so many years. It's not even anything like the room where I used to play for Mr. Karl and where, with his help, I managed to make music—or at least that was the feeling I had. This lovely hall is completely different, made for sensitive ladies and gentlemen to come and hear music. And tomorrow I will come to hear music here, and they told me that they'd save me a seat in the middle of the third row because the first row is too close and you can't see a thing.

With Miss Teresa, reaching the depths of music lasted longer than with the others. Mr. Karl came to see me one day in the kitchen, I knew that he wanted to have a hot chocolate, and I made it for him. He never had his hot chocolate in the dining room, just as he had never taken a woman to his bed. The dining room was for lunch and dinner, and his bed only for sleep. Extra things took place on the sofa and in the kitchen. That day he talked again about music and women. I hope that you understand it some day, he said, coughing a little and looking at me out of the corner of his eye to see what effect his words had on me. I didn't say a word, just kept working, I didn't know if he was asking me whether I understood it already or whether he was saying that eventually I would. In fact, I was so used to his behavior that I never thought about understanding it or not, like we don't try to understand breathing,
we just breathe. And it was the same with Mr. Karl, just a part of him and I wondered if all musicians were like that, if they all wanted to reach the depths of music—until I met Mr. Mark and I realized that no, not all musicians did that, it was just Mr. Karl. And another thing that I was starting to grasp was that I didn't make real music because he never wanted anything with me, and if I played like those violinists who came to the house, I imagine he would have tried something with me too. At night, when I closed my eyes, I tried to imagine myself on that sofa with Mr. Karl doing those things that he now did with Miss Teresa but had done with so many before her—and, like that first day when I couldn't pull my eye away from the keyhole, just like that first day, my thoughts would be transfixed by a scene in which I played the starring role. I imagined Mr. Karl kissing me, caressing me, taking off my clothes, having me put down the violin, a violin that didn't belong to me, and having me stretch out there on that black leather sofa, to mine the depths of music. And I wasn't the least bit ashamed; I went with it, and I was so mesmerized by that idea that I could feel a fire rising inside me, a fire that burned my thoughts and my soul and even my body, and those flames burned so brightly that when I opened my eyes I discovered that I really would have liked that to happen, I would have liked it a lot. But that would never come to pass, I was a maid and he was my employer. And there are things that can never be forgotten, even with a violin in the mix.