The Piano Teacher: A Novel (21 page)

It is now ten minutes later than before, and there is no grinding in the lock, no friendly telephone buzzing that says: Please come to the hospital immediately. There is no daughter who says: Mama, I’ll be home in fifteen minutes, I was delayed unexpectedly. The alleged chamber-music hostess doesn’t answer the phone, even after thirty rings.

The maternal puma steals from the bedroom, where the bed is made and ready. She stalks into the living room, where the TV, switched on again, fades out with the national anthem. It is accompanied by the red-white-red Austrian flag billowing in the wind, a sign that day is done. It wasn’t worth turning on the TV, for Mother knows the national anthem by heart. She transposes two knickknacks. She shifts the big crystal bowl from one spot to another. There is wax fruit in the bowl. She polishes
the fruit with a soft white cloth. The daughter, a connoisseur of art, calls the fruit horrible. Mother negates this harsh judgment; it is still
her
apartment and
her
daughter. Someday, when Mother is dead, everything will change of its own accord. In the bedroom, the arrangement is meticulously checked yet again. A corner of the bedcover is carefully folded back, to form an equilateral triangle. The sheet is as stiff as an upswept hairdo. On the pillow lies a bedtime chocolate in the form of a tinfoil-coated horseshoe, left over from New Year’s Eve. This surprise is removed, for sweets are only for the sweet. On the night table, next to the night-table lamp, the book that the daughter is reading. Inside it, a bookmark from a hand-painted childhood. Next to it, a filled glass of water for nocturnal thirst (the removal of the candy is punishment enough). Erika’s kindhearted mother refills the glass with tap water for the nth time, to keep the water cold and fresh, so no bubbles will rise, indicating staleness and flatness. On her own side of the bed, Mother is somewhat more casual about these precautions. However, she is considerate enough to remove her dentures from her mouth early in the morning in order to clean them. Then in they go again, right away! If Erika has a wish at night, it is promptly satisfied if at all possible. This applies only to external wishes. Erika should keep her internal wishes to herself—doesn’t she have a nice, warm home? After lengthy deliberation, Mother places a large green apple next to the bedtime book to widen the selection. Like a mother cat who drags her kittens around because she doesn’t trust their peace and quiet, Mother carries the slashed dress from one place to another. And then finally to a third, where it can be seen glittering. The daughter should instantly see the destruction for which she is ultimately to blame. But it should not be too conspicuous. Eventually, Frau Kohut spreads the vestiges of the gown over the TV couch,
very carefully, as though Erika were to slip into this creation for a piano recital. Mother has to make sure that the gown keeps body and soul together. She arranges the sleeve tatters in various ways. Her lawful devastation is virtually presented on a silver platter.

Mother briefly suspects that Herr Klemmer, from that long-past home recital, is forcing his way between mother and child. That young man is very nice, but he can’t replace a mother. A mother comes in a unique model, and Erika’s got the original. If Erika did get together with Herr Klemmer, it will have been the last time. They are approaching the deadline for the down payment on the newly built apartment. Every day, Mother forges a new plan, then rejects it, which is why her daughter will have to sleep in the same bed with her, even in the new apartment. Mother should also forge Erika right now, while the iron is still hot. And not yet hot for that Walter Klemmer. Mother’s reasons: various dangers such as fire, theft, burglary, leaky pipes, Mother’s heart attacks (blood pressure!), nocturnal anxieties of a general and specific nature. Every day, Mother refurnishes Erika’s room in the new condo, and always more cunningly than the day before. But there’ll be no bed for her daughter—forget it! A comfortable easy chair will be the sole concession.

Mother lies down, then instantly gets up again. She is already wearing her nightgown and robe. She traipses from wall to wall, pushing away decorative objects and taking their places. She looks at all the clocks in the apartment and compares them with one another. The child is going to get it, she’ll pay for this.

Okay, here we are, the child’s arriving, the lock is clearly clicking, the key grinds briefly, then the gates open up to the gray and gruesome land of mother love. Erika enters. She
squints like a drunken moth in the bright hall light. All the lights are switched on as if for a party. However, the time of the eucharist went by, unused, hours ago. Softly, but crimson with rage, Mother sprints out of her abode, accidentally knocking something over, almost knocking Erika over (that phase of the struggle won’t come till later). Mother soundlessly strikes out at her child, and the child strikes back again a brief reaction time. Erika’s shoe soles give off an animal smell, indicating at least decay. Because of the neighbors, who have to get up early in the morning, the two women keep their wrestling silent. The outcome is uncertain. In the end, the daughter may allow her mother to win out of sheer respect. Mother, worried about her child’s ten little musical hammers, may allow the child to win. Actually, the child is stronger because she is younger. Besides, Mother used up all her strength fighting with her husband. However, the child has not yet learned how to exploit her strength fully against her mother. Mother smacks away at the loosened hairdo of the late-season fruit of her womb. The silk kerchief adorned with horseheads flutters up, settling, as if deliberately, on a hall lamp, toning it down, damping it—the proper lighting for moodier performances. The daughter is at a disadvantage, her shoes are slippery from all the shit, clay, and grass. She slips on the mat. Her body crashes on the floor, which is barely softened by the red sisal runner. A noisy development. Mother hisses at Erika: Quiet! (The neighbors!) Erika gives tit for tat, reminding Mother about the neighbors: Quiet! They scratch each other’s faces. The daughter shrieks like a falcon pouncing on its prey. As for quiet, Erika says the neighbors can complain all they like tomorrow, Mother’s the one who’ll have to put up with it. Mother howls, then instantly chokes back her howl. It is followed by a half-voiceless, half-vocal gasping and whimpering, sobbing and simpering. Mother
starts pressing the “pity” button, and, since the fight is still undecided, she resorts to such unfair devices as her age and her imminent death. She mumbles these arguments, a sobbing chain of poor excuses for not winning today. Her laments hit home. Erika doesn’t want Mother wearing herself out in this struggle. She says Mother started. Mother says Erika started. It’s taken at least a month off Mother’s life. Erika scratches and bites only halfheartedly. Mother takes her advantage and rips out a handful of Erika’s forelock, some of the hair that Erika is proud of because it curls down in such a pretty twirl. Erika lets out a falsetto shriek, which frightens Mother so intensely that she stops. Tomorrow, Erika will have to wear a Band-Aid on her scalp. Or else she’ll have to keep on her kerchief,
quasi una fantasia,
when she teaches. The two women sit on the crumpled runner, facing each other under the shaded glow of the lamp, loudly breathing in and out. After several gulps of air, the daughter asks whether this was necessary. Like a loving wife who has just received dreadful news from abroad, Erika presses her right hand convulsively against her throat, where an artery hops and twitches. Mother, a retired Niobe, sits next to the hall bureau, which sports all kinds of things with vague functions and unexplained uses. Mother answers without finding words. She says that it would not have been necessary if Erika had only come home on time. Then they aim silence at each other. Their senses are heightened. They have been polished into inconceivably thin blades by rotating whetstones. Mother’s nightgown has slipped down during the fight, showing that, despite everything, she is still first and foremost a woman. Her embarrassed daughter recommends that Mother cover herself. Ashamed, Mother obeys. Erika gets up, saying she’s thirsty. Mother hurries to satisfy this modest wish. She’s afraid that Erika, out of sheer defiance, will buy
herself a new dress tomorrow. Mother gets some cider from the refrigerator, a special weekend sale, for she seldom lugs the heavy bottles home from the supermarket. She normally buys concentrated raspberry syrup, which lasts a lot longer for the same amount of effort. The concentrate, diluted with water, can be stretched out for weeks. Mother says she’s finally going to die, the flesh is willing and the heart is weak. The daughter tells her not to exaggerate. She is already numbed by those constant threats of dying. Mother wants to cry, which would make her the winner by a knockout in the third round—or, at worst, by default. Erika warns Mother not to cry so late at night. Erika wants to drink the juice, then go straight to bed. Mother should do the same, albeit on her side of the bed. She should not talk to Erika anymore! Erika is not going to be so quick to forgive her for assaulting a blameless homecomer, a chamber musician. Erika doesn’t want to shower because the pipes can be heard throughout the building. She lies down, as is, next to her mother. Today, one or two of her fuses shorted, but Erika returned home all the same. Since the fuses were meant for rarely used devices, Erika doesn’t notice they’re out. She lies down and falls asleep right after saying good night, to which there is no response. Mother lies awake for a long time, secretly wondering how her daughter could fall asleep right away, with no sign of regret. Erika should have noticed that Mother paid no attention to her good night. On a normal evening, both of them would lie motionless for about ten minutes, stewing in their own juice. Then the inevitable reconciliation would take place with a long, quiet heart-to-heart talk, sealed by a good-night kiss. But today, Erika simply fled into sleep, whisked off by dreams that Mother will never know about because she never hears about them the next day. Mother tells herself to practice utmost caution during the next few days and
weeks, even months. These thoughts keep her awake for hours on end, until the gray dawn.

When discussing Bach’s six
Brandenburg
concertos, the artistically aware person usually states, among other things, that when these masterpieces were composed, the stars were dancing in the heavens. God and his dwelling place are always involved whenever these people talk about Bach. Erika has taken over the piano part for one of her students, whose nose was bleeding and who had to go lie down. The student rests on a gym mat. Flutes and violins complete the ensemble, lending a rarity value to the concertos. After all, the makeup of the players is always extremely varied. And so are the instruments. Once, a group even used two recorders!

In Erika’s wake, Walter Klemmer has begun a new and serious offensive. He has cordoned off a corner of the gymnasium and settled down. This is his own auditorium, where he listens to the chamber orchestra rehearsing. He pretends to be absorbed in his score, but he is actually staring only at Erika. Not a single one of her movements at the keyboard escapes his notice, not because he wants to learn from them, but because he’d like to unnerve the pianist—a typical male trick. He gazes at the teacher, passively but provokingly. He wants to be one big masculine challenge, something that only the strongest woman and artist can take on. Erika asks him whether he would like to play the piano part himself. He says no, he wouldn’t, and he inserts a meaningful pause between the two phrases, charging the pause with something ineffable. He reacts with significant silence to Erika’s claim that practice makes perfect. Klemmer says hello to a female acquaintance, kissing her hand—a deliberately playful gesture.
Then he laughs with a second girl about some nonsense or other.

Erika feels the spiritual vacuum emanating from such girls. A man soon gets bored with them. A pretty face is used up very quickly.

Klemmer, the tragic hero, who is far too young for this role (while Erika is actually too old to be an innocent victim of his attentions), runs his finger correctly along the mute notes in the score. Everyone can tell instantly that Klemmer is a musical victim, not a musical parasite. Klemmer is a performer, who is prevented from playing by unfortunate circumstances. He briefly places his arm around a third girl’s shoulder. She is wearing a miniskirt, which is back in fashion. She seems unburdened by any thoughts. Erika thinks: If Klemmer wants to sink that low, then let him. But I won’t accompany him. Her skin crinkles jealously, like fine crepe paper. Her eyes hurt because she can catch everything only out of their extreme corners. She simply mustn’t turn toward Klemmer. He mustn’t notice her attention no matter what. He jokes with the third girl. The girl writhes under volleys of laughter. She shows her legs almost up to where they end and run into the body. The girl is showered with sunlight. Constant canoeing has painted a healthy color in Klemmer’s cheeks. His head flows into the girl’s head. His blond hair lights up together with the girl’s long hair. When he goes canoeing, Klemmer protects his head with a helmet. He tells the girl a joke, and his eyes flash blue, like taillights. He can sense Erika’s presence constantly. His eyes do not signal a brake maneuver. Why, Klemmer, no doubt, is in the middle of a new advance. Wind, water, rocks, and waves have warmly recommended that the discouraged paddler should keep going. He was about to give up, he was about to pick younger garden flowers than Erika. However, there are signs that his secret beloved will waver and soften. If only he
could get her into a canoe just once. It doesn’t have to be a paddle boat, which must be so hard to handle. It can be a motionless boat. There, on a lake, on a river—that would be Klemmer’s element, his most intrinsic one—he could exert sure control over her, because he feels at home in water. He could conduct and coordinate Erika’s hectic movements. Here, on the keyboard, on the trail of notes, Erika is in
her
element, and the conductor conducts (an exiled Hungarian, who, in a thick accent, foams his rage at the flock of students).