The Piano Teacher: A Novel (31 page)

Erika sits solidly on her couch. Her feet lie parallel in their new shoes. Hopelessly, she waits for something like an amorous advance from Klemmer. She senses irrevocably that love is
about to disappear! She hopes his love hasn’t disappeared. As long as he’s here, there’s hope. She hopes for at least passionate kisses, if you please. Klemmer answers her question: No thanks. Instead of torturing her, she wants him to practice love with her according to Austrian standards. If he let go with her passionately she would jab him with her words: Either my way or no way. She expects the inexperienced student to court her with his lips and hands. She’ll show him how. She’ll show him, all right.

They sit facing each other. Salvation through love is nigh, but the rock sealing the tomb is too heavy. Klemmer’s no angel, and women are no angels either. Roll away the rock. Erika is harsh toward Walter Klemmer when it comes to her wishes, which she has written down for him. She has no wishes other than those in the letter. Why waste words? Klemmer asks. At least, he’s not beating her.

He embraces the unfeeling bureau with all the strength he can muster and pushes it millimeter by millimeter, without Erika’s help. He pushes it until a tiny air sluice appears, so he can open the door. We have nothing more to say to each other, Klemmer doesn’t say. He leaves without saying goodbye and slams the apartment door behind him. He’s gone.

Mother, in her half of the bed, is snoring away, under the influence of unwonted alcohol, which is meant only for guests who never come. Many years ago, in this very same bed, desire led to sacred motherhood; and desire was terminated as soon as that goal was achieved. A single ejaculation killed desire and created a space for the daughter. Father killed two birds with one stone. And killed himself with the same stroke. Because of his internal indolence and weak mind, he was unable to follow through on the consequences of his ejaculation. Now Erika
slides into her own half of the bed, and Father is six feet under. Tonight, Erika hasn’t washed or cleaned herself in any way. She smells of her own sweat, like an animal in a cage, where the odor of sweat and the vapor of the wild gather and cannot withdraw, for the cage is too small. If one animal wants to turn around, the other has to squeeze up against the wall. Covered with sweat, Erika settles down next to her mother and lies there, sleepless. After two hours of stewing in her own juice, neither sleeping nor thinking, Erika suddenly feels her mother waking up. The thought of her child must have aroused her, for the child has not moved. Mother recalls what the liqueur helped her to flee. She jerks around, silvery bright, gleaming without sunlight. Glaring at the child, she issues a grave accusation, coupled with a dangerous threat and the utopia of bodily injury. Next come taluses of unanswered questions, in no special order as to priority or urgency. Erika remains silent, so Mother turns away, insulted. She interprets her feeling of insult as disgust at her daughter. Yet she turns back to her daughter and reemits an acoustic version of her threats, only louder. Erika is still gritting her teeth; Mother curses and nags. Her wild accusations drive her into a state beyond self-control. Mother gives in to the alcohol, which is still raging in her blood. The egg liqueur has an insidious effect. And so does the chocolate liqueur.

Erika mounts a halfhearted love attack, for Mother is already picturing far-reaching consequences for their future life together. Mother is horrified at the worst consequences—for instance, a separate bed for Erika!

Erika is carried away by her own amorous overture. She throws herself upon Mother, showering her with kisses. She kisses Mother in a way in which she has not even thought of kissing her for years. She clutches Mother’s shoulders, and Mother angrily waves her fists, not striking anyone. Erika
kisses Mother between her shoulders, but doesn’t always hit her target, for Mother keeps jerking her head toward the side that’s not being kissed. In the semidarkness. Mother’s face is merely a bright splotch surrounded by dyed blond hair, which helps orientation. Erika promiscuously kisses this bright spot. She is flesh of this flesh! A crumb of this maternal cake! Erika keeps pressing her wet mouth into Mother’s face, holding her in steely arms so Mother can’t resist. Erika lies halfway, then three-quarters upon Mother, because Mother is starting to flail her arms seriously, trying to thrash Erika. With hectic thrusts of the head, Mother’s mouth tries to avoid Erika’s puckered mouth. Mother wildly tosses her head around, trying to escape the kisses. It’s like a lovers’ struggle, and the goal isn’t orgasm, but Mother per se, the person known as Mother. And this Mother resolutely puts up a fight. It’s no use, Erika is stronger. She winds around Mother like ivy around an old house, but this Mother is definitely not a cozy old house. Erika sucks and gnaws on this big body as if she wanted to crawl back in and hide inside it. Erika confesses her love to her mother and Mother gasps out the opposite, namely that she too loves her child, but her child should stop immediately! Now! Mother cannot defend herself against this tempest of emotions, but she feels flattered. She suddenly feels courted. It is a premise of love that we feel validated because someone else makes us a top priority. Erika sinks her teeth into Mother. Mother begins to beat Erika away. The more Erika kisses, the more Mother thrashes away at her: first of all, to protect herself, and secondly, to ward off the child, who seems to have lost control even though she’s cold sober. Mother yells “Stop!” in various keys. Mother resolutely orders her to halt! Erika’s kisses keep dashing over Mother. Erika hits Mother demandingly, though lightly, because Mother’s reaction is not desirable. Erika hits Mother wantingly, but not wantonly. Mother takes it the
wrong way; she threatens and hollers. Mother and child have exchanged roles, for a mother is usually the one who does the hitting; from up there, she’s got the best overview of the child. Mother feels she has to defend herself against her offspring’s parasexual attacks; she slaps out blindly.

The daughter pulls Mother’s hands down and kisses Mother’s throat. Erika’s intention is cryptosexual; she is a strange and unpracticed lover. Mother, who has likewise never enjoyed any higher education in love, employs the wrong technique: She tramples everything around her. This wears hardest on her old flesh. It is treated purely as flesh, not as Mother. Erika’s teeth graze down her mother’s flesh. She kisses and kisses Mother wildly. Mother calls her daughter’s actions disgusting. Erika’s lost all control. It’s no use—Mother hasn’t been kissed like this for decades, and there’s more to come! For the kisses keep on, until, after an endless drumroll of kisses, the daughter collapses in exhaustion, half lying on her mother. The child weeps over the mother’s face, and the mother bulldozes the child off her. She asks whether the child has gone crazy. When no answer follows and none is expected, Mother orders Erika to go to sleep immediately, for tomorrow is another day! She cites professional duties that lie waiting. The daughter agrees: It’s time to sleep. Like a blind mole, the daughter reaches toward Mother’s body, but Mother shovels Erika’s hands away. For a brief moment, Erika managed to see her mother’s sparse pubic hair, which closes off the fat belly. The sight was unusual. Mother has always rigorously kept this pubic hair under lock and key. During the struggle, the daughter deliberately shoved around in her mother’s nightgown, so she could finally see this pubic hair which she has always known was there. Unfortunately, the light was very poor. Erika cunningly uncovered her mother so she could see everything, simply everything. Mother’s protests fell on deaf ears. Erika is stronger than her slightly
work-worn mother, at least from a purely physical point of view. The daughter now hurls what she has seen into her mother’s face. Mother remains silent, as if nothing happened.

The two women fall asleep, cheek by jowl. Not much left of the night. Soon the day will herald itself with unpleasant brightness and irksome bird calls.

Walter Klemmer is astonished at this woman, for she dares to do what others merely promise. After a breather and some deliberation, he is reluctantly impressed by the limits she pushes against in an attempt to expand them. The elbow room of her pleasure is expanded. Klemmer is impressed. Other woman have only a jungle gym and one or two swings in their playground—a dusty area covered with cracked concrete. But this woman has an entire soccer field with tennis courts and a cinder track—all for the happy user! Erika has known her limits for years; Mother drove in the stakes. But Erika is not afraid to pull those stakes out, as Klemmer acknowledges, and to hammer new ones in. Klemmer is proud that she is making this effort with him of all men. His insight comes to him after long reflection. He is young and ready for something new. He is healthy, and ready for disease. He is open to anything and everything, no matter where it comes from. He is broad-minded and willing to slam open yet another door. He might even lean out the window, indeed far enough to nearly lose his balance. He’d be standing on tiptoe! He deliberately takes a risk, and enjoys the risk because
he
is the one taking it. He has always been a blank page waiting for the ink of an unknown printer; and no one will ever have read the likes of this. He’ll be marked for life! Afterward he won’t be the same person, he will
be
more and
have
more.

If necessary, he will inflict cruelties upon this woman. Such
are his thoughts. He will accept her conditions without qualms and dictate his own: greater cruelty. He knows exactly what will happen after he steers clear of her for a few days in order to see whether emotion will survive the inhuman stress test of reason. His mental steel is sagging, but it hasn’t broken under the weight of promises made by the woman. She will place herself in his hands. He is proud of the trials he will undergo. Why, he may very nearly kill her!

Nevertheless, the student is glad to maintain a distance of several days. Better to play hard to get than give someone your little finger. He’s been waiting a couple of days, to see what this woman, whose turn it is to get loved, will fetch in her mouth. A dead hare, a partridge. Or just an old shoe. Showing his independence, he arbitrarily stops his lessons. He hopes this will make the woman shamelessly try to waylay him. Then he’ll say no and wait for her next move. Meanwhile, the young man prefers keeping to himself. The wolf knows no better friend before he meets the goat.

As for Erika, she learned how to do without years ago. Now she wants to change thoroughly. The much-used press of her lust crushes her wishes. The sap runs red. She keeps looking at the door, waiting for the student. All the other students come, but not Klemmer. He remains AWOL.

Klemmer is addicted to learning. He begins many things and completes few, including Japanese martial arts, languages, travel, painting. For some time now the education addict has been attending the clarinet class next door in order to gain some groundwork, which he will eventually apply to the saxophone for jazz and improvisation. He has been avoiding only the piano and its mistress. After learning the basics in a number of fields, Klemmer usually opts out. He lacks perseverance. But now he’d like to become a high-achievement lover—the woman is practically challenging him to do so. But then again, he complains
(when he has the time) that the corset of classical music training is much too tight for him. He likes to enjoy a view that’s not marred by any limits. He senses a vast landscape, he suspects there are fields he has never seen, and, of course, that no one else before him has seen. He lifts up corners of cloths and, terrified, drops them; only to raise them again: Did his eyes deceive him? He can scarcely believe them. Kohut keeps trying to bar him from those fields and meadows, yet in private she keeps beckoning with them. The student feels the suck of the limitless. During lessons, the woman is relentless. She can hear the slightest detail, the tiniest particular, from far away. But in real life, she wants to be forced to beg. On the keyboard, she wraps him around her little finger, in an elastic bandage of finger exercises, trill drills, the Czerny
School of Velocity.
It will be a slap in her face when the clarinet releases him from the constrictions of counterpoint. How thrillingly he’ll be able to improvise someday on the soprano sax! Klemmer practices the clarinet. He resolutely opens new musical horizons and plans to start out in a student jazz band—he knows the members personally. But once he outgrows them, he’ll start his own group. He’ll make his own music, according to his own dictates. He’s already got a name for it, but he’s keeping it secret for the moment. These musical plans will fit in well with his distinct urge for freedom. He’s already registered for the jazz class. He wants to study arranging. First, he wants to adjust, conform. But at the right time, he’ll break out of formation, like a wellspring, with a breathtaking solo. His willpower isn’t easily classified; his desires and abilities aren’t easily pigeonholed in the box containing the score. His elbows row cheerily alongside his body, his breath rolls merrily into the tube, his mind is a blank. He’s happy. He’s training himself in intonation and changing reeds. Wonderful progress is visible way down the road. That’s what his clarinet teacher says, and
the teacher is happy to have such a student, who’s got such a good background from Professor Kohut and whom the clarinet teacher can hopefully steal from her, in order to bask in the student’s light at the annual school concert.