The House of Silence (20 page)

Miss Teresa took a sip of cava and coughed a little. Anna is a complicated person, she said in a vague tone. She finished her drink and poured some more. I didn't stop her, I just drank two glasses and she drank all the rest. And, when it had all gone to her head, she solved the mystery of the Stainer for me.

Oh, all of a sudden I can't breathe. I can't move. Everything is dark and no one can see me, here in this square filled with slippery, wet tiles in front of the theater. Finally, with much effort, I manage to put one foot in front of the other, but it's obvious I won't be able to walk much farther. Holy Beloved Virgin of the Macarena, now I clearly see that I won't make it back to Barcelona.

My God, that was terrible. The audience didn't realize that the Stainer wasn't the Stainer, but they could tell that something was wrong because all three of us—Anna, Mark, and I—were in a state of shock when we heard the instrument. And we played two bars and then Anna stopped. You could see she wanted to go on but couldn't, she hadn't entered on time, it seemed something was holding her back, that her fingers wouldn't move, that she couldn't press down on the strings, that she couldn't make the bow move. It seemed she couldn't do anything until she snapped out of her shock. Then Mark had had to stop everything. There was a deathly silence in the concert hall. The orchestra, if they had noticed anything, they hadn't shown it, but the three of us were petrified. Mark looked at Anna. And Anna, red as a beet, looked at the violin, which looked exactly like the Stainer, but wasn't the Stainer. And I looked at the instrument too, but not openly because I realized that we had to do something to save the situation. And, luckily, my
partenaire
hadn't peered through the f-hole to see if Stainer's
signature was there, because that would have made us look really, really bad. She had simply stopped, perplexed. It had all been a matter of seconds, and then Mark had saved the day, turning toward the audience and, with a smile on his lips, said, for those of you who don't know, he always did it this way, with a false entrance like the one in the Blue Danube at the New Year's concert. The crowd laughed and applauded. Then Mark turned and gave us both a look that said, Stainer or no, we are going to give our best concert. And we did, forgetting about the fact that Anna wasn't playing the Stainer. To be fair, I have to say that she bounced back exceptionally well. The fact that she controls her emotions so well had helped her to maintain her composure and play with a new, strange violin the way she would have with the Stainer or any violin she'd known all her life. I was impressed. When we finished, we were showered with applause, and I thought that she was the one who deserved it. That day, she had more than earned her recognition from the audience. We took a bow, they brought us some flowers, and now we've just gone offstage while the orchestra takes their seats.

“What happened?!” I ask once we're backstage, looking at Anna's violin.

“I don't know—” she says, looking at it as well.

She seems sincere, completely sincere. She doesn't know what happened, just like Mark and me. But he is still holding the baton and says, “Come on, let's go back out before the applause dies down.”

We paint a smile on our lips and go out onto the stage. Sometimes you have to do that in life, paint on a smile and go out. Here, there are warming spotlights, but outside it's cold. And then you
find yourself very alone, like I did after Karl's death, despite returning to the Conservatory and the quartet. Because Karl had symbolized something more to me than the sexual release of the early days. He wasn't like Maties, there wasn't that unbridled passion and that mutual vision of life together, that feeling that I'd found my soul mate. No, it was just that Karl, the great orchestra conductor, had captured my soul, that soul he said I put so much of into my playing. And he hadn't even heard me play the magic violin, that magic violin that God knows where it's gone to now, perhaps into the hands of someone who knows how to work its spell. My violin that glowed in the garbage heap; who knows if right now it's at some other dump?

I won't ever say where I found that violin, I said. What violin? asked Maria. Oh, the one that Anna has now, the Stainer. I looked at her for a moment, and even though I had drunk almost an entire bottle of cava on my own, I suddenly realized that I was talking to Maria about something she could never understand. That no matter how fond I was of her and what a charming person she was, that she must not be able to tell the difference between a Stainer and an Olivera. Sorry, I said drinking the last sip in my glass, it's a kind of strange story, you know, Anna's violin used to be mine. She looked at me as if she'd never seen me before. Go on, tell me, she said eagerly, as if she were very interested. We were in her house, we had run into each other on the street and I was carrying a bottle of cava, and I thought it would be better to drink it with her than by myself, because lately I'd been reduced to that. And Maria and I had always gotten along, she was very kind, so we had a nice time remembering Karl and talking about how Barcelona had changed.
Then she told me that she wouldn't be going to Mark's house anymore because Anna had pretty much moved in, and so I ended up telling her my story about the dump. I had never told it to anyone before, but considering Maria's background, she was the perfect candidate to understand that at the dump you can find fascinating things. Even if she didn't know what a Stainer was. So I started by explaining to her about the Stainer and why that violin was so valuable. I told her a bit about the luthier, who was Tyrolean and had lived in the 17th century, and I also explained, in the simplest words I could, that the instruments he had made were special, that they had a special sound and that through the f-hole you could read his signature, Jacobus Stainer, and the date of the violin's construction.

Ours is from 1672, I explained. I continued with some additional facts, things I remembered about the instrument maker, oh, and at the start of the 19th century, his instruments were considered better than the Italians'. Than the Italians'? She repeated, looking at me with wide eyes. Yes, the ones from Cremona. Stradivarius, Amati, you know. But she must not have known, because she made a confused expression, and so I explained myself better, yes, well, Cremona is a part of Italy where the finest, most prestigious violins in the world were made. Ah, was all she said. Oh, their locations are all well pinpointed, I said, but the Stainers, not so much.

She smiled, but she seemed absent. She must not have been very interested in what I was telling her. I could feel my head starting to spin, and I finished by saying, well, most of the Stainers ended up first in Austrian monasteries and then were sold to private collectors. I coughed a little, the cava's bubbles were tickling
my throat. She urged me on, but Miss Anna told me that the violin was really hers. I nodded, and then I explained what had happened. I told her that I hadn't bought it, that I never would have been able to, that when I was a girl I lived in a world of utmost poverty, and I explained how and why that world was shattered. You know, the violin was magic, I added after another sip of cava.

I looked at her to see if I could tell how she was taking everything I'd been explaining. But she showed no emotion, not in the slightest. She was there, before me, with her eyes like saucers, staring into mine, as if she had never seen me before. I didn't know whether or not she was understanding what I was saying. Maybe she didn't believe it. I swear that I found the violin at the dump, I ended up saying at the sight of her sitting stock-still; you don't believe me? Then, she emerged from that static pose: oh, yes, I do believe you. She got up and said, excuse me for a moment, I'm going to the bathroom, I'll be right back.

When she returned, I could tell, from her expression, that the cava she had drunk hadn't sat well with her. And she'd had very little. I, on the other hand, had drank so much, and it was doing me a world of good. And now that the faucet of confessions had been opened, I didn't want to stop: Listen, but that's not all, I told her, half-forcing her to sit down and listen to me. She didn't put up a fight, her eyes were still wide, as if she'd just been dazzled by a camera flash. I told her about Anna and her father, I explained everything, everything. I let it all out, and in the end, the unburdening turned into grief and I ended up crying. I had never told anyone all that, and then I realized that I had kept it stored like a prickly ball inside me and that it would have been better to talk
about it because that would have made it easier to overcome. Maria gave me some tissues and stroked my shoulder. I thought that she was a very good woman. She may not have understood the value of the instrument I'd found at the dump, but she did understand my tears and feelings. She wasn't like Anna, not at all.

Maria touching my shoulder like that, her gentle caress, reminded me of how Karl had asked me to hug him two days before he died. We all need human contact, we all need caresses to a greater or lesser extent, even when we act as if we don't. I didn't know then that Karl was at risk of dying, and I didn't know that the doctor had told him not to fly. I didn't know anything. And he, who did know it and who could tell he was at the end of his life, got up the next day and conducted a concert, and then boarded an airplane to Vienna. But first he asked me to hold him. Karl T. was human, too.

“Mark, listen, I didn't know anything about this!”

“Anna, leave me alone, just leave me be!”

We're making a scene in front of everyone. And with good reason. My wife is following me down the stairs to my dressing room, or more accurately, hounding me. And shouting that she knew nothing about this other violin. When the concert was over, Teresa, Anna, and I looked at the instrument. It is identical to the Stainer, down to the last detail, an exact copy, with the same color, the same little repaired flaw, everything. The only difference is that the signature isn't a Stainer. Inside the violin is the name of a luthier in Barcelona. I believe Anna, but I've had enough, this is the last straw. I don't know what happened, I don't know who could do such a thing to my wife, even though deep down I think she deserves it, but the rest of us didn't deserve it, after all, there are at least three of us who've been on the receiving end of this punishment, or, at least, the initial shock. The orchestra concertmaster also came over to have a look and ask us what had happened. We told him that
we didn't know, and he had left after saying, the old switcheroo. He said it offhandedly, and I sensed a chuckle in his tone. He and the rest of the orchestra must be having a good laugh now, because the truth is they can't stand Anna.

“Mark, it's not my fault!”

“I know it's not your fault, but please, leave me alone!”

Our words, our shouts, echo off these whitish walls, and that huge abstract drawing halfway up the theater stairs suddenly strikes right at my soul. I don't know what the figures represent, all I can see in it are poorly rendered birds. What is going on, my God, what's wrong, why is everything so strange, why is everything so surreal? And Anna is obsessed with the waters of the Spree, she made me walk on the banks last night, and it was freezing, but she was riveted, looking down at the water, not listening to a word I said, she just watched the water and clung tightly to me. She clings to me because I'm the only one who can stand her, I'm her husband, I love her. Or I loved her.

I reach the door of my dressing room, turn around and blurt out, “Anna . . . why do you treat everyone like they're beneath you?”

I know that's not the question, that it has nothing to do with the violin, but this whole incident was the trigger that made me realize what's really going on. She is silent for a moment, surprised, and looks at me with transfixed eyes I now find cruel. Finally, she bites her lip and then, instead of answering, says, “I have something to tell you, Mark.”

She says it in her usual seductress tone. The tone that made me fall into her clutches long ago, the tone she's used all this time to keep me tightly bound to her, I now realize. I inhale deeply and
answer, “Fine, Anna, I have to tell you something, too—listen up: I've had it. This is over. I'm sorry, I can't take any more. I don't love you. I'm sorry.”

That's it, I said it. I step into the dressing room. I can hear that she is still by the door with the fake Stainer in her hand, her gaze fixed on the nape of my neck, I can feel it stuck there, hers is a gaze that speaks of a life of suffering she was never able to overcome, which is now taking its toll. I turn and see that she wants to tell me something. She moves her lips, but in the end says nothing. She lowers her head, turns, and starts to walk away slowly. She holds on to the railing to go down the stairs. Goodbye, Anna.

It's not raining now, but the ground is slippery. I'm going to fall, I'm going to fall, I'm wearing stilettos.
En souffrant,
always
en souffrant.
And I forgot my coat, I left still dressed for the concert. I don't even know where I'm going, I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know what comes next now, I don't know what to do. I look at the ground, and even though it's dark, I try to make out the traces of water, those damp paving stones that are a threat to my balance in these heels. I kneel down and touch the cold, damp, gleaming ground with my fingertips. No, no, my soul isn't here, it's not possible, it's not here.

I didn't tell Mark. I didn't tell him that I'm expecting his child because then I would lose the child too. At the last moment, I held my tongue and that way the child will be all mine. Fine, then, I've lost Mark and the Stainer, but at least I'll have the baby, if all goes well, because I'm up in years, and I'll have to be careful, no excesses or risks.