The House of Silence by Blanca Busquets Read Free Book Online Page A

crying.

Maria
    First, the opera singer came out on stage. Miss Teresa and Miss Anna will play later. But now out comes this woman, not as blonde or fat as the one I saw on the sofa with Mr. Karl. When Mr. Mark indicates the entrance, and the orchestra has already played a few bars, she sings over it with a sweet voice—much more beautiful than that other singer—with a polished voice, with a voice that touches me where it should, some place inside where I have a sensitive string that can’t resist this onrush; it shakes me up and tears me to bits, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
    In that moment, so many years ago, the first day the fat, blonde opera singer came over, when I pulled away from the keyhole, I decided to look for a boyfriend of my own to kiss me the way Mr. Karl kissed her. By the way, she came by the house a few more times and the scene on the sofa was repeated. It’s worth mentioning that after one of those sofa scenes, Mr. Karl was very relaxed, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. I should also say that I kept my eye out for that particular visitor—and, may God forgive me, I peered through the keyhole every time she came.
    That was what made me think I needed to find a boyfriend. Since I only went out on Thursday evenings with a girlfriend who was also a local maid, it was no easy task. But finally he showed up on his own without my having to look for him. I mean that I didn’t find him out with my friend but by going to mass. He was a young man who always kneeled at one of the last pews, like me—because that was a church for ladies and gentlemen, and those like me would keep to the back. I had noticed him before, because he seemed very lonely, but one Sunday he waited for me outside. It seems he had noticed me too, and when he saw me he said hello, what’s your name? And I told him my name, and it turned out his was Pepe. It was one of those sunny winter days, and he was between me and the sun, and I couldn’t really tell if he was smiling or what his expression was, but to me he looked a bit like another sun. We could take a walk, he suggested. And I said, okay. And that was how we started to date, and we went to the park with the lake and went around it a few times before I went home. He told me that he lived in a house close by—a very large house, with his parents who had been in service there for many years. And I always played with the children of the owners, he said, lifting his chin and acting important. And he pulled out a cigarette and asked me if I smoked. I didn’t smoke, but I said yes. And I put the cigarette to my lips and I did what he was doing, which was inhaling the smoke. And I swear I almost died, because I started to cough and cough and I couldn’t breathe. And he patted me on the back and told me with a smile: You don’t have to smoke if you don’t want to; it’s not required. I got up from the bench we were on and, as I was still wiping away tears from the smoke and coughing, I said, I have to go. And he got uptoo and smiled and said: Let’s meet next Sunday, all right. Yes, let’s meet next Sunday. He was missing two teeth and I hadn’t realized until he said goodbye. Those two missing teeth made me like him less, but I figured that wouldn’t keep him from kissing me the way Mr. Karl kissed the opera singer. So I didn’t think much of it.
    Sundays were different from the other days of the week. Sundays were different because I always went to mass bright and early and because, when I returned, I always found Mr. Karl sitting on the sofa with his eyes closed and moving his arms as if conducting one of those songs that never end and have no words, one that I now know is called Concerto for Two Violins by someone named Bach, and his name is pronounced with a Spanish j at the end but softer. Mr. Karl taught the piece to me one day, but I already knew it by heart and had even added