The House of Silence

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

Book: The House of Silence by Blanca Busquets Read Free Book Online
Authors: Blanca Busquets
lyrics, lyrics that went like this, “Here I go, cleaning the house, cleaning up the whole house,” and that kept me occupied while it played and I dusted the bust of Beethoven—his name I did know—and I said gut’n Tag to it just like Mr. Karl did, even though I didn’t know what that meant. And I would sing, softly, as always. Then there was another part of the concerto that was slower, and it seemed like it was for dancing—and, since I had no partner, I put down the dust rag, picked up the broom and got started. And then the concerto would speed up again and I would go back to my singing. It went on like that ever since I made up the words. Every Sunday was the same, until one day, as was to be expected, Mr. Karl caught me in the act. I was spinning with the broom with my eyes closed, and going na-na-na and swaying as the melody continued. Suddenly, I tripped and fell to the floor with a little yelp. It turned out that I had tripped onMr. Karl’s shoe as he drew near me. My temper flared, to his surprise—to mine too, of course. What are you doing? I exclaimed. Be careful, man, didn’t you see I had my eyes closed? As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I had stuck my foot in it, and that I, a simple Maria, couldn’t scold Mr. Karl just like that—it should be the other way around. And I apologized right away, turning redder than a beet. But Mr. Karl laughed, the way he did when we shared hot chocolate in the kitchen and he got the giggles. And he helped me up and said, come on, and he took me to the piano room and sat me down on the bench. But what are you doing, sir? I complained. Come on, Maria, you sing and dance very well—you like music, don’t you. Well, yes, but, I tried to say. But nothing, he said, give me your hand. I gave him my right hand, kind of embarrassed—it wasn’t a manicured hand; it was a maid’s hand and not a lady’s, and it smelled of bleach and disinfectant. But he didn’t mind and he took my fingers and somehow placed them on the keys, and had me push with my thumb and he said: Do, as a sound was heard. Then with another finger: Re, as another sound came out. And mi, and fa, and sol. And that was all it took for me to feel like all the fireflies I sometimes saw at night in the park through the living room window had come to light up my brain, and I felt my face grow damp with tears of joy I couldn’t hold back. Then Mr. Karl said, Maria, you are going to learn to play the piano. I was shocked. He was already on his way out when I called out to him: Sir. And he turned and said, what. And I said, but we won’t tell anyone. He smiled a little: Okay, we won’t tell anyone. And he left me there, wiping away my tears.
    I dried other tears, the ones from my boyfriend’s cigarettesmoke, on my way home. When I got there Mr. Karl had already finished listening to that Bach concerto. And I felt my heart sink a little. Then I saw him appear from behind the bust of Beethoven. You’re late today, he said, tickled. Oh, I got caught up, I answered, turning so he wouldn’t see me blush. What do you say, let’s have a class, he said. What class? I blurted out. Piano class, he simply said. I was slow to react: Ah, okay, well sure. I followed him into the room as I took off my jacket with one hand and my hat with the other. Mr. Karl isn’t rehearsing opera today? I asked, with ulterior motives. But he didn’t seem to realize my motives and he just said, ah, that’s over, now I have some concerts with the orchestra. I made no comment. I just let him teach me. Mr. Karl took up my fingers delicately, and then he had me do what he called a scale, from do to do—moving my thumb under the other fingers when I got to the end of the hand, because, obviously, that scale had eight notes and my hand had only five fingers, and the other three had to come from somewhere. And now the left, he

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