Free The House of Silence by Blanca Busquets Page B

breakfast time. I had managed to sleep and, despite my heartache, I was feeling better. Very well, Maria; we skipped class yesterday and we’ll make it up today. I was about to say that I wasn’t in the mood, but I couldn’t because he came over to me and said: Now that you know exactly what the notes are and how they sound, tell me, do you want to continue playing the piano or do you want to learn to play the violin? He waited for my answer and I had to say something, so I said, the violin.
    And that was how I began playing the violin, when I had already learned to do scales on the piano—and I knew exactly how the notes sounded and what flats and sharps were, and a few other things. Then, off-handedly, he said that he’d brought the violin that I’d thrown out from his walled country. That there he had inherited it from his father and that his father had gone to a place called Salz—something, I don’t remember what—to buy it, a place surrounded by white mountains. White mountains and violins, he said with shining eyes. And they let me take it with me, because when you had such a valuable instrument, they would let you take it to the West to make an impression. I was shocked because I understood that the instrument was much more important to him than I’d realized, and I was the one who had thrown it into the trash. Bah, I barely remember that, it’s been so many years, he said, patting my shoulder so firmly that I cried out. He never touched me, but that day he did and as hard as he could—and then he said: So, you want a hot chocolate? And there we were again, in the kitchen having hot chocolate with whipped cream. Mr. Karl was again laughing in that contagious way over something or another, and I really was heartbroken, but I was still laughing. I couldn’t figure out how to interpret his strange behavior. When he came to the kitchen, he laughed—but when he left he turned into that serious, stiff guy who only knew how to play the piano, sing, conduct with his eyes closed, say gut’n Tag to Beethoven, and play the violin. This was the violin he bought after he’d lost the Stainer. When he left the kitchen, it was as if he turned into another person and disappeared into the world of music—one that was his and only his, and no one else could enter.
    But those days were different. Those days, on the one hand, he came into the kitchen often and, on the other, he invited me to play the violin more. My fingers hurt from pressing the strings, but I liked trying to find the same note-sounds I had played on the piano. He didn’t say anything more about the boyfriend who had dumped me or that stuff about finding music deep down in the depths that had left me so puzzled. But for a few days, he said more to me than he usually did. And I noticed it—that he was more present with me. Fifteen days had passed since things had ended with my boyfriend, and as I served his dinner, I said: I’m feeling better. And I added, thank you.

Anna
    We humans are such idiots. We always fall into the same trap.
    â€œSorry,” is all I say when I see that Mark has stopped the orchestra.
    I messed up on a passage that I’ve been having trouble with.
    â€œLet’s go back,” says my husband.
    We go back and I realize that I’m blushing. I can’t stand being the center of attention because of a mistake. I never make mistakes, but this time I was thinking about something else and wasn’t paying enough attention. And I fell into the trap again.
    I fell hard that time, too, perhaps because I needed to. I eventually forgave Papa for having disappeared during all my fourteen years of life—only because he came, he moved in and showered me with presents, and gave me everything I wanted. And also because he told me that we would take a trip, and we did—and because he told me that he would buy me a new violin, and he did. He had carefully