A Boesendorfer on Sale

Yes, Madam? How can I be of service?

When she answered,
her voice rustled like a swirl of falling leaves.

I would like to buy a piano. Price is not a consideration.

In the early afternoon,
the drapes of the piano shop
were pitch-black canvases framed by fire.
The orange blades
sliced through the frames, across the air,
across the row of silent instruments.
This light did not illuminate the whole room,
most of which remained submerged in livid shimmer
coloured like pulp of a squashed plum.

There was an afterglow of orange and violet
on her elongated face, her lips were pale.
He noticed how strikingly white her neck was,
so white the lace of her collar
looked like ripples on the milk
when one blows on it.

And then there were her eyes, large and very blue,
so tangible in their intenseness
they seemed embroidered on her veil.

Yes, Madam...
He had to clear his throat.
Yes, Madam, I understand. Do you have anything specific in mind?
No, I leave it to you.

He was again struck by that voice, rich and rustling.
I have a very special Boesendorfer. It is on sale. The price is very good. Would you like to see it?
The piano was not on sale, of course. He was prepared to launch into bargaining, negotiating, but she said simply:

I don't have much time. Let it be a Boesendorfer. Please deliver it here tomorrow.

She put a card on the very edge of the table. Her gloved hand was very narrow. She pronounced “Boesendorfer” easily and naturally, with the correct “oe” and “r”. A foreigner?
She turned. An orange blade cut through her body
and her blue dress bled green.
She began to glide towards the door, with hesitant gracefulness,
like a leafy branch waving in the wind.

He felt sad. He followed her.
Excuse me, Madam. The Boesendorfer is right here. A marvellous instrument. You may see it, if you wish. It won't take long.
She was already in the doorway. The branch drooped between the gusts. She turned around.

He stared into her eyes of large, palpable blue.
The Boesendorfer is right here, Madam.
He scurried to the grand piano and opened the lid.
You may play something, if you wish.

All the while, trying to be discreet, he peered through her veil, but the luminosity of her eyes was too intense. Her lips began to tremble like a butterfly drowning in a cup of wine.
She made a few steps towards the instrument. The old floor did not creak. The light gushing from the window blinded him, and for a moment all he could see were clumps of crystal bursting mid-air.
I can't any more.
Her hand that hovered above the keys, withdrew.

A cloud must have screened the sun, and the orange retreated from her face. It turned all violet.
Please, deliver it tomorrow. You will be paid then. Good-bye.
And she was gone, her voice lingering like an echo of a distant tree
coming in through a smashed window.

Price is not a consideration...
He spoke with himself, watching the afternoon light fade.
Burning embers still pirouetted in the air. The card she left was printed on very good paper. It was yellowed on the edges and warped.

Ask the highest price. Yes, the highest. She must be rich. What dress... Not even interested in a quote. Price is not a consideration....
He felt almost offended.
It was exceptional for him not to ask for payment first,
but there was so much breed in that woman
that he did not dare. Yes, Madam...

The Boesendorfer was a very expensive instrument.
He tried to be glad, but felt no joy.

In the street, the evening began to settle.
The sun vanished behind the house on the other side.
The air, emptied of its lurid light,
became oppressively hollow,
but soon the evening breeze replaced the light,
and he could breathe again.
Still, something was not right.
With the back of his right palm he touched his forehead. It was burning.

He came up to the mirror, stuck his tongue out,
stood a while, looking at the dimmed stranger.
Forty five years... A different veil, that of age and aimlessness,
was cast over his face. This veil was thick, and grew thicker every year,
being woven from wrinkles, pellicles, tiny hairs,
but mostly from any ray, any reflection that had ever touched his face
and was remembered by it.
He stopped recognising himself long time ago.
It was not his face. Those were not his forehead, his eyes, his mouth.
I wonder what she thought of me. An ageing man in a piano shop.
She thought nothing of me.

He pulled out his watch. The working day was over.
He gave scraps from his yesterday's meal to the stray dog
that always came at this hour,
locked the door, went upstairs, to his room, and changed.
Half an hour later he was sitting in his little bachelor kitchen,
in front of a plate of potatoes and a bottle of red wine.
He always looked forward to his evening meal,
hot food and his beloved Ch;teau de Bourge.

Tonight, the food was sour, repulsive. Only the wine was good.
He drank two full glasses, and then another one.
Thoughts about the Boesendorfer and his large commission
were as sour as his potatoes.
He already glided, warmed by the wine, out of the window,
casting his wingful shadow on the cross-stitched air
curved like a sail of a ship coming head-on,
too violently for him to endure the collision, and his wings broke off and fell, one by one, many-many wings, the withered, overdue leaves from a solitary tree,
whose echo resonated in the room long after the precious voice died away.

He was not prepared for this… attraction,
and it clenched inside him.

Not the consonance of her figure, too exquisite
to stir up the beast in its fleshly den,
not the helpless power of her eyes
or the merciful stabs of her tongue

drawn from the sheath of velvet and air,
not even her breasts protruding bashfully,
or her neck, scalding like a cascade of tepid milk,
or her unsurrounding hips, or untwining arms,

there is nothing in her that could halt the fall
into the bottomless well of another soul,
nothing given to guard, nothing stolen to fret,

just a blue alley without end.
Sunlight dripping from the fingertips,
the peaceful smell of melting wings.

...The next day, just after noon,
a lorry with the black Boesendorfer on top,
looking like a fragment of night
fastened with sunrays,
turned into one of the side streets.
This part of town was quiet. Many buildings stood abandoned.
The house mentioned on the card
was not far from the shop, yet he had never been in that street.
He sat next to the driver, his burning head pressed against the glass.
The lorry stopped.
The railing cut the house into several strips of clouded amber.

He approached the gate
and pushed his head between the rusty bars.
The path leading to the entrance was strewn with maple leaves,
some yellow, some red, some green, all unruffled.
Some were limp, some fluttered like huge butterflies trapped in the mud.
The house was well built, but neglected. Leaves kept falling and the air rustled, rustled, reminding him of something.

Reluctant to shout, he shook the gate.
Almost immediately, the front door opened
and an old woman appeared, ugly,
wrapped in a tattered gown. She leaned, peering forth,
and then tottered towards him.
So many leaves were falling around her
that at moments she seemed just another leaf
jolting in its short-lived freedom.
He could already see her face, creased, covered with warts,
her lips twisted as if someone had tried to wrench them off her face, but gave up.
Her face was one garbled smudge of skin, wrinkles, warts and grey hair. Only her eyes, very blue and huge, almost drowned her ugliness in their deep, deep light.

He shuddered with revulsion, sensing the vile smell oozed by her.
Excuse me... He could not bring himself to say his usual “Madam”.
Excuse me, I am delivering a piano, which Miss... he remembered that there was no name on the card... which Miss... bought yesterday.
He lowered his eyes and awaited the reply, but there was none,
only the maple leaves rustled and the air hissed.

He looked up. The crone glared at him.
Her lips trembled like a moth that had crawled out of a cup full of stale tea.
Excuse me, he said more loudly, I need to deliver the piano. Tell your mistress.
Her eyes were biting, filled with hatred. She hesitated.
Then, with one abrupt movement, she pulled the chain off the bar. There was no lock, the chain held in place by a hook. She turned around so fast that the rattling of the chain and her turning coincided, and there was the illusion that it was her gown that rattled, that the faded dragon clenched his loud teeth.

Too nimbly for her age, she shuffled back to the house.
Not knowing what to make of it, he asked the deliverers to wait and followed her.
A pigeon flew past his face, so close it nearly touched him. More pigeons cooed and rummaged around. One of them, caught in a snare, flapped its wings in desperate bursts. Little white feathers, lots of them, mixed with leaves, looked like spilled milk.

The door, dilapidated
and alive with the restless shadow of the maple tree,
creaked. It was open. He stepped in.

There was an uncarpeted staircase
and another door on the right. Long strips of white paint peeled off it,
like empty branches still remembering the burden of fruit.
The keyhole glimmered with blue light,
as if a sapphire was set in the wood.
It was the old woman's eye.
She was watching him from behind the door.

Surprised more and more,
he walked up the stairs and found himself in a corridor.
A bit of light streaming from somewhere
lightened the shadows to the colour of a ripe aubergine.
On his right, there was a room. He entered.

His face dipped into the surge of the afternoon sun
coming through the unlatched shutters.
He stood a few seconds, blinking,
until the orange curtain broke into fading shreds
and the room darkened.

Something hung from the ceiling.
A chandelier, he thought at first,
but it was a large clump of cobwebs
gleaming with a few clods of trapped light,
like exotic birds in a silver cage.

There was not a soul around.
The maple tree rustled behind the window and the shutters creaked.
They must be moving in or renovating. She is out making orders. A rich heiress redoing the house to her pleasure.
He couldn't decide what to do. A part of him wished to leave,
but missing out on such an excellent sale was hard to accept.

He paced from wall to wall. I must decide. The driver will not wait for ever.
Money is not a consideration... She will return sooner or later. It is only two o'clock.
If the Boesendorfer is not delivered, she may never return
or even go to those Germans.
This was the last straw. No! They are not getting my customer, not again!
He found a reason to stay,
although he knew it was not the true one.

A few minutes later,
the black wonder descended from the lorry and floated towards the house,
carrying along snippets of the gate, and the tree, and a streak or two of pigeons that had flown by, like careless sketches on a slate.
The Boesendorfer was installed in the corner, near the window.
He attached the legs and the lyre himself,
and the instrument began to settle into the room,
the pond-like lacquer reflecting the window with growing confidence.

He told the men to return at six, if they didn't hear from him.
The sound of steps grew remote and ceased. He remained alone.
If she comes, all will be well. If she doesn't, I will take it back.
I will lose some money for the delivery, but…

He thought about going downstairs and telling the old woman,
but he couldn't bear to see that vile face again.
Once the lorry rolled off, only the soughs of the leaves
and the fitful cooing of pigeons
disrupted the quiet, silky indifference of the air.

The band of light drifted along the wall,
briefly gilding the desultory patterns of plaster and shredded wallpaper.
The sun lowered behind the building across the street. The room darkened more.
He sat on the piano stool, his head propped by his palm. No one was coming.
He shut his eyes. When he opened them again,
someone stood on his left.

He turned his head so fast his neck clicked.
Finally. The same dress, the sloping shoulders,
the lacy stem of the neck, the uncertain chalice of the face.
No hat or veil this time.
He strained his eyes, but all he could see of her face was the blue eyes,
like two lapis stones lying on the bottom of a shallow, but rapid stream.

He sighed with relief, more loudly that seemed proper.

Good afternoon, Madam. As requested, your Boesendorfer is here.
He wanted to name his price, the highest he could think of,
but there was something about her that made him fall silent.
The tree began to heave again,
sending wave after wave of dense rustle through the shutters.
The air was now steel-tinted, and the shadows seemed to detach from the wallpaper
and move, merging with the capricious patterns of her dress.
Then she spoke. He did not see her lips move,
and her voice rustled and clinked and shifted.

Thank you. Please follow me.
She floated towards the far wall. He went, too, feeling detached and light-headed.
As she passed by the window, the draught slightly ruffled her hair. A few tresses flew up, but did not come down and dissolved in the dusk that clasped her head.
Please come here. She was pointing to a plate inserted in a wall. Remove it. Your payment is there.
He gave her a strange look, but she stood silently, her palms joined and fingers spread, as if she was holding a white bird.
Squatting in front of the wall, he hooked two upper corners of the plate with his fingers and pulled. The plate came off in a shower of powdered plaster. The floor, his shoes and trousers turned white. He leaned the plate against the wall and put his hands into the black rectangle. There was a heavy parcel inside. He took it and got up.
Thank you for your service.

There were tears in her voice.
The shutter moved again, illuminating her face with the beige afterglow still lingering outside the window. He could see now that her eyes were indeed filled with tears, filled to the tips of her eyelashes, the tears welling, bursting their transparent domes and rolling down. One of them hung momentarily on her chin and, growing heavier, broke off, and another, a tiny one, appeared in the tense gap between the chin and larger tear. Both tears fell so slowly, they almost descended out of sight, the smaller following the larger as a moon follows its planet.

Thank you, Madam. Much obliged.
He started towards the door. On the threshold he stopped and turned.
She stood there, by the black square in the wall, her outlines almost purple.

Downstairs, about to exit the house, he glanced at the crone's door.
The sapphire was not there. He walked out.
He no longer saw the leaves, but only heard them squeak under his feet. His mind wandered. He thought that some of the leaves pressed by his shoes into the wet soil
would stay behind him, like little yellow explosions.

The lorry appeared. He pulled out his pocket watch. Six o'clock with minutes. He apologised to the driver, paid him and went home, carrying a dirty parcel under his armpit.

Once inside the shop, he put the parcel on his desk, staining the green velvet, went to the window and pulled the drapes over it. He checked the door, returned to the desk and unwrapped the parcel. A stream of coins bubbled out. These were gold sovereigns. He started counting. The sum was very large, at least two times greater than he would have asked for the Boesendorfer. A superb sale, but he felt no joy.

Sitting in front of all that gold
glistening in equal columns,
like remains of a temple dedicated to the Sun,
he kept seeing the pale face enamelled with evening glow and tears.
I should have asked what was wrong. Offered help, perhaps… It is all very…
His voice was talking in his head,
but he kept hearing the rustling of the maple leaves and the other voice, coming from afar, from a lonely tree standing on a hill.

He felt so tired, so tired. He gathered the sovereigns, locked them in the safe and lay down on the couch. As soon as he shut his eyes, he, too, tore himself from his branch and began to fall, drawing large circles in the air, violet air, blue air, green air, red air. The colours replaced each other more and more rapidly, dizzying and scaring him. What a relief it was to reach the ground! No, not the ground, for it streamed and shifted, it sang and gurgled, carrying him along as the scarlet pigment of his wings was being washed away by the maddeningly cold water. And then all stopped. He must have reached a pond. He floated in the middle of it, still rotating, his tips submerged and swollen. Heavier and heavier he grew, and now the water began to pull him in, gently at first, but soon with inexorable insistence.

When woke up in the morning, much later then usual,
his head was still spuming with colours and purling water.
He had never slept on a couch before.
His suit was crumpled and smeared with white stains.

A busy day followed. Several customers came. He sold two uprights,
but his heart was indifferent. In the afternoon, standing in the outpour of light that almost clanged so gaudy it was, he was explaining something to a fat man.
The desire to see her was gut-wrenching.

Every urge to resist bounced back and welted him. It was hard to breathe.
The Boesendorfer needs to be tuned. It is part of the service. I need to tune the Boesendorfer.
He went to the mirror, for the tenth time. No, nothing in him was of any interest.
He was quite handsome in his youth, he had a good body once,
but it all eroded, frizzled away in the hot light of such afternoons, one like another, year after year. His eyes had already matured to that bewilderment, which men in their forties have,
the first confusion of ageing.

He looked around the empty shop of his life,
unenlivened by lovers, children, any movement, any tragedy.
All he remembered was sitting behind that desk, as his father did, as no son of his would do.
The town was becoming quieter and smaller. People were still buying pianos, but for how much longer? He did think about closing the shop and moving somewhere, but he knew he wouldn't. He had been sucked into a routine
that, like a water funnel, seemed solid for spinning too quickly,
robbing his life of meaningful stops,
as the rain-smeared leaves are dragged by the wind
too fast to leave their imprint in the soggy ground.

Now, all of a sudden,
this wasteful gyration stopped
and almost knocked him out of his senses. He waited for tomorrow.
Unable to think, unable to read,
he lay on the couch, maple leaves falling and falling inside his head,
a long path strewn with restless colours, all the way to the dilapidated house,
the staircase, the room and the Boesendorfer on the right, near the window,
and... He tried hard, but he couldn't imagine her. He only remembered her huge blue eyes and that she was crying. Those were tears. Embarrassed, he pretended not to see them, and now they were washing away all of her, even her rustling voice,
trickling down her body,
leaving irregular empty ribbons,
through which he could see the shutters cross-lit by the copper sun.
He couldn't imagine her, but each failed attempt at summoning her
called up a wave of warmth from inside his chest,
the wave leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.
His heart tumbled down, like a carriage from a steep hill.

…Next morning, he stepped out of the shop, a bag of tuning tools in his hand,
and walked briskly to the house. He wore his best suit and a black silk tie. He looked a bit like an undertaker. His greying hair bristled in the wind.

The sun was not coming out. The birds hid, expecting the rain. The first drops had already fallen, and then there was that reluctance in the sky, a silent prelude to an outpour.
He hoped to reach the house before it started. The gate was open. He entered.

The path and everything around it
were strewn with newly fallen leaves.
No footprints of the deliverers, of himself, of anyone,
as if no one had come, no one had brought the Boesendorfer,
no one lived there to play it.
It began to rain. He shuffled through the leaves, up the stairs
and knocked at the door. No reply. He knocked again, more insistently.
With a grating sound, the door opened. It was not locked.

A loud hissing wall already stood
behind him, screening him and the house from the rest of the world.
He entered. Everything was as before, only ungilded by light.
The staircase in front of him and the unwelcoming door on his right seemed drawn with grey chalk on dense handmade paper. In the door, the sapphire sparkled, the only coloured spot anywhere. It was the crone, watching him.

He went up.
The room was dark and desolate, surging with grey echo.
The Boesendorfer stood in its place, hardly distinguishable from the wall.
He came up to the window and pushed the shutter.
It was already raining in earnest. Thin columns of water seemed solid,
trembling with tension, like cords fastening the grey, desperately jolting sky to the ground.
The round, irregular rhythm of drops hitting the tin windowsill
distracted the ear from the oppressive constancy of hissing water.
It would be hard to do the tuning in this noise and dusk. He knew, of course,
that the Boesendorfer did not need to be tuned. He opened the lid,
propped it with a stick that rose like a black lance prepared to defend the strings
from the onslaught of darkness.

He played a few scales. As expected, the sound was perfect.
He looked around. Bleak waves of light rolled one by one
over the vertical, variegated coastline of the walls,
following the faint swinging of the shutters.

He could hardly see the black keys,
only the white ones hovered in front of him, strangely luminous,
like a row of tiny angels marching through the night.

Not knowing what else to do, he began to play.
It was Bach, the prelude in g minor,
slow, dignified music, now moving on with hesitant steps,
now bursting with sad joy, a hesitant promise of redemption,
yet always retreating, settling back into its dulcet silence
vivified by the currents coiling underneath,
like the shadows of the soul
bleeding through the rain-cleared face.

The Boesendorfer,
its brass veins streaming with sonorous blood,
its muscles of cured wood,
its skin of pitch-black lacquer,
its teeth of ebony, its ivory gums,
its folded wing swelling like a drop of resin on a black bough,
none of them resisted the music,
the imperfections of playing smoothed out,
lost in the reverberant opulence.

Each note rose mid-air like a crystal chalice
reflecting the pale hands of the player,
his slouching figure at the keyboard,
the apparition in front of the window, its shutters curved
in the shimmering stream of lacquer.
The woman remained lissom, unaffected by the ruinous persistence of light.
And further went the reflection, beyond the window,
into the heaving alley, through the rusty gate, into the street, past the piano shop, all the way to the hill seen from everywhere in town, with a lonely tree on top, and further, and further, where his eyes could not follow.

He finished playing and glanced
towards the middle of room.
She stood there, motionless. He didn't hear her come.
She wore the same dress. Her face was very pale.

Excuse me, Madam, for the intrusion. I needed to check your Boesendorfer. It is part of the service. I thought, in view of your most generous payment, to come in person and make sure the instrument is in best form.

The butterfly had crawled out of the wine
and was sitting on the cup's edge,
its wings quivering in short bursts.
Her lips parted like this, exuberantly alive,
and a smile slid over her face,
like a shred of white lace carried by a rapid stream.

I knew you would come. You must excuse the disorder. The house is… being renovated.

Her voice was less faltering now, but even and serene,
as if the Boesendorfer had lent it some of its roundness.

I have realised this, Madam. I took the liberty of checking the instrument as I was awaiting you, Miss… He waited for her to tell him her name, but she didn't.
All appears to be in perfect order. I am sure this Boesendorfer will give Madam many years of pleasure. He blushed, but the room was too dark for her to notice.

Thank you. She approached the window. Her figure was majestic.
He felt worthless. He could see only the front of her body, her perfectly shaped forehead, nose, lips, chin, the downpour of her lace-ruffled neck, her erect breasts and the other, smaller rain of her dress, carrying down the clods of copper, like leaf-shaped imprints of the sunlight still lingering outside and smearing the tree's crown.

He did not know what else to say. Feeling more and more embarrassed,
he picked up his bag and was about to leave,
when she suddenly stepped towards him. The cascade of reddish light, now too wide to be restrained by the dusk, crashed clanging to the floor.
I trust you are satisfied with my payment?
Yes, Madam. More than satisfied. Thank you for your patronage.
She smiled again, as if a dark-blue dove turned mid-air, exposing briefly the snow under its wings.
I thank you, too. She held out her narrow hand. He bowed and took it. Her palm streamed like a smooth rivulet. When he lifted his eyes, he noticed a grimace of pain on her face. He let go of her hand.
I was wondering if you could help me with one small matter.
Of course. I am entirely at Madam's disposal.

His voice picked up. So, he didn't have to leave just yet.

I haven't been in this town long.
She hesitated, as if looking for words or, perhaps, changing her mind. Afraid of this, he asked doltishly:
Is this your house?
Yes. It belongs to my family. What is left of it.
Encouraged, he continued:
Do you live here alone?
She smiled again. A white shadow dashed across his eyes, leaving pearly patches. He sensed condescension in her manners, but it was not directed just at him. Everything had to become elevated, as one rises on tiptoe to smell a flower burst on a high bough.

You have met my mother. She is… downstairs.
That old… that woman?
Yes.
She lowered her eyes, and it became darker in the room.
She is not well. A… mental illness. She needs to be taken to a clinic. And… as we are alone in the house…
You want me to call a doctor?
Yes, but… It is not so simple. You understand, this is why I came alone. My mother is very shy and… aggressive. I did commit her before. But I always… brought her back.

She fell silent. When she spoke again, her accent became more prominent.

I always brought her back, because… because I could not stand to see their… treatment. She is… a stranger to me now. But I love my mother. That is why we came here. In the other town, where we lived, it was becoming… shameful.

She glanced at him. The blue radiance of her eyes was even, undisturbed by what she was saying. A large tear seemed a mere lump of stray light.

If Madam thinks I can be of service… I shall call the ambulance.

Oh, no! They will twist her arms again. I can't, I can't see this.
But what then?
She needs to be taken to the clinic. There is a good clinic here… this is why we came. But it must be done gently. If she could be… relaxed first, and then… Then call the doctors… There is still hope for my poor mother… We were so close before…. before this happened to her.
Relaxed… Madam means sedated?
Yes, sedated. I need your help. When she falls asleep, the doctors will arrive and take her.
Are there any other people in the house?
Oh no.

She smiled again, helplessly, as if admitting a fault. His eyes devoured her.

Servants will come later. The house needs to be renovated. I want all this to… to be arranged first.
Well, Madam… I can hold her and you…
No, I beg you. I cannot stand this. Please do it yourself, just you.

These words were scattered in the air, like a cluster of whispering petals.

I would be very grateful.
She turned her head towards the window. Her neck twisted slightly, reminding him of the slender columns he saw once in the Alhambra. When her mother is gone, he may even… The thought was so powerful it didn't need a conclusion. All in front of him was the unfolding music of lace, line and shadow. Like a drawing made by a faltering hand, the outlines of her body sluiced within the hushed, cobalt violet of the night-bound afternoon. The rain had already stopped, and the silence only added to the softness of her palpable presence, the presence that could be touched, even tasted.

Madam can rely upon me. I shall…
Tomorrow then?
Tomorrow.
He expected a burst of gratitude, another smile, a handshake, perhaps,
but she simply nodded.
Thank you.
Her voice was fainter, as if its energy had been already expended,
and there was something else in her blue eyes,
something hard and sharp,
but it was hidden too deep underneath their spinning refulgence.

Come with me.
She didn't say "please", and this perceived familiarity excited him.
She slid past him, a draught of redolent air. His heart shook and halted at the same time.
There was a small writing desk in the corner, which he noticed only now.
She pointed to the drawer.
The soporific is there. A spoonful is all she needs. She will be asleep for at least a day.

He pulled at the wooden knob. The drawer squeaked. It was covered with mould.
There was a little bottle inside, capped with a piece of cork.
Her body was so close now, streaming like a river
that washes petals off the meadow.

The servants will come the day after tomorrow. They mustn't see mother in this… predicament.
I understand, Madam.
He took the bottle, which was full of liquid.
I will give the medicine to her and then… we shall call the doctors.

It took some effort to say this "we" which united them,
but, when he said it, he could at last
lower his face into the river,
below the gliding flowers, towards the currents of colder water.

Now, when the shimmer of the window
fell directly on her face
and he could see how frightfully beautiful she was,
all the powers of his body and spirit
moulded into a ladder
leaned against the sky.

Her face was gilded with flashes of the sun,
which came out again,
and the tears on her cheeks
seemed drops of molten gold.

Excuse me. This is difficult...

She fell silent. The sun vanished. Her face subsided,
like a white boat pulled under the dark-blue water.

I am most happy, Madam, to help you. Leave it to me.
He hoped she would speak with him, delay him yet a while.
Good-bye and thank you.
She held out her hand. When he touched it, it felt weak, almost indifferent.

Already on the stairs,
he remembered about his bag,
but decided to leave it.
This would give him an excuse to come one more time.
His heart was burning,
its flame rose to his head, touching the snow of his hair,
which melted and streamed down his face.
He didn't feel the tears until a drop or two
fell off his cheeks.

Everything seemed close, purposeful.
The tree on the hill was strewn with white and pink petals,
like shavings planed off a halcyon planet.

He stopped at the bottom of the staircase,
then approached and put his eye
to the grey hole in the crone's door.
A large room. The air flared up. A table in the middle.
He could see her. There was a pigeon in her hands. Its head lay on the table.
She was devouring the bird, feathers and all. Her chin was lacquered with blood.
The picture was so unexpected, so revolting
that he had to pull away from the door
and grab his throat.

When he looked again,
he could not see anything, for the light was gone,
he only heard the disgusting sounds of champing and sucking.

He got out of the house and paced along the path towards the gates.
The woman is mad, no question. And ugly like a harpy.
It was hard to believe that she was her mother. The blackness oozing from that witch in the tattered gown somehow stained the other, resplendent image, the fragrant fulfilment of his memory.
It was up to him to remove that stain, that deeply offensive connection.
The little bottle in his hand was very warm, almost hot.

Back in the shop,
he tried to have a dinner,
but the food had no taste at all. He drank wine
and paced from corner to corner, brushing against his pianos.

The bottle was old. It had certainly come from a chemist's.
There were traces of a label. He opened the cork and smelled the liquid.
Pungent. He did not dare to taste it.
He kept brushing aside one nagging suspicion
coming from that part of him,
which could not feel.

He tried to remember his own mother,
but she was a whiff of shadows, a hand, a smile, a voice overcast by a cloud.
She was gone too soon to remove the separateness of these memories.
She could have slid through any gap between them,
when the gaps were still new and wide,
so a pendant or a broken pocket watch
slides through a crack in the drawer,
drops somewhere behind all that warped wood.
You know it is there, but keep postponing the recovery,
realising, perhaps, that the shame you feel at not doing this
affords greater resistance to the forgetting
than would useless possession.

He heard a bump on the door. The dog must have come.
Suddenly, he had an idea. He took a meatball from his plate,
broke it in the middle and poured some greenish liquor,
enough to fill a spoon, into it. His hands shook.
The dog began to wag its tail violently.
She stood in the pale light, her eyes glistening with devotion.
He opened the door and held the meat above the dog's nose.
One sharp movement, a clatter of teeth, and his palm was empty.
He stood and watched. Nothing. The dog waited for more,
but got distracted by some noise and ran away.

…The next day came and went,
like a hand that waved once from the rattling carriage.
He did something, wrote in his ledger,
spoke for a long time with a fat man,
registering only the strong smell of onions coming from his mouth,
then went out to the shop and came back with empty hands.
In the street, he suddenly felt dizzy and had to sit down on a bench,
the pigeons rushing to him from all sides, but then dispersing in frustration,
their feathers twisting and flapping and hurting his ears.

As the evening came nearer,
pacing in its violet slippers across the wet sky,
he grew more and more restless.

He stayed on the bench, still,
like an overwound watch,
when something rubbed against his leg.

The dog came back. So it was not poison.
All fell together again,
his evening, his shop, his longing,
even the crone found its place, like a missing piece of a mosaic,
making the faun black-eyed.

The watch ticked for a while,
but then stopped again.

He sat slouched,
trying to imagine how he would twist the old woman's arms,
how he would subdue her, unclench her jaws
and pour the medicine into her gaping, abysmal mouth.
It was all perfectly impossible.
He kept tearing elastic pieces from a bun,
which he must have bought and put in his pocket,
although he did not remember it.
Soon he was again barraged with pigeons,
the birds pecking each other, flying up onto the bench,
some even sitting on his knees. He did not mind.
Methodically, he kept tearing piece by piece off the bun
and throwing them to the birds.

And then, unexpectedly, the solution came.
Out of the cooing mass
there emerged the chin stained with vermilion
and the beaked head
with the eye in the middle, motionless, enormous,
like a pool stretched
by the roots of the trees around it,
completing the turquoise sky
smeared over the black dome above,
where the stars swing on golden nails
and the tattered dragon descends
in the midst of twinkling and splashing frenzy.

He only hoped to find a pigeon in a trap,
like last time. If not, he would have to catch one.
A mere thought of touching that mad, foul-smelling creature,
caused spasms in his gut.

The crone was her mother…
It could not be. How merciless time is.
An old body itself is Charon's boat
planked from passed hours, and days, and years,
the crumbling boat that does not sink
only because it is built sunk, for the Elysian shore
is something that grows towards us,
not we row to it,
and the boat expands, precipitating the gentle collision,
which kills dragons and erases skies.

He had an old syringe
and a few needles. His father must have bought them,
when he got ill, but never used them.
He attached a needle to the syringe
and dipped it in the bottle.
It seemed the needle went through the glass bottom,
through the table and the floor,
through the soil and the rock,
all the way to the earth's burning nerve,
and hit it, and sucked its expunging fire,
and removed the dragon,
leaving but a pitchy smudge,
which the sky had to kneel to remove
with a streamy cloth of rain in her hand,
she leaned so low her chesty breath
smoothed out the landscape his face,
as a strong wind weights down the blades of grass,
and the plain seems polished like a jasper mirror,
which turns all its reflections into jasper
for as long as the wind lasts.

He put the syringe into the inner pocket
of his coat. He felt like a doctor about to make a visit.

The moon was not seen,
but he felt its presence. The air was lukewarm and lambent.
The walls of the buildings
shimmered, as if still charged with daylight.
Like a stray ghost, he reached the gate and slid through.
He tried to walk as quietly as possible,
yet the leaves rustled and scared him.
Near the threshold, something moved in the heap of leaves.
He squatted and looked. It was a pigeon,
its leg caught in a noose. Lots of feathers lay around.
The bird must have been here a while,
for it was tired and lay on its side,
one of its wings sticking out from underneath its trunk
at an irregular angle, like a blade through the damaged sheath.

Thank god! He pulled out the syringe
and grabbed the wrinkled neck. Two arms began to beat against his wrist,
the blue eyes burst and streamed down his elbow,
and the dragon's teeth clattered so close to his ear
it seemed the whole house was breaking apart.
He plunged the needle straight into the bird's breast
and pressed the piston as one presses a button on a radio set,
to stop the unpleasant symphony.

The pigeon jerked a few times
and slackened, stretching on the ground.
It was still alive, for its breast heaved.
 
He felt unwell and sat on the heap of leaves
that smelled like a seashore in low tide.
His hand jerked so violently
he seemed to be stabbing the darkness with his syringe,
as if defending himself from the moon
that began to pounce on him.

He must have made a lot of noise,
for the door creaked and began to open.
With the agility, of which he never suspected he was capable,
he jumped on his feet and swiftly,
like a fragment of a black sail ripped off by the storm,
whooshed towards the maple tree and hid behind it.

Scratching his check against the ridged bark
and gasping, he watched.

The crone appeared in the pallid light.
She seemed a soughing slice of the moon.
There was dignity in her movements,
and for a few moments she did not seem ugly. She stepped down the stairs,
her hips swinging, as if there was still a bit of woman in her,
but the illusion soon ended. She was closer now,
and the revolting ruins of her face,
her long clumpy hair, like tufts of moss on a dead branch,
came out and chilled his soul.

She leaned, picked the bird and pulled the noose off.
She stood, smelling the air. Then she made a step towards the maple tree.
Suddenly he was seized with such anger that,
had she come any closer,
he would have spurted out and stabbed her eyes with the syringe,
but she didn't. Instead, she brought the pigeon to her mouth
and began to eat it, still alive, twisting in her crooked fingers.

It was too revolting to bear. He remained behind the tree,
both his palms pressed against his throat,
trying to stop the spasms of vomiting. She might see him or not,
he didn’t care any more. All he wanted was to go away, to return home.

When he looked out,
the old woman was gone. He felt tired,
indifferent to anything or anybody,
erased, washed off, so empty he felt clean.
The night that followed
was something he never wanted to remember.
Lying in his bed, he kept tossing,
his forehead icy cold, but his brain drowned in boiling waves.
His body twitched and twisted
like that pigeon between the blackened teeth.

In the morning,
he put on his suit and ran out into the still empty street.
As he approached the house, he felt heavier and heavier,
as if with each step
another thread wound around the ball of wool in his chest,
until he stopped by the gate, gnashing his teeth, his hands shaking.

Inside the yard, the maple leaves fell and fell,
each leaf smeared with violet.
He walked towards the house and up the porch.
The door was open. He entered.
On his right, the white door was ajar,
like a piece of ice pressed into the dark water.
Everything was quiet. Someone began to knock on the door inside him,
at first cautiously, even politely,
but then harder and harder, with growing impertinence,
finally banging on it so violently it hurt his ears,
until he could not stand this any longer, and swang the door open.
The old woman sat at the table, a wing sticking out of her mouth.
She was dead. Snakes of dry blood crawled down her neck.
The silk dragon buried its nose between her naked knees,
one of her hands lay on the table, holding the pigeon's head,
the other was twisted behind her back,
as if still remembering the agony she had endured.

He did not know how long he stood there.
The sun came out.
The shuttered window, like a meat grinder,
began to fill the room with the mince of reddish light.
The burning wave glided along the table
and reached the corpse,
erasing its colours, its blood and its blackness
in a sway of lilting copper.
He went upstairs.
The room was empty. The Boesendorfer stood by the window,
its lid still open, its black wing disappearing into the wall.
His bag lay on the floor.

He walked along the corridor. He saw several doors, all unlocked.
The rooms were empty, soulless, abandoned years ago.
Bands of coiled wallpaper hung from the walls, no curtains covered the dirty glass,
most of it broken, the frames warped from rain and wind.
The wave of orange light fell through the window at the end of the corridor
and rolled towards him. He could see only the swirls of dust capering in the light.
The air grew brighter. He heard the chirps of the first birds.

He was alone in the whole house,
with the dead old woman downstairs.

He returned to the room,
to pick up his bag. The floor was strewn with a thick layer of white dust.
On the right, he saw the footprints of the deliverers,
yellow for the floor showing through.
He could see his footprints, too.

Near the window, where she had stood,
the dust was intact.

He did not leave soon.
What was he hoping for? He could not tell.
He sat on the steps of the staircase,
growing older every minute,
the terrible emptiness opening inside him.

In silence,
he listened to his fob watch. Each tick was like the snapping of another rope
that still fastened his head to the mooring of his shoulders.
So many ropes there were, and they were snapping one by one.
Soon his head would turn around, like a boat, in the orange stream
and be sucked into the abyss that his soul had become.

He went to the police.

His next memory was of two men and a stretcher covered with a white sheet.
For a moment it looked like they were carrying snow out of the house.
As they were putting the stretcher in the van, the sheet shifted, and he saw a hand with long dirty nails, all wrinkled and dry, like a twig covered with darkened bark,
a twig that had lain in the river too long.

There wasn't much investigation. The old woman was clearly mad. Perhaps, a tramp. No one knew her. Her death disgusted everyone. The case was closed.

As for the Boesendorfer,
he had all the papers and no receipt. He said a respectable lady had asked to deliver the grand piano. The lorry driver confirmed.
He was allowed to take the instrument back. He didn't mention the sovereigns, partly for greed, partly for fear.

At night, numbed with wine,
he lay upstairs, in his room,
the window open, the breeze rolling over his forehead,
bringing some order into the fevered chaos of his face
that threatened to jumble his lips, his beard, his eyes
and fuse them together, so hot was the wave spurting out of him,
from where his eyes grew, from the many-coloured soil,
which gave his eyes its own aloof resplendence.

The breeze grew heavier and heavier,
as if laden with memory of all the things it skimmed,
from a blade of grass to the blade of the hill,
drawn into the clouds,
leaving visible the craggy handle
with a slender tree looking like a crack,
a sign that the handle has begun to yield under the weight of the stabbed and collapsing sky,

and still heavier grew the breeze,
until it lay on his forehead, streaming like a current over lined-up pebbles,
now the current halted, and, warmed up with his warmth,
moulded into a palm on his forehead.

He opened his eyes. The night had changed colour,
its blackness intensified to such a degree
that it devoured every tint and hue of the visible light,
giving way to a copper-tinged azure,
the true colour of blackness.

The room and everything in it
retreated behind the night,
leaving him, the palm on his forehead,
the arm descending from the ripples of silk,
the gentle path of the shoulder, curving
towards the face, white as pigeon down upon umber leaves,
the blue eyes beginning to stream their undulating consonance
that made the whiteness appear noble,
like an aged pearl.

I am sorry.

That is all he seemed to hear, all he remembered.
Her gown was lustrous, as if just embroidered,
and the dragon fluffed up his feathers,
brimming with life, breathing in the sea of silk,
his gills woven from the scarlet threads,
his trunk from the golden ones,
and his head and claws not woven, but shaped
from the shimmering blue spreading across the room.

He opened his eyes.
There was no dragon. A moth
fluttered behind the glass, in the light of the streetlamp
so distant some bluish night air had rubbed off on it.

The next day he went to an apothecary,
an old acquaintance who had sold powders to his father.
He showed the little bald man the bottle,
saying he had found it in among his father's things.
The man sniffed the liquid, then poured some on the tip of his finger,
rubbed it and even tasted it.
Nothing unusual, he declared. It is a sleeping potion sold many years ago.
He was surprised to see it again. It was withdrawn because of rare but deadly allergic reactions. One or two persons died of suffocation.
There are far better sleeping pills now. Do you want any?
No, thank you.
He got out in the street. One side of the hill dominating the town
was inlaid with blotches of afternoon light. The other side was already livid,
as if bruised by the swash of the sky.
The tree, despite the distance,
was so crisp it seemed brittle,
ready to break at the touch of any cloud,
its slender trunk meandering like a crack in the azure
or a vein in the huge blue eye mindlessly staring at him.

He had never been on that hill, even when he was a boy.
Now, for the fist time, he felt an urge to ascend it.
He went. The task turned out to be harder that he had imagined.
He walked and walked, but the hill did not appear any closer.
He didn't feel his feet, which moved instinctively,
like the feet of a man falling from a cliff.
On the slope, the path wound almost level with his face. He panted and sweated in his black suit.

Then he stood on the hill, looking at the town,
a clump of russet houses thrown on the empty plain
already disappearing under the blanket of the evening mist.
He expected a majestic view, a revelation,
but everything was mundane. The wind here was strong
and his shirt, soaked in cold sweat, clang to his body. He buttoned his suit.
Looking down, he could see his district,
even his shop, tiny and unfamiliar,
and some abandoned houses to the left. He was looking for one
with a leaf-strewn path and a maple tree,
but the district was a jumble of brick and iron. He climbed a bit more, to the tree.
Its bark was sheathed by the innumerable yellow and violet circles of moss. The tree was dead.
Something trembled on one of its few remaining branches. A leaf, he thought with some hope. But it was a butterfly stuck to its cocoon, its radiant wings tattered on the edges and flapping more by the force of the wind than their own. One of its legs was lodged in the black crust, which refused to release it. In between the gusts, the cocoon vanished under the marvellous twofold canopy, but soon emerged again, ugly, clinging to the new life which was no longer its own, as the wings fluttered, fluttered in the darkening air.

He raised his finger, and the butterfly climbed on it with its free legs.
Holding his other palm above, to shelter her from the wind,
he moved his finger aside.
Soon the two silky petals unfolded on his finger,
away from the dead branch, under the dome of his palm.

He stood like this for a while,
letting the butterfly rest, and then removed the dome.
The wind rushed in, and she rose towards the sky.
The wings glimpsed and were gone, like the first star that appeared too early
and, realising its mistake, withdrew.

…Time began to heave again,
licking the shore of his memory
taking with it the bits of maple leaves, a few words, the rustling of steps in the leaves,
the dilapidated white door with a blue sapphire in the middle, and more, and more pieces,
whose absence one does not notice until one notices only the absence.

He never offered the Boesendorfer for sale,
but kept it in his shop, playing and tuning it.
He passed a few times by the house
and returned with torn and bleeding heart. He stopped going.
The wind blew freely from his door towards the house and back,
ruffling up some snow from the stretcher loaded into the police van
and carrying this snow back, flake by flake, onto his hair,
until it was all grey.
Eventually, he allowed the van to leave.

Many years later, he was a fattish old man, still selling pianos, walking around his shop in his black suit, the fob dangling on his half-buttoned belly, his head looking like a patchy dandelion that had survived the gust of wind.

One afternoon
he sat in his usual place, watching the copper lilies twisting on the floor,
when the door opened, and two women came in,
obviously a mother and daughter.

Excuse me, the older woman began,
we are new in town and are looking to purchase an instrument
for Beatrice to play. Something modest, she added in embarrassed voice.

He had to shut his eyes, when the girl looked at him.
Two blue stones were flung into the motionless pond
and two blue snakes zigzagged towards the bottom.

She seemed eighteen or slightly more, very pretty, elegant and swift in her movements, dressed in a grey jacket and a long felt skirt.
She turned around and, as her mother continued to speak, went up to the Boesendorfer,
which stood in the farthest corner, opened the lid and sat on the stool.

Beatrice!
Let her, Madam. I love to listen to this instrument.
He did not recognise his own voice. It creaked like a tree in the strong wind. Everything inside him trembled.
You see, Mister...
She waited for him to say his name, but he kept looking at Beatrice, who still hadn't played a note.
I have been recently widowed, so Beatrice and I decided to move here. We had to sell our piano, but the girl is bored without music. We don't know anyone here.

Beatrice began to play. It was Bach's g minor prelude.
Excuse me, Sir, are you well?
Yes-yes, never mind. I have a slight cold, nothing serious.
He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, but the tears did not want to stop.
Excuse me, Madam, I need to take my medication. I will be back in a minute.
He went to the adjacent room. The dignified, sorrowful music, performed with surprising mastery, filled the space and resonated under the azure dome of his world. He could no longer restrain himself. He leaned his head against the door and wept, trying to be quiet.

The prelude ended and the fugue followed. The Boesendorfer sang with that dark, velvety voice of very expensive, well-bred instruments. He could never play it like that. The fugue rolled and rolled, impeccably, with great agility and taste, its voices torrented through the air like a blend of unmixing streams. Then everything stopped, as if suddenly lifted off.

When he came back, his eyes were red.

The woman looked at him anxiously. Beatrice stood by the Boesendorfer, her right arm lying on the lid. He noticed how she tore herself off the instrument and walked to her mother, every step becoming more and more despondent.
I am sorry, Madam. I must say I am very impressed with your daughter's playing.
Thank you, Sir. She is very diligent.
Do you have any particular instrument in mind?
Well... this is the difficulty. We can't afford a grand piano, so we thought...
Beatrice, do you like this Boesendorfer? He dared to ask the girl directly, although his heart was jolting like a wounded animal.
Yes, Sir, I love it very much indeed. She lowered her face, but the blue afterglow still lingered in his eyes.
Your daughter has talent, Madam. I would recommend a really good instrument. She must not lose taste for music. How about this Boesendorfer? It is on sale.
Oh, no, we couldn't possibly afford...
It is a very good sale, Madam. Allow me to offer the Boesendorfer as a present for Beatrice.

Now both women stared at him in utter amazement. Neither knew what to say. He could see Beatrice blush so profusely that even her eyes dimmed a little. Finally, the mother said:
We must thank you for your most generous offer, but we could never...
Listen to me, Madam. He spoke with such emotion that she obeyed, her eyes wide open.
I am about to retire and close the shop. This Boesendorfer is my personal instrument. I cannot play it any more. I always wanted to give it to someone who would love it. Please, accept it as my gift. You would make the old man very, very happy. Please, Madam! I can't imagine my Boesendorfer in better hands.

The mother and daughter looked at each other. He could see with what insistence, with what imploration Beatrice's eyes reached out, and how her mother still resisted, and how eventually, under the assault of one blue wave after another, this resistance was broken.
It is very kind of you. She didn't say “Sir", but looked at him with teary eyes. Since my husband died, few people were kind to us. Let's go, Beatrice.
Where should I deliver it, Madam?
Ah, pardon me! Here is the address. We live just a few streets away. She opened her purse, took out a tiny silver pencil and a notebook, tore off a page and leaning upon the table, began to write. He devoured Beatrice with his eyes, but the girl looked down, embarrassed and excited, blushing, almost crying herself.

Then they both bowed to him and stepped out to the street.
He followed and stood at the door. The women were walking away, their figures merging with the mercurial tapestry of the ripening air. Soon he could not see them well, just two loose threads ruffled by the wind. Midway in the street, they stopped and turned. He could vaguely see a waving hand. He bowed, too.