by Diane Baumer
If I fell off the road, all this madness would end.
Losing control and crashing into the mountain across the opposite lane was only seconds away. In a daze, Lina raised her head slightly. Fortunately, the collision had not affected the engine and she was unharmed, except for her mood and hand. The bewildered woman pulled the car out in a hurry before another vehicle appeared.
One mile and a half later, she saw a traffic sign announcing a highway exit. Once there, fright followed. Lina rested her head on the steering wheel. Her exhausted eyelids took a break. After a half-an-hour sleep, she half-opened her eyes. The vision made her shudder. The sunset seemed to be challenging her by saying, “Hey, you – the woman who despises life, look all this beauty.” The sky displayed a full palette of reddish yellows, bluish reds, orangey blues...
Lina got out of the car captivated by those warm colors which blessed her with peace.
This has to be a dream, because I feel completely calm.
The silence was interrupted by barking. If that was Tuna’s tone, I would now be thinking I killed myself in the accident. After a few seconds, a dog appeared on top of the hill across the road. It was Cinnamon. The pianist had a change of heart. She worried about the canine possibly being lost. Lina understood that he was looking for a way to reach her. They walked, the former upward and the latter all the way down, until they found a small path on which they eventually managed to gather.
Cinnamon celebrated the meeting with the joy that only overcomes animals, children, and those free-spirited.
“What are you doing here? Are you lost?” Lina asked while she tenderly caressed the dog.
From the mountain emerged a deep voice with a velvety tone, brave and sublime alike. It was singing Franz Schubert’s Du bist die Ruh (You Are Rest and Peace).
You are the calm,
The restful peace:
You are my longing and
What makes it cease.
Lina had only heard one person sing that way – and that had been her father. After surmounting a hill, she saw the monastery and the lagoon. It reminded her of the paintings Landscape with Saint Jerome and Landscape with Charon Crossing the Styx, which was the place through which the deceased could reach their afterlife.
Those are Patinir’s canvases! I died in the crash! This dog is Charon and is guiding me to the passage for the souls.
Surrendering herself to her delirium, Lina followed Cinnamon. When the pianist saw a young friar sitting by the shore who was painting that supernatural sky with the warm tones of his voice, she was so surprised that Brother Lucas rushed to hold her tight – he was fearful that the woman would collapse at any moment.
“We need to stop that spring blood.”
Lina had forgotten François, herself, and even the fact that she was bleeding.
“Are we alive?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said timidly trying to be ironic.
The Mexican prepared a poultice out of horsetail, the way Brother Bartolo had instructed him.
“Keep your hand still.”
The dog brought a stick to get it thrown and play.
“He’s so sweet! I sat at the lookout, and he came greet me.”
“He is uncontrollable. We call him Cinnamon.”
The friar noticed that Lina had been crying.
“There is no greater placidity for the soul than the one brought about by sunset. When you look at something like that, you feel very close to God.”
“When you watch other things, you can’t see God anywhere, though.”
A bird perched on a nearby tree.
“It’s a goldfinch, a Carduelis carduelis parva,” he said, enraptured by the sound.
“It’d be such a delight to have it at home and listen to its song every morning when you wake up.”
Like in “The Canary” story, she thought.
Brother Lucas explained that, if that bird happened to be locked inside a cage, it would hit the walls until it managed to kill itself.
“Let me see your hand.”
He was relieved to see that Lina’s wound was recovering.
“I think it won’t take long for it to stop bleeding. Keep it still for a little longer. By the way, we didn’t introduce ourselves – my name is Lucas, Brother Lucas.”
“Lina here.”
“Beautiful name.”
“Did I hear a Mexican accent...?”
“You did. I moved here recently.”
“It’s funny. You’re the third person from Mexico in a row I’ve met so far this afternoon.”
“Oh, really?” he asked in surprise. That put him on his guard.
“They are some of my partner’s clients. They came home for business – art and stuff.”
Trying to remain calm, Brother Lucas said to himself that there were too many Mexicans around the world.
Once the bleeding stopped, he applied a new poultice.
“I’ll leave it for protection until you get home. I’ll bandage it using my handkerchief. You’d be better off not driving. The moment you move your hand, the wound will probably open again.”
“I’ll be careful. Rest assured.”
“Are my fellow Mexicans still in your house?”
“Truth be told, I hope they’re gone by the time I get home. I just want to lie down and sleep.”
“Sure, I understand. In case they are still there, would you mind not telling them you were with me? They might show up in the monastery eager to greet a fellow countryman, and I also want to go to bed early.”
When she arrived home, François was sitting in a chair with a forced indifferent pose.
“Welcome home, milady,” he said in an overly charming tone.
“I’m going to bed.”
At that moment, the pianist was calm, and there was no way she wanted to backslide.
François opened the door of the room abruptly.
“I would like to know if the Spanish lady thinks she behaved like an educated person today.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow. I need to sleep.”
She curled up under the sheets. François was not willing to let it go. A storm was heading her way whether she wanted or not. He grabbed Lina by the back and turned her over.
“Look at me when I talk to you.”
Then, he saw her hand. It had started to bleed again.
“How dare you! Are you insane? You’re giving a tour in my country soon! Plus, why did you leave the party without a word? You humiliated me in front of everyone!”
Lina was not able to hold back anymore.
“Did I humiliate you? Is there anything more degrading than being used as bait to draw VIP accounts? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
François stepped out slamming the door behind him – he would not tolerate those outbursts.
The engine noise faded until it became extinguished. Lina began to feel as though she was suffocating. The sorrowful woman had to lean out of the side of the bed, in an effort not to stain it with the white foam emerging from her entrails.
François called Endzela as he was driving.
“My pretty Georgian lady... François is tired of working and needs some beautiful words from your lips.”
10. Poorly healed wounds
Fortunately, the wound on her hand did not take long to heal, so Lina managed to prepare the repertoire for her Belgium tour.
A few days after leaving, the pianist felt cheerful, wrapped in an intoxicating peace, as though she were under the influence of a romantic love elixir. It must have been morphine that François used to secrete from his mouth – a single kiss of him had sufficed for the dignity of the pianist to stop itching after a two-week groveling.
Following their reconciliation, he had filled her with attention to help his loving woman recover the serenity she needed for he
r concerts. Being in desperate need of his affection, she had distorted this simple practical behavior until believe that the idyll had reawakened. In such moments of happiness, Lina did not mind if her injuries would exude heartbreak for the sake of a fantasy. He was again the solicitous, caring man she had once met.
François was particularly excited about visiting his country. The pianist translated his enthusiasm into love, making the same mistakes an inexperienced translator would run into. I’ve been such a fool doubting his feelings. May time stop, please… I’m so happy now! I feel like shouting from the rooftops how much I love this man, but I’m afraid death will take him away if it listens to me. I try to mislead it by wearing black or gray to conceal the rainbow shining inside of me. I can’t be trusted. If the Reaper senses I’m lucky, I’ll be torn away from François.”
As a result of this blend of bright and dark thoughts, her gaze had been resting for some time on the same paragraph of L. M. Alcott’s A Modern Mephistopheles10, another gift from Belén.
…and, holding out the hand that held her dead mother’s cross, Canaris pledged his troth upon it with the mistaken chivalry which makes many a man promise to defend a woman against all men but himself.
Suddenly, a vague sense of discordance interrupted her self-absorption. There was something around which did not seem to match, such as when a detail not fitting into a dream causes someone to awake. It must be the weather. It simply doesn’t match this time of year or place.
It had started to snow. Lina wrapped herself up and headed for a walk in the mountains.
Mom..., are you the one throwing the snowflakes to let me feel your caress on my face?
The pianist stretched her arms. She longed to receive the gift of nature as a mourning-free refund of those tears she had shed for her mom’s death.
She found the falling pace of the snowflakes familiar. Vivaldi. Four Seasons. “Winter.” Four-four time. Allegro non-molto. Cellos following the organ. Eight eighth notes per measure – f, f, f, f. F, f, f, f. Violas enter – g, g, g, g. G, g, g, g. Second violins come together – d, d, d, d. D, d, d, d...
As she stared at the snowy view, the pianist, mourning from head to toe, felt again she was one of the characters in Caspar David Friedrich’s paintings, where lonely individuals were lost in a tragic scenery. Captivated by the scene movement tempo, Lina started to conduct the nature score with a small juniper baton.
“Blow, wind! Rock the trees! Let them accompany the violins! D, d, d, d. D, d, d, d. C, c, c, c. C, c, c, c. Wild violas, with precision! F, f, f, f. F, f, f, f...”
For a moment, she imagined that the excellent musicians of the Ospedale della Pietà11 were once again playing the instruments to honor their master.
“Girls, you are not dead! You live eternally in each note written for you.”
When the resonance of the last chord ceased, she dropped in the snow with exhausted tears and laughter.
“Thank you, Vivaldi!” she muttered as she allowed her eyes to rest.
How rewarding it would have been to compose for those music-devoted women! Apparently, the composer would find that so gratifying that, despite being a priest, he would never conduct church services.
Will the friar I saw sing only in the monastery? My skin bristles again as I recall the resemblance between his voice and my father’s.
She half-opened her eyes and sat up with a start. There was a bird up on the treetop.
It’s the same goldfinch I heard singing by the lagoon! I’m sure! I could identify it even if I happened to be blindfolded.
Her conclusion was immensely poetic, though mistaken. This was a Carduelis carduelis, while the former had actually been a Carduelis parva. Her ignorance regarding ornithology had prompted her imagination to overflow. Was that strange snowfall, or the reappearing fragile bird, supposed to be a sequel to the astonishing chance meeting with the friar?
As she was having all these thoughts, the bird had remained static.
Is it sleeping? It’s going to freeze. Do these animals actually feel the cold?
She whistled. There was no reaction. What can I do? I’ve never climbed a tree. Is it dangerous?
“Hey! Can you hear me? Hey, little bird!”
Why doesn’t it react? Is it dead? The birdie, too?
She called it again. Nothing. Still petrified. Poor baby…
Lina set out on her way home. I was so happy…
She turned her face one last time in the hope that the bird would not be there anymore. What if it was still alive? Only a heartless monster would refuse to assist another living being.
She climbed onto the tree driven by a rescuing force which ordered her to fight resignation. Please, please, be alive... the woman repeated shakily.
In the heat of her gloves, the goldfinch made a slight, barely perceptible movement, yet enough to free itself from the underworld. Lina’s excitement was such that, at that moment, she would have been able to fly to ideal Arcadia needing no wings. For the pianist, finding out the beat of that little heart became her first victory over the Grim Reaper. Lina felt as though she had found the only survivor left on a devastated planet.
The committed woman assisted the little bird day and night, with the devotion of someone who is keeping an emblem. She even played the piano for it in the hope it would recover its strength from music.
At last, it started to sing again. Lina wondered if saving its life would build a bond solid enough for it to stay. However, as Brother Lucas had warned her, a goldfinch would always be in desperate need for freedom.
“Come and sing for me whenever you want.”
As soon as she parted her hands, the bird flew off.
“Did you release it?” François asked when he found her in that pose.
“Yes, I did. It wouldn’t be happy living in captivity.”
“I’m so proud of you. I know how fond of it you grew. You’re so kind-hearted,” he said as he hugged her from behind.
Lina turned around and kissed him. He would allow her to be inside his mouth for as long as she needed.
“We don’t make love anymore...” she whispered.
“I guess I’m exhausted – I work too much.”
“But we’re a couple.”
“You’re right. From now on, I’ll push really hard for you, milady...”
“Oh, François... What you just said is so gross!” she exclaimed crying.
“Please forgive me. Kiss me. Here you go – I know how much you want this... Put it inside yourself,” he said, dragging her hand onto his private parts.
François, however, was not excited enough to penetrate her.
During the tour, nobody from his family showed up. The Belgian would always talk about his parents, but for some strange reason they were not in touch. Lina preferred not to ask questions for the sake of discretion. He appeared to be overjoyed. The pianist had captivated Théodore Dubois, who intended to put a huge amount of money in François’ hands. That would excite the Belgian enough to take the woman to bed and make her taste the bittersweet pleasure of delusion.
The mirage faded a week after their return home. Lina was admitted to the emergency room. There had not been a single trace of François for the previous five days. There was not a single reason why he might have left willingly. The last night together had been wonderful. That dinner at Pontius, followed by the walk on the beach... The police officer understood her anguish, but advised her to remain calm. Many cases were solved on their own.
As soon as Lina was discharged from the hospital, she called Belén. Her friend came over to her place immediately.
“He’ll arrive happily whistling when you least expect it. That’s the way François is, yet you don’t seem to ever learn the lesson.”
“Oh, how can you think him to be around if I haven’t heard from him though he certainly knows how much I suff
er? He is not a monster, although you think otherwise.”
“I bet you a dinner he’ll just come back waltzing in.”
“That you say to reassure me.”
“If I was worried, I would have started looking for him. It’s one thing for me not to be able to stand your lover, but I don’t wish him any harm.”
Lina tried hard to calm down. She asked about Sergio. When the pianist saw Belén look down, it suddenly dawned on her that something was wrong.
“What’s going on?”
“He fell in love with another person and left me.”
“Oh dear! Now I feel so ashamed to be burdening you with my problems…”
“You are never a burden to me.”
“So… how are you feeling?”
Belén had decided to take a year off and go to Boston. She needed to stop linking her life to him.
Three days later, Lina heard the engine of the convertible. As her friend had predicted, François got out of the car whistling. He seemed greatly surprised at the excessive drama of his reception. The handsome Belgian assured and swore, over and over again, that he had told her about his investing trip. François claimed to perfectly recall their farewell at the doorstep.
“You are starting to scare me. If you lose your memory, you won’t remember the scores.”
Lina analyzed his face in search of the truth.
“Why didn’t you call me any day? I left you endless messages. I was freaking out thinking you were dead.”
“That’s why I didn’t reply. I must help you overcome your trauma. I wouldn’t be helping you if I decided to play along.”
“Play along? Do you think everyone I loved being underground is a damn game?”
“Stop putting pressure on me for that. This is torture. You use your insecurity to subdue me.”