Anna To The Infinite Power

by Mildred Ames

  When Anna felt the first stab of pain in her head, she instantly turned away from the sight and quickly drew the draperies. She should never have let herself watch, yet it had not occurred to her that lights playing strange tricks in the fog could trigger one of her headaches. She put a cool hand on her forehead, then rubbed the back of her neck with her other hand, moving her head around in circles to relax the muscles. Not too bad, she decided. Not a real four-star headache. Fortunately, she hadn’t watched the lights long enough for one of those.

  She stretched out on top of her bedspread, eyes closed. Perhaps she should turn on television. Later. When the ache eased. Although she hadn’t intended to go to sleep, after a time, she dozed fitfully. In a dream, she could feel something hard and icy brash against her hand. The chill of it crept through her and finally awakened her, shivering. The room was cold now, and she was still lying outside the covers. She glanced down to discover that what she had felt in her sleep was the little box. With all that had happened earlier, she had quite forgotten it.

  She sat up, ran her fingers over its cool, gleaming surface, then opened it. A delightful fragrance of cedar wafted up. She felt very pleased with her new possession. What would she use it for? She needed a container for paper clips. This would serve very well. As she closed the cover she noticed that the box sat on little feet. What she hadn’t seen earlier was the key at the bottom. Of course. She should have known. Michaela hadn’t collected merely boxes; she’d collected music boxes.

  Anna turned the key to wind the box fully. Then she lifted the lid to hear the tune. As she listened, the notes came through like tinkles, sweet and clear. Suddenly she tensed. She knew that tune. That horrible tune! The one that Michaela had played that night so long ago. It was awful in a way Anna couldn’t quite describe. Ghostly, perhaps. She slammed the lid shut, and the music died. What an unfortunate coincidence to have chosen a box that played that same melody. Anna got up and set the box on her chest of drawers, careful not to disturb the lid. Tomorrow, she decided, she would dispose of the miserable thing.

  The fog crept in until it enclosed and swallowed up the whole apartment house. In her sleep, Anna turned restlessly, dreaming strange dreams. There was a presence out there in the mist, a specter trying to enter the room.

  Let me come in, Anna. Let me come in.

  No, never.

  Please.

  No!

  Anna, you must.

  Go away. Leave me alone.

  I can’t go away, Anna . . . can’t . . . can’t . . . can’t...

  The words trailed off to lose themselves in the sound of tinkling music, the song Anna hated so much The melody grew louder until it swelled through her head. The fog was sweeping into the room now. Through a haze Anna could see an iridescent glow from the mother-of-pearl on the music box. She knew, without knowing how she knew, that the lid was closed. Yet the music surged on and on, deafeningly.

  “Stop it, stop it!” Anna clapped her hands over her ears for a moment, then got up and struggled toward the box, feeling as if she would never make it. Finally, her hand closed over its hard coldness. She lifted it and, with all her strength, flung it across the room.

  For a second there was total silence. I’ve won, Anna thought, I’ve won. In the next instant the tune began again, soft now, and with it, colored lights shot from the box, blues, pinks, violets, greens, like reflections from the mother-of-pearl. They played upon the ceiling, upon the walls, they danced through the room, bombarding Anna with their brilliance.

  “Stop it, stop it!” Anna cried. She knew only that if she gave in nothing would ever be the same again. There was pain out there, and hurt, and God knew what else.

  Let me come in, Anna. Let me come in.

  “No, no, no!” Anna screamed and closed her eyes to shut out the sight. The music flooded through her body now, torturing her brain. “Stop it, stop it,” she yelled again, and grabbed her head between her hands.

  Then, as suddenly as it began, the music died. Anna opened her eyes, feeling very small and cold and frightened. Smoke hung as thickly on the air as fog now. For a moment she had the panicky feeling of being lost, lost in a place as strange and terrifying as anything she had ever visited in bad dreams. Then she glanced up, and it was all right. Mama was beside her. Anna slipped her hand into Mama’s and felt a little safer. She wanted to say, “See, Mama, I’m a big girl. I’m not crying,” but Mama had told her to be quiet. Not a word, Mama had said.

  Anna felt a crush of people all around her, sensed their anxiety, their fear. What were they all doing there on that ramp? Where was Papa? Anna held tight to Mama’s hand. She didn’t like this ugly place. Black smoke spewed out of big chimneys and made everything smell bad. She wanted to go home.

  A man with shiny black boots and lots of bright buttons on his clothes was looking people over. His quick nod was pointing either left or right.

  “He’s making a selection,” someone said.

  Anna didn’t know what that meant, but soon the people had divided into two lines, Anna and Mama at the tail end of one of them. When the man finished, he left, and other men in shiny black boots took over to rush people along toward big buildings.

  Suddenly Mama whispered, “Look, Anna, there’s Clara. You remember my friend Clara.”

  Anna looked where Mama pointed, but she didn’t recognize anyone among the group of skinny women who were marching by, all of them carrying the kinds of instruments Mama and her friends used for making music. Not one of the women glanced toward the people on the ramp.

  As the man prodded everyone along, Mama broke away from her place at the rear of the line, pulling Anna with her to run alongside the musicians until she overtook her friend. “Clara, Clara, it’s Irene.” The woman, never breaking stride, looked around. Anna could see that she was, indeed, her mother’s friend, although she was no longer the plump woman Anna remembered. Her eyes looked dull as she stepped out of the group. She shook her head sadly and said, “You, too, Irene.”

  She and Mama talked hurriedly for a moment, then Mama pressed something into the woman’s hand and said, “Keep Anna until they’re done with me. Please.”

  The woman glanced doubtfully toward the men in shiny boots. “I don’t think I --” She broke off and stared at Anna, all the while biting hard on her lower lip. Finally she said, “All right. I’ll do the best I can.” She patted Mama on the shoulder, then took Anna’s hand. “Come with me, little one.”

  “Yes, go with Clara.” Mama pushed Anna along. “Quickly.” Anna had no time to protest.

  “Hurry.” Clara, violin case in one hand, pulled Anna along with the other until they reached a wooden building. She rushed her inside, through a room with a platform surrounded by what Anna recognized as music stands and performers’ chairs, then on into a smaller room where bunk beds lined the walls.

  They were no sooner inside than another woman poked her head in the door and whispered to Clara, “The commandant.”

  Clara said, “Ah, yes, I thought as much. He is always emotionally exhausted after a selection. He’ll want to hear his favorite, Reverie. Get the orchestra together immediately. And try to do without me today.”

  The woman left and Clara muttered, “Always Reverie after a selection. If I had only known when I composed it.”

  Anna didn’t know what she meant. Very soon the music began. Clara put an arm around Anna and drew her to the one window in the room. Anna was just in time to see her mother disappear inside the big building. The chimney behind continued to vomit up black smoke. The stench pervaded the room.

  “Mama’s gone,” Anna said.

  As the music swelled, Clara’s arm tightened around her. “Never forget, little one. Never forget.”

  11

  Well, I’m here,” Anna said, staring morosely at Michaela.

  Michaela regarded her coolly. “Come in, Anna. Take your seat at the piano and we’ll get started right away.”

  Anna trudged into the living room of Michaela�
�s apartment, a troubled frown on her face. She was in no mood for a lesson. Her strange experience of a week ago still kept pressing in on her, agitating, worrying her. Every place she went, she fancied she could still smell that vile smoke. All week long she kept telling herself it was only a dream triggered by some music she didn’t like, as well as by what she’d read about Anna Zimmerman. And yet it had all seemed so real, leaving her with a kind of sick feeling that hung on, a feeling she had never experienced before and was now unable to analyze. Worse, she couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone about it.

  Anna laid down her carryall and took a seat at the piano. As Michaela stood beside her, Anna was grateful to see that although the woman had on the leotard and wraparound skirt of the week before, she wore no earrings.

  Michaela immediately said, “Anna, I have something I’d like to ask you.”

  Anna braced herself. Here it comes, she thought. “Last week when I checked my collection of music boxes, I discovered one was missing. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Anna stared levelly at the woman. “No, I wouldn’t.” She had retrieved the box from where she’d flung it that awful night. A small piece of mother-of-pearl had chipped off, but that seemed to be the only damage. In the daylight the box looked innocent enough. She’d thrust it to the rear of one of her dresser drawers, then had forgotten about it. “Was it one of your favorites?”

  “In a way.”

  She knows I have it, Anna thought, and suddenly felt afraid of what the woman might do to her. She said quickly, “Rowan said he’d come by after orchestra practice to walk home with me.” Now let her try anything, Anna thought.

  Michaela’s eyebrows lifted. “Did he indeed? Well, then, we’ll just have to get busy if we’re going to get anything done before that.”

  Anna had come here today for more than a music lesson. There was information she wanted from Michaela. Now she asked, “Do all of your music boxes play the same tune?”

  “Oh, my, no. I have no duplicates, neither in design nor in music.”

  If only I’d been able to choose a different one, Anna thought. “Was the one that’s missing your favorite because of the tune it played?”

  “No, not really. I’m not even sure I remember what it played.” Michaela paused and stared into space. “An obscure little piece, as I recall. A sonata? No.” Her face brightened. “I remember now. The piece was called simply Reverie. All I remember about the composer is that she was a woman.”

  Anna sucked in her breath.

  The sound did not escape Michaela. “Do you know it?”

  Anna shook her head.

  “Well, that’s not surprising. It’s not too well, known, but it’s a pleasant little tune.”

  To you, perhaps, Anna thought. You even play it. I heard you one night. She thought of the words in her dream, “Always Reverie after a selection.” How could she have known the name? Had she heard the music when she was little, then forgotten? Or was there more to the dream than she dared believe? The idea frightened her. She asked, “Do you think music some special tune -- can make you dream or imagine things that have never happened to you?” Michaela shrugged. “Perhaps. I recall that Oscar Wilde had something to say on that subject. He said, ‘After playing Chopin, I feel as if I had been weeping over sins that I had never committed, and mourning over tragedies that were not my own.’ “

  Mourning over tragedies that were not his own? That seemed unbelievable to Anna. She had never concerned herself with the misfortunes of others. “Wilde said, ‘Music creates for one a past of which one has been ignorant and fills one with a sense of sorrows that have been hidden from one’s tears.’ Interesting idea, don’t you think?”

  Anna wanted to give the words more thought, but Michaela allowed her no time. “Come now,” Michaela said. “We’re wasting the morning. We’ll never get through your lesson.” She reached for a book of exercises that sat on top of the piano and placed it open on the music rack, then sat down to Anna’s right. “Begin, Anna,” she cried. “And keep your wrists up.”

  Anna played on indifferently for a time. Suddenly she felt a sharp prick on her wrist. She yelped and her hands flew from the keyboard. “You stuck me!” she said indignantly, and rubbed at a black mark on her wrist.

  “It’s only a pencil.” Michaela held it up so that Anna could see the sharp point. “I’m going to hold it under your right wrist. If you keep your wrist up where it belongs, you’ll never feel it.”

  How cruel, Anna thought.

  “Sit up straight and begin again.”

  Anna sat up straight and started over, drumming out the boring exercises, trying to keep her wrist clear of the pencil. She did all right for a time, but it was all so tiresome. She slumped and felt a painful jab in her back.

  “Back straight!” Michaela barked out the words like a military command.

  Anna straightened, but the movement knocked her hands out of position. The pencil stabbed her wrist and brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away. The awful woman was trying to torture her.

  Out of the comer of an eye she glanced quickly at Michaela to see a satisfied smile on her lips. That really made Anna mad. She wants me to cry, she thought. She wants me to give up. She wants me to say that I can’t bear it, that I’ll never learn. Well, I won’t! I won’t give that witch the satisfaction.

  Michaela gave no quarter, nor did Anna ask one. She suffered the jabs and the pricks in silence, taking her anger out on the piano, pounding on the keys the way she wanted to pound on Michaela.

  When she finished the first exercise, a long one, Michaela said, “Again!”

  Oh, no, Anna thought, but obediently started all over, hammering away at the stupid piano. Every time she felt the pain in her wrist, in her back, she bit hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out.

  When she finished the exercise a second time, Michaela said, “Again!”

  Again Anna played the same notes, trying to keep her wrists up, her back straight, so that Michaela could not enjoy the pleasure of sadistic torture. And she did enjoy it, Anna was sure.

  “Again!”

  “Again!”

  “Again!”

  Anna was getting so tired that each time she repeated the exercise she seemed to do worse. The jabs and pricks came even more frequently now. “Again!”

  Anna wanted to scream, “No, I can’t,” but she just bit her lip until she tasted blood and once more went through the hateful exercise. On and on she went for what seemed like hours.

  “Again!”

  I can’t do it, Anna thought. Not one more time. I can’t. She opened her mouth to tell the woman she had won this strange contest of endurance when a miracle happened. The door buzzer sounded.

  Michaela said, “All right, Anna. That’s probably Rowan. That will be all for today.” She handed Anna the book of exercises. “For the time being, you will play nothing but those. Go on through the book doing exactly what we’ve done today, repeating them until you’re perfect. I’ll check you out next week. With that metronome in that little head of yours, you should enjoy exercises.”

  As Michaela went to the door, Anna riffled through pages full of mindless, endless exercises, then slammed the book into her carryall. Her fingers felt numb, her back bruised. She glanced at her wrist to find it covered with little stinging dots. I hate her, she thought. I hate her.

  12

  As Rowan waited outside Michaela’s door, he felt very foolish. What was he supposed to say to her anyhow? I’m here because Anna’s scared of you? Perhaps she would believe he was there because of their talk and that he was seriously trying to help Anna. He hoped so.

  Anna hadn’t mentioned the woman again until last night. Then she’d said to him, “Are you going to stop by Michaela’s tomorrow?”

  At that moment he had yet to unwind from a very difficult afternoon. “I said I would, didn’t I?” he’d snapped. She’d looked so crushed it made him think of what Michaela had said about kindness and unders
tanding. Then he’d felt guilty. In fact, for one reason or another he’d been feeling guilty around Anna all week. She just wasn’t acting like herself. Usually she was obnoxiously disagreeable. Ever since she’d begged him to go with her to Michaela’s, she’d been obnoxiously agreeable. Probably afraid he’d change his mind. At any rate, he wasn’t used to her this way. When you expected a person to act a certain way, she should go right on acting that way. If her disagreeableness had irritated him, her agreeableness irritated him even more.

  Still, it was wrong of him to blame Anna for his bad disposition. He’d been tense and cranky all week, knowing the first play-off recital for the Bellamy Scholarship faced him on Friday. Now, thank God, that one was out of the way, and he thought he had acquitted himself decently. He could relax until the next one.

  He was hoping today that Michaela would ask him in. He liked talking to her. She was one of those people who gave you the feeling she was genuinely interested in you. Just last week she had said to him, “You’re really wrapped up in your music, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes,” he said, sounding defensive, expecting her to criticize his narrowness. “Yes, I am.”

  “Relax, Rowan,” she said. “Never feel apologetic for feeling great passion for the arts, especially music. Thomas Mann in Doctor Faustus said that music is a manifestation of the highest energy . . . almost the definition of God.”

  In class, she often quoted from someone famous, making the person sound like an old friend. Which, of course, was a part of her talent for bringing a dead subject to life.

  Now the door opened and Michaela’s sleek head appeared. In a leotard, she looked different from the way she dressed for class, he thought, even more exotic.

  “Come in, Rowan. Anna said you were stopping by.”