by Anais Nin
The fire devoured one more note of the piano, and only three notes were left playing. Then two. Then one which would not die.
The fire chief stood by, preoccupied, wondering at which moment the suicide of the machine would become an attempt to overthrow the government.
Smoke and winter’s breath met in mid-air. The snow melted at the edges, but the white paint did not.
The piano played the last will and testament of a dying piano. The public pressed closer to hear its last melody. The fire chief picked up the fire extinguisher.
At this point the artist protested against the interrupted climax. The public hissed the fire chief. The artist said everything was under control, but the fire chief did not believe him. He began to extinguish the fire.
One more explosion of an orange chemical, one more balloon bursting, one more umbrella closing mournfully, one more piece of wood falling to the ground, one more tire rolling out of the pulsing machine, epilepsy of tin, turmoil, one more gasp, one more twist of metal, one more hiccough.
The fire chief interfered with the drama. He retarded the process. If the ladder had not burned he would have climbed on it to rescue the piano, the baby carriage. Suicide is illegal.
The skeleton of the mischievous dinosaur of the dump heap did not collapse; its suicide was about to fail. The artist gave a quick, discreet kick to the last supporting beam and then it collapsed, and the public moved closer to the smoking remains, picking up fragments for souvenirs, dismantling.
What the photographers caught was the kick.
THE CROWD DISPERSED. THE NEWSPAPERMEN went off to write their copy. Each person carried a piece of the white debris. Doctor Mann had rescued the roll of paper with the signatures of artists which had not burned. The name of Judith Sands was among them. As they stood in the corner hailing a taxi Renate and Bruce came out of the revolving door. Renate recognized Doctor Mann. When Doctor Mann introduced Judith Sands, Renate flung her arms around her.
“I love your book so much I have worn it down with readings; it looks like a pack of cards worn out by a gypsy fortune teller.”
“We wanted to rescue the piano,” said Renate. “I felt it still had a song in it. I didn’t want to rescue anything dead.”
“Let’s sit somewhere and have a drink, and read the roll of artists’ names.”
Judith Sands said in a slightly rough voice: “Come back to my place. I have something to show you.”
They followed her. In the dimly lit apartment they could only see paintings on the walls and many books. The only light came from a desk lamp. Judith Sands without taking her cape off, went to the couch, nudged two cats off who had been sleeping on it, got on her knees, pulled out a carton overflowing with papers, pulled out a bunch which had been clipped together and gave it to Renate to read.
It began:
“Vienna was the city of statues. They were as numerous as the people who walked the streets. They stood on the tip of the highest towers, lay down on stone tombs, sat on horseback, kneeled, prayed, fought animals and wars, danced, drank wine and read books made of stone…”