The Bitter Wine Memento
The Smallest of Injuries
"Here you are, sir. You are quite lucky; this was the last entrecôte the kitchen had to serve."
The waiter appears again, this time carrying a plate, steaming of rich flavours and smells. He puts it down in front on me in an elegant manner and bows.
"Yes, lucky."
My answer is weak and distant. My attention is on something other than food and pleasantries. The man whose hands slide like possessed over the keys has caught it. His wide eyelids have dropped over his eyes. He is not playing with his consciousness anymore, for it is too tired. The man I first lay eyes on entering this restaurant has turned in for the evening. He is a different man now, playing only with his senses. He would not react if someone told him the guests were all gone, so far away is he. He would play only to play and he plays it. A Brahms trio flows distantly into the small hall. He plays it well, as well as I remember it.
The waiter leaves, his confusion a mere blur in the foreground of my mind. My eyes also close as a dusted imagery appears mirage-like in the distance of the darkness behind my eyelids.
How I remember it.
§
The music died before Laura. It began as the smallest of injuries. We were out walking when she tripped over a root and fell on her hand. She complained about it smarting, but I convinced her it would pass. For a week or so I laughed it off whenever she would bring it up, told her to have a little endurance. It would go away, I said. It never did. When I eventually took her to the doctor he explained that she must have broken a few bones in her fall and that they now had grown together incorrectly. She would be fine, there was no harm. Really it wouldn’t inflict on any of her daily chores. Would she be able to play the cello? Good heavens, no.
For days she didn’t speak. Inside something gnawed at me, but I took it as empathy and tried my best to cheer her up. I brought her tea in the arbour, invited friends of hers that she knew I detested and tried my best to keep her mind of the growing silence in the living room. But it was there and you could hear it tearing away on the walls whenever you passed. The room was empty of air, awaiting a tune that would never come to fill it. It was so evident it scared me.
It was during a rainy afternoon when she looked paler than before that the rage flushed over me. She had been sitting staring at a sheet of that Brahms cello piece for a while, refusing to speak. I yelled at her and when it did nothing I grabbed the cello in the corner by its well-sculpted neck and carried it out back. With an axe I chopped it and chopped it up until there was nothing but splinters and strings left. I felt saner than ever before. The gnawing feeling that had transformed into a throbbing anger had left without a trace.
The waiter appears again, this time carrying a plate, steaming of rich flavours and smells. He puts it down in front on me in an elegant manner and bows.
"Yes, lucky."
My answer is weak and distant. My attention is on something other than food and pleasantries. The man whose hands slide like possessed over the keys has caught it. His wide eyelids have dropped over his eyes. He is not playing with his consciousness anymore, for it is too tired. The man I first lay eyes on entering this restaurant has turned in for the evening. He is a different man now, playing only with his senses. He would not react if someone told him the guests were all gone, so far away is he. He would play only to play and he plays it. A Brahms trio flows distantly into the small hall. He plays it well, as well as I remember it.
The waiter leaves, his confusion a mere blur in the foreground of my mind. My eyes also close as a dusted imagery appears mirage-like in the distance of the darkness behind my eyelids.
How I remember it.
§
The music died before Laura. It began as the smallest of injuries. We were out walking when she tripped over a root and fell on her hand. She complained about it smarting, but I convinced her it would pass. For a week or so I laughed it off whenever she would bring it up, told her to have a little endurance. It would go away, I said. It never did. When I eventually took her to the doctor he explained that she must have broken a few bones in her fall and that they now had grown together incorrectly. She would be fine, there was no harm. Really it wouldn’t inflict on any of her daily chores. Would she be able to play the cello? Good heavens, no.
For days she didn’t speak. Inside something gnawed at me, but I took it as empathy and tried my best to cheer her up. I brought her tea in the arbour, invited friends of hers that she knew I detested and tried my best to keep her mind of the growing silence in the living room. But it was there and you could hear it tearing away on the walls whenever you passed. The room was empty of air, awaiting a tune that would never come to fill it. It was so evident it scared me.
It was during a rainy afternoon when she looked paler than before that the rage flushed over me. She had been sitting staring at a sheet of that Brahms cello piece for a while, refusing to speak. I yelled at her and when it did nothing I grabbed the cello in the corner by its well-sculpted neck and carried it out back. With an axe I chopped it and chopped it up until there was nothing but splinters and strings left. I felt saner than ever before. The gnawing feeling that had transformed into a throbbing anger had left without a trace.