others from it. Having her by your side was not easy. Maybe something similar hides in each of us – and that’s why we have been disinclined to communicate with each other…
Of course, Little Sonya had more serene talents. She knew how to extract from reality everything that broadens it. That makes it better, I could add, though this would be a bit of a lie. Words came to her of their own accord. She did not play at them and seemed not to notice. The most common expressions became filled with surprising meaning – and gave birth to novelty; with Sonya, all was new. You wouldn’t trade this for any orgasm – the ordinary receded, cast down from the throne, though its servants hastened from all directions to restore the familiar status quo. They hastened and were left with nothing.
Here, on the streets of Madrid, I remembered her as an accomplice in some secret matter – though the idea of Semmant would hardly have appealed to Sonya. But she would have said something – and I would have dug deeper! She saw things from the most acute angle and, interpreting them in the strangest of ways, might seriously wound, even draw blood. But she could also heal – like the most lighthearted doctor. Even just remembering, through the features of insignificant strangers, I already felt as though I were cured. So why should I not do something for her now?
Or Mario… I could say a lot about Mario, another accomplice – also in secret, and, indeed, quite in shame. He wanted to be a woman and became Mariana; but this, it seems, did not change him much. Thanks to him I learned a lot – including about myself. Never again did I have such an enemy. Nobody wrote me such wrathful letters or cursed me with so much hatred – even when we had nothing to share anymore. Years later, all his reflections had disappeared from my life, but I could not get rid of him no matter how I tried.
I caught his name on posters in European capitals, where he was wildly adored. When I could, I bought the best tickets – and sat and listened, almost not breathing. She was gorgeous, Mariana, with her famous cello, though I knew what was hidden beneath her dress, beneath her skin, in that delightfully indifferent heart, in her icy, hard soul. And perhaps, to spite her – no, him, to spite Mario – I whispered a mantra to myself: “Perfection is unattainable,” believing and not believing, probably hoping more than ever. And now I recognize: he’s one of the links. He also made a contribution – and a big one – to what happened later. Thanks to him, I developed a passion for music – and this helped me to get over the deadlock.
It was music that brought me to the Auditorio Nacional, where that evening, by coincidence, the Spanish queen had attended. No, I was not introduced to the queen herself, but her presence played an important role. I met the Countess de Vega – during the third week of my forced “vacation.”
At the Auditorio they were performing “Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 1.” Playing the grand piano was one of those whose name I would spell in capital letters – he’s one of “us,” though not from the School. The performance was the same as always – magnificent. I sat in the amphitheater, where the clearest sound could be found, just three rows higher than Queen Sofia. Around her swarmed the usual commotion – bodyguards, a handful of relatives, members of wealthy families who had not come for Chopin at all. When all had ended and the applause abated, the group with the Crown quickly abandoned the hall. They passed very close by me – and I caught a whiff of something imperceptibly sad.
“We note how time marches on by how the queen grows older,” I muttered aloud; and a woman standing in front of me turned around and looked in surprise. I would say her glance was frightened and timid, which did not fit her haughty bearing. She quickly composed herself, though, stepped to one side, and disappeared. But later, in the
Of course, Little Sonya had more serene talents. She knew how to extract from reality everything that broadens it. That makes it better, I could add, though this would be a bit of a lie. Words came to her of their own accord. She did not play at them and seemed not to notice. The most common expressions became filled with surprising meaning – and gave birth to novelty; with Sonya, all was new. You wouldn’t trade this for any orgasm – the ordinary receded, cast down from the throne, though its servants hastened from all directions to restore the familiar status quo. They hastened and were left with nothing.
Here, on the streets of Madrid, I remembered her as an accomplice in some secret matter – though the idea of Semmant would hardly have appealed to Sonya. But she would have said something – and I would have dug deeper! She saw things from the most acute angle and, interpreting them in the strangest of ways, might seriously wound, even draw blood. But she could also heal – like the most lighthearted doctor. Even just remembering, through the features of insignificant strangers, I already felt as though I were cured. So why should I not do something for her now?
Or Mario… I could say a lot about Mario, another accomplice – also in secret, and, indeed, quite in shame. He wanted to be a woman and became Mariana; but this, it seems, did not change him much. Thanks to him I learned a lot – including about myself. Never again did I have such an enemy. Nobody wrote me such wrathful letters or cursed me with so much hatred – even when we had nothing to share anymore. Years later, all his reflections had disappeared from my life, but I could not get rid of him no matter how I tried.
I caught his name on posters in European capitals, where he was wildly adored. When I could, I bought the best tickets – and sat and listened, almost not breathing. She was gorgeous, Mariana, with her famous cello, though I knew what was hidden beneath her dress, beneath her skin, in that delightfully indifferent heart, in her icy, hard soul. And perhaps, to spite her – no, him, to spite Mario – I whispered a mantra to myself: “Perfection is unattainable,” believing and not believing, probably hoping more than ever. And now I recognize: he’s one of the links. He also made a contribution – and a big one – to what happened later. Thanks to him, I developed a passion for music – and this helped me to get over the deadlock.
It was music that brought me to the Auditorio Nacional, where that evening, by coincidence, the Spanish queen had attended. No, I was not introduced to the queen herself, but her presence played an important role. I met the Countess de Vega – during the third week of my forced “vacation.”
At the Auditorio they were performing “Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 1.” Playing the grand piano was one of those whose name I would spell in capital letters – he’s one of “us,” though not from the School. The performance was the same as always – magnificent. I sat in the amphitheater, where the clearest sound could be found, just three rows higher than Queen Sofia. Around her swarmed the usual commotion – bodyguards, a handful of relatives, members of wealthy families who had not come for Chopin at all. When all had ended and the applause abated, the group with the Crown quickly abandoned the hall. They passed very close by me – and I caught a whiff of something imperceptibly sad.
“We note how time marches on by how the queen grows older,” I muttered aloud; and a woman standing in front of me turned around and looked in surprise. I would say her glance was frightened and timid, which did not fit her haughty bearing. She quickly composed herself, though, stepped to one side, and disappeared. But later, in the
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