like sheâs about to burst into tears. I wonât look at her now, Iâll wait until the last movement, when it speeds up again, when I can fly while she just hops along trying to keep up. I donât understand what Karl saw in her, I donât understand what so many conductors see. Playing the violin has been a race since Vivaldiâs time, and anyone who thinks otherwise isnât meant for this instrument.
Teresa wasnât meant for Papa, and Papa wasnât meant for Teresa. Thatâs why their relationship ended the way it did, suddenly. Things that donât work, end; thatâs obvious. And, sometimes, the ones that do work end too, because the relationship between me and my father did work. During a simple part of my life, for a few years, it was as if I wasnât myself because I was living atop a cloud; it was as if the sky had opened up just for me, after so long living without a mother and without anything, without anyone, just Clara. Papa explained with tears in his eyes how he couldnâtbe there for me, that Mama had said either you or I, and didnât even want him to see me. And, as he had already told me on other occasions, he preferred it that way, not seeing me, because if he had he wouldnât have been able to stand leaving me there with her. He had told me that so many times and asked for my forgiveness so many times that, in the end, one day a spurt of water came up from inside me, one I couldnât keep from traveling up through my neck. I broke out into tears and that was when I hugged him close and told him that I had never been able to do that with Mama. I donât know why I fell in love with her, he told me, she wasnât all there; all she did was flitter about from one party to the next and from one lover to the next. I was one of many, but I wanted to think it was something different, I believed that for a while. And he would look at me with those damp eyes and say, forgive me, please.
And then it was like the first movement of this concerto, a joy that ran through my body every day as I got out of bed, that sent me to school and to violin and harmony lessons with a smile on my face, a smile Iâd never worn before. My goodness, Teresa would say, you have a very pretty smile. You have a lovely smile.
Tomorrow, come hell or high water, I have to see the Spree. Maybe thatâs where my soul has ended up. Ten years ago it seemed that it was escaping into that very river. Mark has no time for anything, he says, heâs always rehearsing; thatâs what comes with being the conductor. And I canât help being drawn in by the water, in a way that nothing else draws me in, except for the feeling of vertigo that takes hold of me when I play the Baroque composers so fast; I canât resist it. But apart from that, nothing draws me in the way water does, and everywhere I go I have to visit the water, if there is any; itâs like a courtesyvisit to my own soul, because I feel it, I sense its presence, and I think: Perhaps today it will come back to me, and then I say hello, how are you, dear, and my taciturn soul stays quiet, silent, keeping me from knowing where it is exactlyâso I donât catch it unaware and take it with me. And, I really hate when, while Iâm looking for it, someone comes over to play with the water, skipping stones or setting off a toy boat or sailing by. At which point Iâd like to say, hey, where do you get off talking to my soul; itâs mine and mine alone, you go talk to yours, if you have one. But I canât say anything. Sometimes Iâve found people staring because, without realizing it, Iâve spent ten minutes looking at one point on the pond, river, or lake. Not the sea, which I never visit because the motion of the waves wears me out, and Iâm quite sure my soul isnât there.
But I have to find it, because I canât live without a soul.
The day I realized that there was
Teresa wasnât meant for Papa, and Papa wasnât meant for Teresa. Thatâs why their relationship ended the way it did, suddenly. Things that donât work, end; thatâs obvious. And, sometimes, the ones that do work end too, because the relationship between me and my father did work. During a simple part of my life, for a few years, it was as if I wasnât myself because I was living atop a cloud; it was as if the sky had opened up just for me, after so long living without a mother and without anything, without anyone, just Clara. Papa explained with tears in his eyes how he couldnâtbe there for me, that Mama had said either you or I, and didnât even want him to see me. And, as he had already told me on other occasions, he preferred it that way, not seeing me, because if he had he wouldnât have been able to stand leaving me there with her. He had told me that so many times and asked for my forgiveness so many times that, in the end, one day a spurt of water came up from inside me, one I couldnât keep from traveling up through my neck. I broke out into tears and that was when I hugged him close and told him that I had never been able to do that with Mama. I donât know why I fell in love with her, he told me, she wasnât all there; all she did was flitter about from one party to the next and from one lover to the next. I was one of many, but I wanted to think it was something different, I believed that for a while. And he would look at me with those damp eyes and say, forgive me, please.
And then it was like the first movement of this concerto, a joy that ran through my body every day as I got out of bed, that sent me to school and to violin and harmony lessons with a smile on my face, a smile Iâd never worn before. My goodness, Teresa would say, you have a very pretty smile. You have a lovely smile.
Tomorrow, come hell or high water, I have to see the Spree. Maybe thatâs where my soul has ended up. Ten years ago it seemed that it was escaping into that very river. Mark has no time for anything, he says, heâs always rehearsing; thatâs what comes with being the conductor. And I canât help being drawn in by the water, in a way that nothing else draws me in, except for the feeling of vertigo that takes hold of me when I play the Baroque composers so fast; I canât resist it. But apart from that, nothing draws me in the way water does, and everywhere I go I have to visit the water, if there is any; itâs like a courtesyvisit to my own soul, because I feel it, I sense its presence, and I think: Perhaps today it will come back to me, and then I say hello, how are you, dear, and my taciturn soul stays quiet, silent, keeping me from knowing where it is exactlyâso I donât catch it unaware and take it with me. And, I really hate when, while Iâm looking for it, someone comes over to play with the water, skipping stones or setting off a toy boat or sailing by. At which point Iâd like to say, hey, where do you get off talking to my soul; itâs mine and mine alone, you go talk to yours, if you have one. But I canât say anything. Sometimes Iâve found people staring because, without realizing it, Iâve spent ten minutes looking at one point on the pond, river, or lake. Not the sea, which I never visit because the motion of the waves wears me out, and Iâm quite sure my soul isnât there.
But I have to find it, because I canât live without a soul.
The day I realized that there was
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