He always loved the piano. It was its presence in the living room that would link the old worlds with today. His fingers were long and bony and he would often catch himself observing the lumbricals of his hand as he played.
Black key... vibration. White key... vibration.
It made him feel as if the music was not coming out of the piano strings but from all the muscles and bones of his body as he stretched himself to fill the room with his presence.
There was a lot to fill up as the room was large and empty of furniture. Only the piano stood at the center. He would sit next to it, eat, drink and sometimes even fall asleep. He once even dreamt a strange dream of having become a magician who stood by the river with a torn blue cloth in his hand. What could that mean he had no idea.
Having no ideas was a rather general state for him. He had no idea about the world, no idea about people, no idea about wars. All he knew were the black and white sounds coming out from his piano. It would always make him think of magic - this simple fact that by pressing one key he could create most unbelievable sounds that would paint the white walls of his room with different designs.
He enjoyed having his own ways - he would cry where other people would laugh and smile while others would try to wag their fists. He could not understand their ways and they were equally unable to understand his. He got used to the fact that he and his piano grew into becoming each other's best friends, best men, old husband and wife who had lived together for so long that they had eradicated any form of communication as it was no longer needed. They knew each other too well.
He was sitting by the piano that day trying to master the most intricate choreographies for his fingers when his efforts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the doors. That seemed strange to him as nobody ever came this side - his house was far away from everywhere, everything and everybody. He thought that the sound was just a game of his imagination. He was getting old after all. However, the knocking seemed to continue and irritated as he might have been he could not ignore it any longer. He stood up and walked slowly towards the doors. The knocking was becoming louder and louder with every step he took. He got scared and paused for a moment. Somebody began to bang hard against the doors. He could not ignore the loud sound so he decided to press the handle.
As he opened the doors he could see a little girl standing outside. Her hair was drenched in the rain of her tears.
'Can you see me?... Can you see me?' she cried. 'Can you see me? Cause nobody else can!!! Can you?'
Of course he could see her. What kind of question was that? Of course he could see her, yet he did not know how to say that to her. He was not good with words. Music was his domain.
'Can you see me?' she was almost shouting.
Not knowing what to do he suddenly pulled the child closer to himself and kept his hand on her head. The girl looked at him with her big green eyes 'Do you know that squirrels have marks on their fur because they were once touched by the hand of a man?' she asked.
'Yes, I heard about that I guess' he said 'it's an old story'
'It's not so old' said the girl 'I made it up yesterday only. May I tell you a story?'
He was lost for words, his hand however, began to play with girls hair. It seemed as if nobody had brushed them for years.
'Yes' the words flew suddenly out of his mouth 'I would love to listen.'
Black key... vibration. White key... vibration.
It made him feel as if the music was not coming out of the piano strings but from all the muscles and bones of his body as he stretched himself to fill the room with his presence.
There was a lot to fill up as the room was large and empty of furniture. Only the piano stood at the center. He would sit next to it, eat, drink and sometimes even fall asleep. He once even dreamt a strange dream of having become a magician who stood by the river with a torn blue cloth in his hand. What could that mean he had no idea.
Having no ideas was a rather general state for him. He had no idea about the world, no idea about people, no idea about wars. All he knew were the black and white sounds coming out from his piano. It would always make him think of magic - this simple fact that by pressing one key he could create most unbelievable sounds that would paint the white walls of his room with different designs.
He enjoyed having his own ways - he would cry where other people would laugh and smile while others would try to wag their fists. He could not understand their ways and they were equally unable to understand his. He got used to the fact that he and his piano grew into becoming each other's best friends, best men, old husband and wife who had lived together for so long that they had eradicated any form of communication as it was no longer needed. They knew each other too well.
He was sitting by the piano that day trying to master the most intricate choreographies for his fingers when his efforts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the doors. That seemed strange to him as nobody ever came this side - his house was far away from everywhere, everything and everybody. He thought that the sound was just a game of his imagination. He was getting old after all. However, the knocking seemed to continue and irritated as he might have been he could not ignore it any longer. He stood up and walked slowly towards the doors. The knocking was becoming louder and louder with every step he took. He got scared and paused for a moment. Somebody began to bang hard against the doors. He could not ignore the loud sound so he decided to press the handle.
As he opened the doors he could see a little girl standing outside. Her hair was drenched in the rain of her tears.
'Can you see me?... Can you see me?' she cried. 'Can you see me? Cause nobody else can!!! Can you?'
Of course he could see her. What kind of question was that? Of course he could see her, yet he did not know how to say that to her. He was not good with words. Music was his domain.
'Can you see me?' she was almost shouting.
Not knowing what to do he suddenly pulled the child closer to himself and kept his hand on her head. The girl looked at him with her big green eyes 'Do you know that squirrels have marks on their fur because they were once touched by the hand of a man?' she asked.
'Yes, I heard about that I guess' he said 'it's an old story'
'It's not so old' said the girl 'I made it up yesterday only. May I tell you a story?'
He was lost for words, his hand however, began to play with girls hair. It seemed as if nobody had brushed them for years.
'Yes' the words flew suddenly out of his mouth 'I would love to listen.'
