one who would play it. That first day I pulled out my student violin, but another day, seeing that I could impress him, I brought the good one. A Stainerâhow beautiful, he said, and a strange look passed over his face as if he had recognizedsomething. Can I see it? he asked, and he took it from me and looked it over carefully. With one finger he touched the small stain that Teresa had explained was a crack that had been repaired, and he looked into the f-hole, and read the letters inside as if he wanted to be completely sure that it was really a Stainer.
But that was later on. The first day I went there, he stopped me right away. Thatâs enough, he said suddenly, lifting his fingers off the keys. And he said to me, the other violinist had too much soul, and you donât have enough; where is yours? I was taken aback; no one had ever said that about my music. He looked at me differently and said, you play incredibly wellâso well that itâs scary. I felt myself growing inside. But then he continued: And yet you lack heart. Bach has no heart, I objected. Perhaps not, he replied, but he does have soul. And the violin does too. But you, on the other hand, you donât. There was a silence. I was deflated and thought that Iâd already lost my chance at touring with that conductor, which had become my dream. Then he looked at me again and asked who had taken my soul. I donât know, I answered, shrugging my shoulders, unsure whether his question was serious.
But I did know. My soul left the day that Mama departed, never to return. One morning she was no longer there and I thought sheâd gone on a trip, but Clara wouldnât stop crying rivers, and finally she said that Mama wouldnât be coming back. At first I didnât understand, but then Clara couldnât take it anymore and she told me that Mama had left a note for Papa saying that she was leaving because nobody loved her or needed her.
I left the house and went to the lake in the park. I was fourteen years old, and I no longer believed that there were little fairiesin the water. But I did believe that the water, where pink water lilies floated on their wide leaves, carried off the little soul I had leftâwhich, years later, Karl would ask after. Suddenly, I felt full of remorse, because I was sure that it was my fault Mama had leftâbecause she must have thought that I didnât need her. And the tears I thought I no longer had in me appeared once again, and I spent the afternoon and evening sitting on a bench, crying. I emptied myself outâand the lake, which had sucked my soul, remained impassive, the way I used to do when Mama looked at me after hitting me. Perhaps it was faking it as I had.
At night, I slowly returned home. And then I met Papa.
Teresa
When Annaâs mother left, she didnât tell me what had happened, but I saw that something was wrong, and after a few days, taking advantage of a moment when the girl had gone to the bathroom, her maid poked her head into the classroom and whispered to me. Now sheâs with her father, she explained. Sheâs never talked about her father, I said. Because he was never around, but now he is; now heâs here to stay.
My thoughts, current and past, always come wrapped in music, but now that I am here lit up and blinded by these spotlights, I feel as if, with Bach, all my life is suddenly well depicted. Bach is too exact, too clear. That moment with the maid was also very clear, and Anna immediately knew what we had been talking about. If you need anything, just ask, I said, realizing that the situation had become truly uncomfortable. Thank you, was all she said, and she brought her focus back onto her homework, onto the score that she had brought prepared for that day.
Anna was left motherless, and my own mother had grown old.But before, long before, my mother had given me music; she had handed it to me on a silver tray. When that teacher told me, bring
But that was later on. The first day I went there, he stopped me right away. Thatâs enough, he said suddenly, lifting his fingers off the keys. And he said to me, the other violinist had too much soul, and you donât have enough; where is yours? I was taken aback; no one had ever said that about my music. He looked at me differently and said, you play incredibly wellâso well that itâs scary. I felt myself growing inside. But then he continued: And yet you lack heart. Bach has no heart, I objected. Perhaps not, he replied, but he does have soul. And the violin does too. But you, on the other hand, you donât. There was a silence. I was deflated and thought that Iâd already lost my chance at touring with that conductor, which had become my dream. Then he looked at me again and asked who had taken my soul. I donât know, I answered, shrugging my shoulders, unsure whether his question was serious.
But I did know. My soul left the day that Mama departed, never to return. One morning she was no longer there and I thought sheâd gone on a trip, but Clara wouldnât stop crying rivers, and finally she said that Mama wouldnât be coming back. At first I didnât understand, but then Clara couldnât take it anymore and she told me that Mama had left a note for Papa saying that she was leaving because nobody loved her or needed her.
I left the house and went to the lake in the park. I was fourteen years old, and I no longer believed that there were little fairiesin the water. But I did believe that the water, where pink water lilies floated on their wide leaves, carried off the little soul I had leftâwhich, years later, Karl would ask after. Suddenly, I felt full of remorse, because I was sure that it was my fault Mama had leftâbecause she must have thought that I didnât need her. And the tears I thought I no longer had in me appeared once again, and I spent the afternoon and evening sitting on a bench, crying. I emptied myself outâand the lake, which had sucked my soul, remained impassive, the way I used to do when Mama looked at me after hitting me. Perhaps it was faking it as I had.
At night, I slowly returned home. And then I met Papa.
Teresa
When Annaâs mother left, she didnât tell me what had happened, but I saw that something was wrong, and after a few days, taking advantage of a moment when the girl had gone to the bathroom, her maid poked her head into the classroom and whispered to me. Now sheâs with her father, she explained. Sheâs never talked about her father, I said. Because he was never around, but now he is; now heâs here to stay.
My thoughts, current and past, always come wrapped in music, but now that I am here lit up and blinded by these spotlights, I feel as if, with Bach, all my life is suddenly well depicted. Bach is too exact, too clear. That moment with the maid was also very clear, and Anna immediately knew what we had been talking about. If you need anything, just ask, I said, realizing that the situation had become truly uncomfortable. Thank you, was all she said, and she brought her focus back onto her homework, onto the score that she had brought prepared for that day.
Anna was left motherless, and my own mother had grown old.But before, long before, my mother had given me music; she had handed it to me on a silver tray. When that teacher told me, bring
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