down to the car to get cigarettes. It wasn’t too cold out, nothing to compare to what it was like three hundred fifty miles north of there. I lit up and took a little walk with Bongo down the street. There wasn’t a soul-no one to see me shuffling along like an old grandma worried about breaking her hipbone.
I went down to the corner. I tossed my cigarette over the sidewalk in front of me, into the void, then came back. I had to admit that Betty had been right for once: a little change of scene can do you good. To me, it seemed like a great idea, mostly because it allowed us to leave our little bundle of woe behind us, if only for a day or two. It amazed me just then to think that. I was surprised at the bitterness I felt looking back on the life that had begun when Betty set fire to the bungalow. It’s true that every day hadn’t been a bundle of laughs, but there were plenty of good times and no one with half a brain could have asked for more than that. No, it was obviously my book that had given our life this strange taste, colored it this vague shade of purple. And if closing the door behind you and hopping in the car was all it took to start over again? Wouldn’t life be better then? A little easier? At that precise moment I was almost ready to try it-to grab Betty by the shoulders and say, Okay, sweetheart, we’re going to go on to something else now-no more pizza, no more city, no more book…Are you with me?
These were pleasant thoughts to have, going back up the calm, wide street. If only for these images the trip was worth it. I saw it all so clearly that I didn’t even think about the drive home. Had I thought about it, I would have washed out right then and there, but the patron saint of those who dream watched over me-no dark thoughts came to roost. Far from it: Betty and I, settled there in the town, not wanting to hear any more about some stupid manuscript-finally able to wake up in the morning without looking anxiously in the mailbox… good times and bad times, nothing more. This was the kind of thing that made me smile like a kid again as I walked back into the building, all of it melting slowly in my mouth.
I climbed back up the stairway to the second floor, finding it even tougher going than the first time. I used the banister-I wasn’t proud. The room was empty. They must have all still been in the little bedroom-stuffed in there around the corpse. I didn’t see any reason to bother them. I sat down. I poured myself a glass of water. I tipped the pitcher, I didn’t lift it. With any luck they’d stay in there all night with her, no one to worry whether I was sleepy or not. I had the vague feeling that they’d already forgotten me. There was a curtain at the end of the living room. I stared at it for at least ten minutes, my eyes squinting, trying to uncover its secret. Finally I stood up and went over to it.
There was a stairway there that went down into the store. I must have been off my rocker that night. I must have fallen victim to some morbid attraction to stairs, going up and down, puffing like the damned. I went down.
I found myself among the pianos. They gleamed in the light that came from the street, like black stones under a waterfall. There was no sound at all-they were silent pianos. I chose one at random and sat down in front of it. I opened the keyboard. Luckily there was a place at the end of the keyboard where you could put your elbow down. I did. I put my chin in my hand. I looked at all the keys lined up. I yawned a little.
It was not the first time I’d found myself at a piano. I knew how to play, and though I’d never attained the heights of greatness, I could pick out a little tune with three fingers, choosing a slowish tempo and a minimum of light. I began by playing a C. I listened to it attentively and followed it around the store with my eyes, not losing it for a second. When the silence returned, I started again. To me, this was one hell of a piano. It had understood what kind of piano player I was, and yet had given me its all, the best of itself. It was nice to come across a piano that had found The Way.
I shifted into a simple number that allowed me to maintain my style as well as a relatively comfortable position, slumped over the side with my head in my hand. I played slowly, doing the best I could, and little by little I stopped thinking about anything. I just watched my hand-the tendons rolling around under the skin when I pushed my fingers down. I stayed there doing that for a long time, my little tune repeating itself over and over. It was as if I could no longer do without it, as if I played it better each time, as if this little nothing of a song had the power to enrich my soul. But I was in such a state of exhaustion that I would have mistaken a glowworm for the divine light. I was beginning to have hallucinations. From then on things started deteriorating.
I had started humming my delicious little melody and I was getting a giant-sized kick out of it. It was unreal-so unreal that I thought I heard the chords that went with it, clearer and clearer. It made me so happy to be alive that any strength started to come back. I got excited. Forgetting where I was, I turned up the volume and sang louder and louder. I was able to do with three fingers what normal people need two hands for. It was simply magnificent. I started to feel hot. I had never in my life had such rapport with a piano. I’d never been able to play anything like that before. When I heard a girl’s voice mingle with my own, I said to myself, That’s it, an angel has come down from Heaven to pull me up by the hair.
I sat up without stopping. Betty was at the piano next to mine. She had one hand squeezed between her legs and with the other was plunking out the chords. She was in good voice. She was radiant. I have never forgotten the look she gave me then. That’s me, though-I’m made that way, I have a good memory for colors. We went at it with hearts high for several long minutes, brushing with Beatitude and totally unconscious of the noise we were making. There could be no limits put on what we felt. I was fully afloat. I thought it would never end.
Then a guy appeared at the top of the stairs, making wild gestures. We stopped.
“Hey, are you nuts?” he said.
We looked at him, not knowing what to answer. I was still breathless.
“What in the world do you think you’re doing?” he added.
Eddie appeared behind him. He glanced at us, then took the guy by the shoulders and turned him around.
“Leave them alone,” he said. “It’s okay, just leave them alone. They’re not hurting anything. They’re my friends.”
They disappeared behind the curtain. The silence rang in my ears. I turned toward Betty. It was like crossing over to the sunny side of the street.
“Shit, how come you never told me…” I asked.
She lifted her hair up, laughing. She was wearing killer earrings-five inches long, shining like neon signs.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t really play,” she said. “I just know two or three things…”
“Right, two or three things…”
“No, really. It’s easy.”
“You kill me. You’re a weird girl…”
I put my hand on her thigh. I had to touch her. If I could have I’d have just swallowed her whole.
“You know,” I went on, “I’ve always chased after something that would make my life make sense. Living with you is maybe the most important thing that ever happened to me.”
“You’re sweet to say that, but it’s ‘cause you’re so tired you can’t see straight.”
“No, it’s the plain truth.”
She came over and sat on my lap. I put my arms around her and she whispered in my ear.
“If it was me who wrote that book,” she said, “I wouldn’t be asking myself if my life had meaning. I wouldn’t have to think about what’s most important. Me, I’m nothing, but you… you can’t say that, not you.”
She finished her sentence with a kiss on my neck. I couldn’t be upset.
“You’re driving me crazy with that,” I sighed. “That’s where all our troubles come from.”
“Jesus, that’s not the problem!”
“Yes it is.”
“So why did you write the book, then? Just to give me a headache?”
“Not really.”
“It means nothing to you…”
“Yes it does. I put everything I had into it when I wrote it. But I can’t force people to like it. All I did was write it, it was all I could do. And it’s all I can do if it stops there.”
“And what about me? You think I’m an idiot? You think I fall in love with every book I read? You think it’s just because you’re the one who wrote it?”
“I hope you wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Sometimes I think you’re playing a game.”
“What…?”
“You seem to think it’s cool to deny the obvious. It happens that you’re a hell of a writer, whether you like it or not.”
“Fine. Then maybe you could explain why I haven’t written another line?”
