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She sighs. It almost sounds like she needs to gather courage.
Weird, what I’m imagining, as teenage-like smitten as I am with her.
“Do you have time to meet me at lunch?” Again, her breaths are heard. “It’s… important.”
Mentally, I check the situation for a moment. “Can be arranged,” I reply as curtly as I can.
“Good,” she says. Then she gives me an address in Gundelsheim.
Just under two hours later, the Dodge’s navigation system directs me to an aging industrial area in the small Neckar town six and a half miles to the south. The RAM rolls out leisurely in front of the address and I park it at the side of the road.
After I get out of the truck, I let my eyes wander.
There is no sign of Celine. Only her unspeakably small car in front of the dirty brown facade of an old factory indicates she is expecting me.
I’m about to pull out my cell phone to call her when her delicate figure catches my eye.
Although the summer day offers cloudless sunshine and a sweaty ninety degrees, she seems to be shivering in the blazer of her business outfit. Typical of an easily cold woman, she has her arms crossed in front of her chest and her shoulders hunched.
“Hey.” I harden my insides against the urge to embrace her in a protective gesture as I walk over to her.
“Hi,” she replies monosyllabically, turns, and pushes open the sluggish door behind her. Rushed, as if running from something, she precedes me through the cool semi-darkness inside.
On the floor of the empty factory building, the dust has settled to the thickness of half an inch. Our footsteps swirl it up, itching our noses. Pigeons flutter up from a forgotten industrial machine as we walk by. Their “Gur”-calls accentuate the upset flapping of their wings until they finally find their way through a broken window and out into the open.
Celine leads me into an adjacent hall, lower and even darker. There she guides us through winding hallways with partitioned closets, finally stopping in front of one and opening the padlock. “Here.” She opens the door, gesturing for me to go ahead.
Inky darkness hits me.
I suppress the reflex to flee head over heels and take out my cell phone instead. I switch on the flashlight.
The beam of light trembles over floor-to-ceiling shelves as I enter. Neatly labeled boxes are piled up inside.Celine, I read off,MagdaandVolker. On a bookshelf, the spines of typical ‘90s photo albums nestle together. They draw me in like the glint of streetlights draws moths in the night.
Celine draws in her breath with a sharp sound. Preventing me from following the soundless call which fills the air with its peal.
Whirling dust finds its way into my nostrils.
I sneeze, and just as I turn apologetically to her, the beam of my flashlight hits something standing in the middle of the compartment.
I am surprised. Once again. Speechless.
Celine doesn’t touch the grand piano, only points in its direction.
Does she want me to remove the completely dusted cover?I search her gaze.
She nods in response to my silent question.
“A Bechstein grand?” Gingerly, I strike a key. A wry note rings out.
“Totally out of tune, of course,” Celine notes. “After all, it’s been sitting here for twenty years.”
I say nothing, just look at her.
A jolt goes through her, and her fingers nestle a key from her set, which she holds out to me. “It should be played again.”
“By me?”
“Except you…” Though our fingers don’t touch as I accept the key, she jerks back as if she’s been burned. “…there’s no one here who can play the piano.”
