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Actually, I could have done without the hassle: In addition to preparing for the housewarming party, the move, and the final finishes on the parlor, I also had to hire a moving company specialized in grand pianos.
But somehow, I got it all done.
Not five minutes before the first guests arrive, the piano tuner is finally satisfied with his work. Bella successfully distracts him from his insistent demand that I now have to accept the Bechstein with an improvisation.
There is no time for that now. Maybe later.
I shake countless hands, receive compliments, and give some back. Insane! All the celebrities of the town come together. First and foremost, the mayor, the chairman of the cultural association, and, of course, my local competitors.
TheChamber of Commerce and Industriesalso seems to have accepted my invitation in full attendance. I recognize the lady from the reception, Celine’s supervisor, and a few of her colleagues.
The unorthodox, even explosive mixture of the guest list harmonizes better than I had hoped, and the caterer’s staff can hardly keep up with filling the gaps in the buffet.
Engaged in conversation with one of the dignitaries, I notice only out of the corner of my eye that Celine arrives.
She is accompanied by an elderly couple. I recognize her Aunt I know from the photographs on her desk.
I nod casually to her, then the champagne corks start popping.
The tingling of fermentation carbon dioxide makes the air vibrate, and my own speech and those of the celebratory speakers pass more quickly than I had feared.
My head is buzzing, and the whole room is filled with laughter, animated conversations, and the hum of the tattoo machines my artists are using to demonstrate their art. Faced with the hustle and bustle, I would love to flee. But just as I’m coming up with a plan, my gaze collides with the elderly lady Celine has brought with her.
Her face is ashen-pale, she is standing lonely amidst the crowd. Her fingers clutch the handles of her purse. She sways.
Oh my fucking God! Please say she’s not going to faint! I certainly don’t need a heart attack at the opening party!I hurry over to the buffet, get a glass of mineral water and offer it to her. “Are you okay?” I ask after she takes a big gulp.
“I… don’t know soprecies[26]…” she replies in an obvious accent. “Thevleugel[27]… the piano…”
“You mean Celine’s loan?”
“Wat ik vreesde[28]…” She mumbles something unintelligible before a jolt goes through her. “Where can youeen sigaret nemen[29]here?”
“Have a smoke?”More likely, have an undisturbed conversation.“The garden is not yet laid out if you can overlook that?”
She shrugs, and I show her the way and let her precede.
On the gravel area behind the building, she first takes two extra-deep lungfuls before eyeing me from head to toe. “Magda’s Bechstein grand,” she finally says. “Did Celine tell you about the behind?”
I barely get to shake my head before I find outthe behind. The backstory. Celine’s mother, Magda Lena Millermann. Like anyone who has taken more than three hours of piano lessons, I of course know the tragic story of the exceptional talent who died much too young.
On better days, my music teacher would put on a vinyl record by the brilliant star pianist as a reward for my efforts.
But the old lady doesn’t talk about that. Instead, I learn about the car accident in which Celine’s parents died. Which she can no longer remember, after it had gushed out to her aunt in the hospital: on the way back from vacation, just before the finish line, Celine’s baby brother had cried. Tired from the long drive, her parents had argued. Her mother wanted them to stop. Her father insisted on driving the remaining miles. Their argument escalated, and they threw harsh words at each other. While Celine covered her ears, Magda Lena Millermann removed her seat belt at full speed and took Celine’s little brother out of the infant carrier in the back seat. When she turned around with him to nurse him in the passenger seat, she bumped into Celine’s father. He wrenched the wheel and steered the car into the massive stone wall without braking.
Holy shit!My head can’t put together the puzzle pieces of what the old lady reports and what I knew so far.
“Why are you telling me this?” I finally ask.
“Because I don’t want Celine to be made hurt,” Mareike replies. “Noogmals[30].”
Fucking hell! And now she thinks I have nothing better to do than to hurt her again? Does she have no idea at all how much I’m restraining myself? Keeping Celine at the greatest possible distance from my broken self?Apparently so. I look at the old lady, she is visibly struggling to meet my gaze. “So, did you tell all this to that Kevin guy, too?”
“Kevin?” Celine’s aunt snaps her eyes open.
“That’s the name of Celine’s boyfriend, isn’t it?”
“Yes,dat is zijn naam[31],” she confirms, “and no, I didn’t tell him.”
