The Piano Tuner of Earthquakes Page #3

erm, needing... fresh leather?

Assumpta!

'That night, the gardeners' shouts

led me to another automaton.'

'Malvina.'

'She looked at me, she saw me,

she spoke to me, she held my hand.'

'But she called me

someone else's name.'

'Is that why she's here? '

'Because this Adolfo abandoned her,

and then she tried

to take her own life? '

So everything's fodder for tangos,

huh, Mr. Felisberto?

Forgive me, Doctor, I've been here...

Mr. Felisberto, I must draw

your attention to the fact

that the woman

with whom you were seen

trying to engage in conversation

yesterday is a patient of mine.

The lady has suffered

a grave illness.

Her condition, shall we say,

might even be described as, er,

terminal.

So, you will kindly desist

from importuning her any further.

- Importuning? That's the last...

- Have I made myself clear?

Good.

'Then, to my surprise,

the Doctor invited me

to play a small but special role

in his opera.'

'He explained

that it would be a reconstruction

of Madame van Stille's trauma,

and that only by using this therapy

could he ever hope to bring her back

to her more natural self.'

And what was her trauma,

if I may be so bold?

Oh, tragically...

...her fianc broke off

their relationship

the very day before

they were due to be married.

Of course I'd do anything

to help Madame Malvina,

but as I said, my voice is hopeless.

I can't sing.

You needn't.

You will whistle.

I am like certain feminine opera fans

who listen only with their clitoris.

Look closely

at that triangular muscle.

These vocal folds...

...made up from nerves,

blood vessels and membranes.

Then imagine Malvina's.

As delicate as ripening grapes.

A scent just waiting,

anticipating,

dreaming of succumbing

to pollutions of mist and fogs

upon the coolest slopes.

Malvasia.

Mammolo.

Marzemino.

And this sublime prolonged weight

of her vocal cords

around my music,

slowly breaking

the cap of its skin...

...oozing swollen juices,

crushed and glistening vanillas.

'Doctor,

clearly it's you

who's inhaled the spore

of Malvina's voice.'

Malvina.

Adolfo.

See?

Good. Once more.

How many times more?

Kiss me.

The Doctor rests every afternoon

from three to five.

Madame? Malvina?

- It's me, Felisberto.

- Piano tuner.

Yes.

Do you... hear that?

The rocks.

I can hear them at night.

Malvina?

Where is Adolfo?

The dead love the most, love longest.

Malvina.

Adolfo's by the door.

Can you see him?

- Yes. There, by the door.

- Hmm.

Table.

Vase.

And in it?

Orchids.

There's a window.

Yes, a window.

Round window

with a girl dropping confetti.

With a girl dropping confetti.

In this room.

'With a girl dropping confetti.'

- In this room.

- 'With a girl dropping confetti.'

- In this room.

- 'With a girl dropping confetti.'

What happened?

With a girl...

'I found steps

which led me beneath the stage.'

'Everything she spoke about

had been there.'

'The door, the orchids,

the round window.'

'Were they all part

of the Doctor's reconstruction

for the final performance? '

'I saw my face.'

'My reflection.'

'And then, for a second,

everything seemed to sag.'

But that's my whistle in there.

See, my little floor-foraging ant?

Didn't I tell you?

Here. I'll give you a hand.

Well, Doctor, your machine,

it swallowed my whistle.

And somehow,

my reflection.

Did you not think me capable?

But I might...

But I might need it.

'Real illnesses here

are absolutely essential

for the imagination.'

'Higher.'

'Higher still.'

'Back. Back.'

'Yes. And around.'

'Yesterday afternoon,

I saw two suns.'

'And my watch has stopped.'

'Higher.'

'Higher still.'

'It clamps its mandibles

onto the plant

and waits there until it dies.'

'As for the fungus, it lives on.'

'In older kingdoms, they used

to put out the eyes of birds

to make them sing better.'

'But here is the king,

Droz, who is telling the stories.'

'One every day for six days.'

'The seventh story,

the seventh automaton,

will surely surely spell the end.'

'No... '

'No, he can't get away with it.'

'He mustn't! He's the evil one! '

'He's the one who must perish!

Not the innocent princess! '

'Not the innocent princess! '

I know what has to be done.

It's the door.

The carriage.

I must have left the carriage

while I was sleeping.

Malvina. Malvina!

Are you listening to me?

Act three.

You're burning.

I love you.

Feel me...

...Adolfo.

You shouldn't be here!

The Doctor is coming.

Has she remembered your name yet?

'Droz is laughing at me.'

If all the automata here

depend on my power to tune them,

then it is also in my power

to mistune them.

Droz is making me guess

all the correct alignments.

Yesterday, a calendar told me

there will be an eclipse tomorrow.

Its trajectory will flood along

this path straight to the stage.

Shh!

It's timed to coincide with

the opening of the door.

Assumpta,

will you share a drink with me?

Poisoned chalice, Emmanuel?

Bitter,

on the back of the tongue.

Verging... towards leather.

And even violets.

Or violence.

Why not?

Quite.

Violets.

The door.

'And the tremors... '

'... were felt as far as Salamanca.'

Felisberto Fernandez,

Piano Tuner of Earthquakes.

Then you've chosen

to leave me to sadness.

To an even lesser role.

The future.

'Assumpta, listen carefully.'

'Soon, very soon,

Villa Azucena

will have become little more

than a memory.'

It will accumulate its infinity,

here, just behind your eyes.

By who else, Emmanuel?

By who else, if not by you?

'I will, at last,

revenge the stench

of waving handkerchiefs

at the opera houses

that have denied my music.'

Adolfo.

She's dead.

Holz, Echeverria!

I can hear them at night.

Sing, Malvina!

Sing!

Adolfo...

Malvina, it's me.

Adolfo's by the door.

Malvina!

Assumpta, soon Villa Azucena

will have become

little more than a memory.

'I never saved Malvina.'

'I never made it

past the sixth automaton.'

'Didn't Droz tell me

he was capable of such a thing? '

'And my love for Malvina,

was this only an illusion? '

'These thoughts preserve me now,

here, inside the sixth automaton,

where I dream mechanically

with the tides amongst the rocks,

where they can never separate us.'

Malvina.

The dead love the most,

love the longest.

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