The House of Silence Read Online Free PDF

keep me out of their hair. Well, my father didn’t even need one because he was worse than an angel, he was never around, you couldn’t even catch a glimpse of him. Once I asked the maid if I had a father. Of course you have a father, Anna, she exclaimed in horror. And where is he? I asked, holding tightly to the hand of that woman I did see, who was the only one I saw at home, the only one who listened to me and also the only one who scolded me or called my attention to something I’d done wrong. Her name was Clara and she wasn’t very pretty. When she took off her apron to leave the house, she put on this ghastly cologne. I told her not to wear it, that it stunk. I didn’t hold back, making faces and batting at the air to get rid of a stench that made me sick.
    Berlin is completely tranquil, but it hides its murky past in a river I need to visit again. My murky past was reflected, day in and day out, in the waters—not as clear and not as cold—of the small lake in the park we went through on the way to violin on Tuesdayand Thursday afternoons. We heard the shrieks of kids like me, who were playing hide and seek or trying the patience of their maids. But I was going to class; I couldn’t stay. One day, when I was dragging my feet more than usual, Clara explained to me that in the lake’s water there were little fairies who stole the souls of children who dallied watching them. And that made me want to stay there even more. Come on, let’s go, we’re late, she said, pulling me gently but firmly. And I always missed seeing the little water fairies because of the violin.
    I hated the violin.
    Your father travels often, Clara would tell me. Your father has a lot of work. A lot of work, yes, but when he came, he greeted me just like all the other men who came by the house, and I couldn’t tell which one was him. Until Mama said, sweetheart, give us some time alone. And she looked at me with big eyes, clear and pleading—eyes that said, if you don’t leave I’ll say something nasty to you in front of this man. Which one is my father? I asked the maid. And she described him to me. And it’s because no one had taught me to say Papa to anyone. And saying Mama did me no good at all.
    I had a small hole at the entrance to my stomach; it was always there, but when Mama left or kicked me out because she wanted to be alone with someone, the hole grew bigger. Then it was intolerable, like an ulcer that was eating me up from the inside. I had no way of stopping it; it just grew bigger and bigger. And, when Mama disappeared, when I saw her vanish, pretty and proud, through the front door, leaving me with the intoxicating scent of her delicate perfume, then I was torn apart completely. I stood clinging toClara’s hand watching as the angel disappeared. At first I cried a lot, shouting Mama, Mama. Then I stopped because I realized it did me no good. I learned to pretend that nothing mattered to me, I taught myself to wear a gaze somewhere between languid and insolent while inside I was dying. I learned to keep up appearances. And gradually I became strong.

Maria
    So it seems that in this concert they are going to sing some arias because Mr. Karl also directed opera. As I know full well. And I also know full well what happened the first time he directed one at the Liceu Opera House. Well, I don’t know what went on at the Liceu because I didn’t even consider going by there, but I do know what happened at home with that opera singer who almost cracked the plates with her shrieking. That was long before Mr. Mark showed up, when I had already gotten used to, over the years, opening up the large windows overlooking the park and watching nature spread its various seasonal colors depending on the time of year, hearing music in the background that Mr. Karl played locked up in his piano room—which I was only allowed to clean early in the morning while he had his