hand in the air, the tips of two fingers barely touching the book page, as it remains suspended in time, motionless. On its face, three wavy wrinkles, signs of trouble or pain. He holds his breath. And then, listening he hears, he thinks he hears, yes, listening well, yes, no doubt, a string cello, slowly, a drone, a note, a sound up from the basement through the piping and 'reached in the second. The book falls to the ground and his hand, a quick movement back to the front where it falls on the eyelids now closed. He can not go, wants peace, tranquility, silence, true silence, not silence Cagean, not avian silence, silence, silence, nothingness.
In the early years of her marriage, yet everything was perfect. He was happy to have her a musician, to get out of his circle of passion, to go listen to opera Berg, discuss concrete music, rediscover Bach hear him play. Their head-to-heads were always beautifully spent, because if what they dedicated their lives were fundamentally dissimilar, they had the basic knowledge necessary to mention that everyone loved, curiosity to learn and willingness to better understand each other. There are a few more years, he thought a regular night, a year or two after they started living together, where they talked around a bottle of Crozes Hermitage, Goldberg: Variations by Gabriel and Josipovici his use of the epistolary form, the mythological tale, his approach to textual analysis and its references to Donne and his art of metaphor metaphysics or how complex it as and when as his text, like the novel has become more complex over the years. Each time he said he had never been so in love with his wife that day where their twin passions united. And each time he felt a lot of affection for her, tenderness was the logic behind finding the closed doors of the bedroom.
But it was well done. They no longer spoke, no longer touched each other, sleeping together without ever really want to know why. He spent his days in his attic, attic office and library at his desk or in his chair, descends only to get a sandwich for lunch or toilet. He had everything he needed, kettle, cup, tea, dictionaries, computers and could work fifteen hours a day without feeling the need to leave. It was also this love of the attic that had created the first cracks in their relationship: there was a time when it had completely ceased to want to go to concerts or movies, being perfectly well there where he was, and never feel the need for more outside than he let into his home. Then it music that disappeared from his life. He loved her before, but as one tries to pull that one will not cry when it becomes too small: he was ready to abandon it in favor of something better. And indeed, the necessity of silence came when he realized he could not read music, write to the sound of instruments. He would not hear anything, demanded quiet during the day, refusing even to listen to anything from music during dinner, the noise preventing chaos, he said, to think that what he plancha . Ensued arguments, compromises, promises initially held and then abandoned, and slowly indifference. While others would have stayed there, but him not. The hostility, hatred arose. Simply inform the work down, just listen, even weakly, the sound of his instruments enough to give him a horrible headache, destroy the work day, soak in a silent but terrible anger. He no longer writes a line for six months. They came to believe that only the killing would end his ordeal. Last week, he bought a guitar string during one of his rare outings. When his book touched the ground, he remembered his presence in the drawer of his desk. She died as she lived. She tasted his own potion.
*
The bow floats in the air, just inches from the strings of the cello. His gaze falls on the pages of the score, and for no apparent reason, her mouth distorted in a grimace almost imperceptible. She holds her breath. She imagines she sees him tending his ear in anticipation of a sound, already certain he will be disturbed. It is either in his chair reading or his computer, filling in the white pages of his word processor, but she knows he does not concentrate because before, yes, that's it, watch it, it loses far from what he did because he wants to come hear his music. And she released her hand, shakes the rope, but it sounds wrong. She can do no more, no one wants to be able to freely ring all the sounds it wants to listen to spill over the walls of the house, she will more than notes and perhaps some indication of the paper, more literature, as technical manuals.
In the early years of her marriage, yet everything was perfect. She was happy to have as a writer husband, to get out of his circle of passion, to go to a reading of Gass to discuss German modernism, rediscover Cervantes, read her novel in progress. Their head-to-heads were always beautifully spent, because if what they dedicated their lives were fundamentally dissimilar, they had the basic knowledge necessary to mention that everyone loved, curiosity and willingness to learn of yet Better Understanding. Few years ago, she thought a regular night, a year or two after they started living together, where they talked around a bottle of Marques de Riscal, Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann and his use of theories of harmony, counterpoint, his approach to polyphony and its references to Schoenberg and atonal sound system, sorry, twelve sounds. Each time she said he had never been so in love with her husband that day where their twin passions united. And each time she felt enormous affection for him was his affection that logic conclusion on the living room couch.
But it was well done. They no longer spoke, no longer touched, always slept together without really wanting to know why. When she did not leave for work at or go to rehearsals, she spent her days in his cellar converted into a mini-studio, studio composition and experimentation. She had everything she needed, the espresso machine for many different instruments, trying to stay up all she wanted for hours, convinced to find a nugget for the future. His passion for music machines, as she called them, had created the first cracks in their relationship. While receiving numerous books Publishers and commanded the rest on the internet, it was always move to test the sound before you buy, and little to small, it was increasingly difficult to time to accompany him. Ensued arguments, compromises, promises first held and then abandoned, and slowly indifference. While others would have stayed there, but not she. The hostility, hatred made its appearance, and the idea that spending time in her books was more important than spending time with her. As a woman who deceived hate everything that reminds him of another, it began to feel nausea at the mere idea of literature. Know up there, sniffing the pages of Valery, wallowing like a pig in Céline or being used to stain the pages blank enough to paralyze its work, dive into a pointless but uncontrollable jealousy. She was more composed a melody valid for six months. She came to believe that only the killing would end his ordeal. Last week she bought a copy to the heavy binding of Against the Day. When his false note uttered his last breath, she remembered his presence in his bag partitions. He died as he lived. It enjoyed his own potion.
*
The rope in hand, he heads for the door. She looks up and begins to climb the stairs. Along the way, his right fist tightens around his weapon when he thinks of squeaking piano, violin's complaint, the thrombin trombone, the trumpet flatulence and pans percussion. Under the weight, she almost loose his book but his strength back at the same time that Virginia, lighthouse from where one wants to throw himself in despair, Gertrude, in vacuum, the stone around the neck, Joan die without tell stories, Lydia, to finish with these disturbances permanent, George, at the bottom of the pond. The stairs creak beneath his feet, he knows he does not fall over him by surprise, but he does not care. His steps are light as his heart is in a few minutes if the door of the attic does not creak, she thinks. Arising out of the room, the cat stops and fixes for two seconds and then scoot: he understood that something is happening. Arriving in the lobby, she sees the cat rush in the kitchen, out the tip of the head, and then watch as fast as he had appeared, withdraw carefully under the table: it understood that something is happening. Both feel that the decisive moment approaches, they think they are their only two flights of stairs before ending nightmare. Everyone stops for a moment, focusing as a penalty taker to find the strength to give the victory to his team. But it's easier for them, they should not ask questions - right, left, center, top, bottom, half height? - Because they already know tool and method. The only thing they can not know is whether they will force. They do not believe, moreover, they do not suspect that their anger is healthy enough for the book bursts through the wall cavity, so that the rope crushing the windpipe to choke. And so they rush, rope in hand, book in hand. The big surprise when, looking up, dropping his head, she sees him, he sees her in her path on the way to her. He holds a guitar string. She does not understand. It is a great book. He does not understand. Anger evaporates. The pound crashed, but not on a head. The rope is wound, but not around a neck. She is excited that he came towards her. He is excited that she came to him. To the first time in many years, the same impulse directs, casts the same movement towards each other. These are not shots that fly, but clothing. Hands-free stand close in a fist, palms remain open without slamming: they cherish. Two bodies collapse without it being the Grim Reaper who take responsibility: to the death if they are going, it will be small.
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