A Chamber Orchestra


He was lost for a moment, but he was awakened by the sound of the door opening. No matter how deep he had descended, he felt tired. She walked to the window and pulled back, afraid of the cold she felt when she reached out her hand to open it. He continued to watch outside. The squeaks of wood, which were crushed by the people entering, echoed in his mind.

 “What floor was this on?” he thought through it.

He wanted to let himself down, and he excitedly opened the window and cried out;

I came to you Maestro… I came to you… I came to you…

          * * *  

He was talking all the time, trying to hide his excitement. He had read a lot about him, had listened to him a lot. And now he was going to see her.

 "Everyone thinks you're deaf, what does it feel like to have a lost sense?"

He looked at his phone and found the address. Streets, avenues had passed and corners had turned, and there it was…

“A slight upward slope, like our life…”

He looked around as if he was breathing in medieval times. When he got to the door of the apartment, his heart would stop as he tried to hold the door.

“So he lived here, ninety-nine houses… Ninety-nine… Only one… One…”

He grabbed the door handle and opened the door. A woman descending the stairs saluted and passed. The apartment was still alive. He quickly went up the stairs. He came to the door of his apartment, too excited to enter, and that first step… Now they had come to that point from other times, they had met. The smell that came in was her scent, the voices she heard were hers. He knew he would have to leave this house, too. With so many notes flying around, no one expected it to be a piece of art. Everyone was complaining, all the noise was unbearable. They said, please, sir, get out of the house, everyone is complaining about you. Today, the prices of the tickets bought to listen to him… Some of them are appreciated later.

The floors are wooden, creaking. Man afraid to walk; stop composing and playing the piano. When you raise your head, the ceiling meets your eyes. It seems like it's almost time for the walls to run towards you... Too small and low to think how many rooms there are...

 “How did he live here, how badly.”

He has pictures on his walls now, as if he had not come to life in a body, but only a soul from notes until today. There are his compositions inside the glass partitioned tables they put in front of the walls… When he saw his own handwriting, his heart started beating fast again. He paused for several minutes, staring at the handwriting, and when he couldn't help but touch the glass, the attendant approached and said something to him in German. He understood. It was something he shouldn't have done, because he wouldn't be able to touch the papers, even if he did… When he turned to his right, the tables in front of the window caught his attention, he quickly went towards the table. It had a table and stool made in the shape of a piano. Would he sit? He sat. He put on his headphones and pressed the keys of the piano. He knew how to play and couldn't understand what kind of moment he was stuck in right now. Maybe he should have played in his house, on the walls… He believed in the stones, that they brought and carried messages from far away for years. He took a breath and let himself fall into the notes.

 “Will you accompany me, maestro?”

The maestro was startled by his voice. The sound came from outside, not inside. He took off the earphones and heard a shout. People moved, could not understand what was happening, stared at the window.

It's a cloudy day in Vienna... The air will overflow, it's like you're going to cry if you touch it. There is no air to visit. Gray clouds are perched on the windows, as if a shadow over those huge medieval buildings. The streets are quiet, one or two people are either there or not. A block rises from the ground in front of the apartment, on top of the rising block is a statue, a man holding the feet of a golden angel. As if to the woman who let herself down at noon; It's like there's a Beethoven wrapped in 'don't'...

 “We came for you, Beethoven. We came under the spell of the notes you wrote. Some of us living, some of us approaching death… We all came for you.”


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