Felisberto Hernandez - Piano Stories

“Please, sir, you’ll ruin me.”

“I certainly will if you don’t listen to me.”

“But what does the gentlemen want of me?”

“Only that you let me see, and I mean only see — you can search me when I come out — the glass cases in the room next to the dining room.”

He gestured and grimaced wildly before he could get a word out. Finally he managed to say:

“Consider my years of service in this house, sir. .”

I felt sorry for him, and disgusted at myself for being sorry. My craving to see made me regard him as a complicated obstacle. He was telling me the story of his life, explaining why he could not betray his master. I interrupted him to threaten:

“Save your breath — he’ll never find out. But I’ll scramble your brains if you don’t obey, and then you really might do something you’d regret. Wait for me at two o’clock tonight. I’ll be in that room until three.”

“Scramble my brains, sir, kill me. .”

“It’ll be worse than death for you unless you do as I say.”

As I left I repeated:

“Tonight, at two. I’ll be at the door.”

On my way out, trying to find an excuse for my behavior, I said to myself, “When he sees that nothing bad happens he won’t suffer any more.” I wanted to be let in that same night because it was the night when I ate there and the food and the wine excited me and made my light brighter.

During dinner the butler was not as nervous as I expected, and I thought he would not open the door, but when I went back at two o’clock he did. Following him and his candelabrum across the dining room I had the sudden notion that he had caved in under the mental torture of my threat and told the host everything and they had set a trap for me. The minute we were in the room with the glass cases I looked at him. He was staring at his feet, expressionless. So I said:

“Bring me a mattress. I can see better from the floor and I want my body to be comfortable.”

He hesitated, hanging on to the candelabrum, but went out. Alone in the room, I started to look around me and it was like being in the center of a constellation. Then I remembered it might be a trap: the butler was taking his time. But he wouldn’t have needed long to trap me. Finally he came in dragging a mattress with one hand, holding the candelabrum up with the other. In a voice too loud for a room full of glass cases he said:

“I’ll be back at three.”

At first I was afraid to see myself reflected in the huge mirrors or in the glass cases, but lying on the floor I was outside their range. Why had the butler seemed so calm? My light wandered over the universe of things around me but I felt no pleasure. After daring so much, I had no courage left to calm down. I could look at an object and make it mine by holding it for a while in my light, but only if I was at ease and knew I had the right to look at it. I decided to focus on a small area near my eyes. There was a missal in a tortoise-shell binding with a streaked surface like burnt sugar, except for a filigree in one corner, on which a flower had been pressed. Next to it, like a coiled reptile, lay a rosary of precious stones. Spread above those two objects were fans that looked like dancing girls flaring out their skirts. My light wavered a bit when it went over several with sequins and stopped on one showing a Chinaman with his face made of mother-of-pearl, his robe of silk. Only that Chinaman could stand being there alone in endless space: his impassiveness was as mysterious as stupidity. Yet he was the one thing I was able to make mine that night. As I left I tried to give the butler a tip, but he refused it saying:

“I’m not doing this for money, sir. You’re obliging me to do it.”

During the second session I focused on some jasper miniatures, but when I was scanning a small bridge with elephants crossing over it I realized there was another light in the room besides mine. I turned my eyes before turning my head and saw a woman in white advancing toward me with a blazing candelabrum. She had come out of the depths of the wide avenue bordered with glass cases. I felt my temples quiver and the quivers run like sleepy streams down my cheeks, then wrap around my head like a turban, and finally creep down my thighs and knot at my knees. The woman advanced slowly, her head rigid. I expected her to scream when her mantle of light touched my mattress. Every now and then she stopped and, before she started up again, I thought of escaping, but I couldn’t move. In spite of the spots of shadow on her face I could tell she was beautiful: she seemed to have been made by hand after having been outlined on paper. She was coming too near, but I had decided to lie still to the end of time. She stopped by the edge of the mattress and then proceeded with one foot on the mattress and the other on the floor. I was like a dummy stretched out in a store window while she went by with one foot on the curb and the other in the street. I stayed there without blinking, although her light flickered strangely. On her way back she wove a winding path among the glass cases, the tail of her gown gently tangling in their legs. I had the feeling I had been asleep for a moment before she reached the door at the far end of the room. She had left it open when she came in and she went out without closing it. Her light had not completely faded when I became aware of another light behind me. Now I was able to get up. I grabbed the mattress by a corner and dragged it out after me. The butler was waiting, his whole body and his candelabrum shaking. I couldn’t understand what he said because his dentures were chattering.

At the next session I knew she would return and I couldn’t concentrate on anything, all I could do was wait for her. But when she appeared I calmed down. Everything happened just as before: she had the same trancelike stare in her hollow eyes; and yet, in some way I couldn’t fathom, each night had been different. At the same time, she was already a fond habit I cherished. When she reached the foot of the mattress I had a moment of anxiety. I realized she was not going to walk along the edge but pass over me. Again I was terrified thinking she would scream. She had stopped by my feet, and now her first step came down on the mattress, another on my knees — which shuddered and parted, making her foot slip — the next, with the other foot, on the mattress, another on the pit of my stomach, then one more on the mattress, followed by a bare foot that landed on my throat. And then I lost all sense of what was happening in the delicate rustling of her perfumed gown as its tail brushed over my face.

After that the nights blurred together. Although I had different feelings each time, the events were so much alike that in the end they fused in my mind, as if they had happened in just a few nights. The tail of her gown erased guilty memories, sweeping me into space on airs as gentle as the ones stirred long ago by childhood bedsheets. Sometimes the tail settled on my face for a moment and then I dreaded losing touch with her, under the threat of an unknown present, but when the airy feeling returned and I had cleared the abyss I thought of the interruption as an affectionate joke and breathed in as much of the tail as I could before it was whisked away.

Sometimes the butler would say:

“Haven’t you seen everything by now, sir?”

But I would head back to my room, slowly brush down my black suit at the knees and waist, and then go to bed to think of her. I had forgotten about my own light — and would have given every bit of it to remember her more clearly in her mantle of candlelight. I went over her steps and imagined that one night she would stop and kneel by me and then it would not be her gown I’d feel but her hair and lips. I rehearsed the scene in different ways. Sometimes I put words in her mouth: “My darling, I’ve been lying to you. .” But the words did not seem to fit her, and I would have to go back and start all over again. The rehearsals kept me awake and even found their way into my dreams. Once I dreamed she was going up the nave in church. There was the glow of candlelight against a background of red and gold. The brightest light fell on her wedding gown with the long train she slowly drew after her. She was about to get married but walked alone, with one hand clasped in the other. I was a woolly dog, shiny black, lying on her train. She dragged me along proudly, and I seemed to be asleep. At the same time I was being swept up in the crowd that followed the bride and the dog. In this version of myself I had feelings and ideas my mother could have had, and I tried to get as close to the dog as possible. He sailed along as calmly as if he were asleep on a beach, waking from time to time, wrapped in spray. I had transmitted an idea to him which he received with a smile. It was: “Let yourself go, but think of something else.”