Misterioso

19

The acrid smoke has settled; the pungent smell has disappeared. The man has finally been put to rest. It took a bit longer this time.

It has been a long day.

Now it’s night.

It’s night in the living room.

As the first notes from the piano slide out into the room, he is leaning back against the sofa, looking at the man. The piano notes walk up and down, back and forth; the saxophone comes in and walks at the piano’s side. The same steps, the same little promenade.

When the sax takes off and the piano starts scattering the seemingly indolent chords in the background, it’s as if the man rises up off the floor. A couple of little drum fills. And when the sax continues to chirp with a few dissonant notes, it’s as if he’s bending over a void. The saxophone jabs, chops, works its way up in higher and higher spirals. The blood is running out of the man’s head. It’s as if he’s slamming his fist right into the abdomen of the void in front of him. When the piano falls silent, the other, harder blow slams against the void’s stomach.

It’s a pantomime, a peculiar dance of death.

Yeah. Whoo-ee. The first kick. At the knee.

The saxophone climbs even farther, faster and faster. Ai. The second kick. To the groin.

It’s so choreographed. Each blow, each kick at the void’s invisible body, has been predetermined, occurs in exactly the right place.

He has envisioned it so many times before.

And right there, when the applause comes in, that’s when the big punch is delivered. The audience is murmuring; the piano takes over. The blow falls at that very instant. The void’s teeth are rolling under the tongue, and that’s when it happens. At that precise moment.

The piano begins by taking a tentative step. Then it cuts loose. Ever freer wanderings, ever more beautiful. He is certain of the beauty now. It’s as if the man aims a kick at the prostrate void. It’s as if he kicks once, twice, three times, then four. The piano sings, lingering.

The void no longer exists.

The bass disappears. The piano is strolling again. Just like in the beginning.

It’s as if the man is aiming a fifth kick-when the front door opens out in the hallway.

“Papa?” shouts a girl’s voice.

The man collapses flat. Returns to a prostrate position.

He’s already out of the room, out of the house, out of the yard.

He’s so far away that he doesn’t hear the heartrending scream.

That’s why he ran.