"Szpilman? Good name for a pianist."
(from the film "The Pianist", 2002)
The
Memory of Keys
-- for Wladyslaw Szpilman
You press your ear against the wall:
an out-of-tune instrument
caresses
you like Dorota's smile,
once, before
the unspeakable swept
over the
ghetto, a silencing black
wave.
Scraping one last handful
of crumbs
from a skillet, you
remember father
cutting a caramel into
six tiny parts,
an overpriced last meal
in a dusty
town square smelling of
fear.
How do you keep madness
at bay
during such days? The
ghost of hope,
the spectre of love are
waiting for
a chance to strangle you,
bury your
sanity beneath a memory
of keys.
How do you go to sleep when in
your dreams that train
departs again
and again, you run
faster, faster,
reaching for your
father's palm?
Each time you wake up
alone
with the Warsaw winter
creeping
under your blankets,
choking water
pipes, gnawing at
shrivelled potatoes
in the wooden kitchen
cabinet.
Two hideouts later, a
piano in the corner
whispers to you in black
and white,
in minor key, the
language of Chopin,
temptation for your
calloused hands.
But music can only exist
in your head.
You sit at the rickety
table playing
one silent note for mother, one for
father, a final tremolo
for Halina.
tuesday
rules of conduct
1
use no more than twenty-one vowels
per minute, carry extra consonants
in all pockets. speak in polysyllables
unless asked for directions.
2
keep away from riddles written before
you were born. all clues have withered,
no crystal ball will keep you from insanity.
3
never read obituaries, regardless of
their impeccable alphabetical order.
find yourself a fad that won't conjure up
crude apparitions at the breakfast table.
4
never wipe your hands on the blanket.
it would not shake off the aroma
of oranges until friday night.
5
do not plan romantic trips to paris.
stick to plain pancakes, cheap fun,
save your aphrodisiac for a day
that does not include the letter e.
6
avoid all cracks in the pavement.
this is no way to find out about your
labile mental state. trust the voices.
7
do not dream of kissing someone you
already know. everyone would call you a
cheat, thief of innocence. your pregnancy
would give rise to unflattering speculations.
when
visiting family you can't stand
1
wear houndstooth check,
tiny tartan pattern.
cross-eyed relatives make
a tame audience that
won't look daggers at you
for snide comments
about auntie's toyboy,
the smell of her breath.
2
answer all statements
with a dry that's what
you
think. nobody is used to so much assent.
minds reeling, they'll
soon be lost for words.
3
discuss your different
personalities: zelda
with her emerald hair;
curt whose opiate
addiction worries
everyone; that sassy girl
who keeps backbiting your
dear relations.
4
retell the conversation
you had a week ago
with the black sheep of
your family who talks
plenty but still gives no
reasons for his suicide.
5
refuse to sit on anything
but your worn brown
cushion. someone will
sniff at this, propose
bringing your own cutlery
next. smile sweetly,
fetch knife and fork from
your corduroy bag.
6
mutter to yourself during
dinner, but fend off
attempts at small talk by
putting a finger to your
lips. spear a piece of
meat with obvious glee.
7
drink a lot of wine,
ideally from valuable
bottles found in the
basement's cobwebbed
corners. let some of it
bleed onto damask
tablecloth, call it a
miracle, suggest a shrine.
Frau
Rausch
buys apples at the corner
store. She doesn't
often shop; she's got her
boys. We spoke once,
the day I moved in. She
was born in this house,
seventy-odd years ago.
Someone stole her ficus
in 2002, probably the
lesbians from number 13.
Frau Rausch always looks dapper when she
ventures out: neat
clothes, perfectly permed.
I wonder what her first
name is. Maria, perhaps,
oddly fitting for a woman
in a strange m�nage
� trois, her and two
grown sons in that small flat.
Frau Rausch is a little
hard of hearing;
that keeps me up to date
on soap operas,
endless talk shows.
Sometimes, making love,
I wonder what happens
once they switch off
the TV, a moan
interrupting their sudden silence.
I am sure Frau Rausch
knows the answer
when she asks: What
was that? Her boys feign
ignorance, dreading our
next encounter in the hall.
They shuffle off to bed,
leave mama in the dark,
an ear pressed hard against the wall.
© Michaela A. Gabriel
