I spend hours at that keyboard afterwards. Losing track of the hours ....
for days after sit there....
the memory of my Beethoven recital haunts at me and finally have to leave that room.... that secret, hidden room behind a cracked wall .... and avoid it awhile
I received two first prize awards. I remember looking at them as a child; taking them out of the drawer they were hidden in, in my mother’s nineteenth century wood-carved, antique secretary. They were never displayed, they were tucked away so as not to upset my sister or irritate —him—
why do I think of this now? I find I wonder what ever happened to that old heavy piece that was as tall as the ceiling and as wide as a single bed. It cost a fortune, was my mother’s prize possession. It had so many hidden, secret drawers.... secret keys.... the writing desk folded out and two wood levers pulled out to support it. Dark walnut, always polished to a deep shine and two screen doors opened that would lock with old skeloton keys where two silk wine colored tassels hung. It was such a magnificent piece, it came everywhere whenever we moved across the ocean —twice.... my wild extravagant mother with her weakness for antiques and fine things, she had such regal style
that was why the drum table always blended right in. You would never know it was actually a key to a safe, but then even the safe is a camouflage; hide it in plain sight ....it just looks like an old sea captain’s trunk and was always shined to a high polish as well but served as a coffee table, nobody ever would think it actually opened; the perfect ruse
these thoughts that haunt ....
But the music .... it seems to echo in my mind, evasive and elusive ....driving me mad
I used to pretend to read the notes as my piano teacher slammed her stick, hovering over me, shouting for perfection. She terrified me. I couldn’t let on that I could not see the notes on the page and just would memorize her first demonstrations of a new piece; know when to turn the page .... I mean, sure, if I looked hard at the page —if I blocked out the other chords and, I could figure out what they were.... but, it just seemed an annoying step to do when I could just remember how to play them, that was so much easier and more fun and they made better sense once you understood the composer’s mood. No, I never had much patience for symbols because they don’t stay still, move around so much and just cause motion sickness
I can hear the music still in my mind ....
but then it seems I’m losing my mind.... overwhelmed by fears, real or imagined ailments that I think I might have and stuck here isolated, that I become obsessed over and find myself filled with outrageous anxiety
so tempted to escape the prison.... “shit, I’m losing my mind ....” I say out loud.... thinking: what if I die down here? no one would know ..... and spend hours with such dreadful fears of this ....Until it reaches a point I get a migraine.
I go back up to the dungeon to do my Cabaret work on orders and setting up shipments through distributors and reading the mindless nonsense in the chat room to distract my mind from fears and serious thoughts that make me sad....
Some time after hours of this my mobile phone gets a call.
But it is the other number, not Jörn’s new one, but the first one I received the call from when he and Willem were being held
I welcome the distraction and hesitate a moment wondering if I should but then think Jörn would have said something about it, I take the call
“hallo, mijn oude vriend, de ochtendschemering wacht!”
“Willem?!”
“I am just calling to check on you— Jörn is catching a flight but he wanted to make sure things are ok,” he says
“Ok?” I ask and find I doubt it but keep it to myself, “why, where is he going? What’s going on?”
“Listen, I have been wishing to talk to you a little. Some things we never got to. They have been on my mind... things from your past ....well, maybe we catch up another time with all that but ....I feel I should level with you about some things,” he says now. I hear sounds in the background ....swooshing sounds of motion, he must be be driving
“What do you mean, level?” I ask
“Let’s just say —I feel I owe it to your grandfather.... you remember it was he who first hired me years ago,” he says
“Yes, I know.”
“He was a good man, he was concerned for your safety, you know? So.... I don’t know .... I get the feeling —you don’t know if Jörn is ....well— how can I put this? It is not my business, but.... maybe I feel like I owe it to grandpa, right?”
I take a deep breath of dread,
“you think he’s deceiving me?”
“I didn’t say that, that isn’t even what I am trying to say. No, it is actually something else. I don’t know but, well maybe, I think, you should know something ....”
“What are you saying?”
“Jörn does not let on about things —what is that expression? Ja, dat is het—he ‘plays it close to the vest’ which is good for spy work but I think sometimes not so good in other parts of life,” he says
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he takes chances I worry about ....”
“Can you please tell me what you’re trying to say? Chances how?”
“I didn’t get it at first ....” he hesitates and takes a moment to take a long breath. He lets out a sigh, “let me just explain something. I have known Jörn a long time now. We have worked together for years. Other cases. I have seen how he works....” and again there is another pause
I had been sitting at the desk on my side where I do my computer work with orders, but now I get up to pace nervously between the two desks and then go the other way, stopping in all the places Jörn usual would to shuffle through things he’s looking for. I pace to the filing cabinet and then to the mini fridge
“And?”
“I remember the day he first saw your picture ....”
And something in Willem’s voice makes me need to sit down.
I wait
“From that moment on .... something changed ....”he says
and I feel that chill; the same chill from the first time I saw Jörn,
“When he saw my picture.... you were there? What do you mean....Changed?”
“About him.... “ he says, “after that he .... well.... he demanded to be put on the case, because, you see, really, it was first my case .... but he wouldn’t let it go.... “ he stops as he seems unsure of whether to say more, “I thought maybe he knew you from somewhere— so strange really .... well, I am just saying .... ever since .... well.... I just thought you should know this....” and then there is another heavy sigh ....and then silence
After the call ends I find I am somewhat stupefied. I have never really thought that ....
But before Willem ended the call he said one more thing,
“it just is not like him to take foolish chances so.... I guess I am telling you so.... maybe to just know this.... and if any reason —you can use this number to reach me, ja? —dat is alles. I should be in your area in a few days, so—voor nu tot ziens.”
At first I get up to pace back and forth as a million thoughts seem to take my mind in all directions
and then stop myself from pacing and find myself just staring at nothing for a very long time
....and only realize I have been standing in front of the filing cabinet that conceals the secret cabinet in the wall and remember how to open it
knowing what is inside ....
I am compelled now to open it....
and once opened
sit down on the floor.... and reach deliberately for the passports. I pick up each one, open them to the photo page and lay them all out in front of me— no, not even do I care what all the names say and all the fake, different nationalities.... made up names and identities, the slight nuances of disguises in the photos .... I am by now so used to knowing what he does.... it’s just a job to him....
And so just stare at the photos .... and don’t at all care .... because it is him that I look for .... the one there within ....such eyes.... it is not so much just his eyes but what is there behind them that I see ....and have known ....even though I have been ignoring .... it is always there
sitting there I stare at the photos, at his face, this man with the vampire eyes from dreams .... and .... long for him .... run my fingers over the photos and across his features, wanting to touch him because of the ache of how much I long for his face, long for him
And again that question which haunts the way he haunts my soul, why now?....that he should come into my life now.... what purpose does it serve .....? when after years of wandering and lost dreams should he arrive and disarm my well constructed walls.... what is it for .... that we should meet now?
for something that he needs? —something that I need?—something that goes beyond life and time?
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