“Arvo
Part?” Said Kart at last.
“Spiegel
im Spiegel,” said Peter. “The mirror in the mirror. Let's see ourselves
reflected for the last time.”
“Yes.
I think I can grant you that wish. For the last time.”
They
went down to the room where it was still the piano that Kartunen had brought, full
of dust, the piano from which he never made plans to let it go, because he
never imagined a date for him quitting the platform. He opened the cover with a
solemn gesture, which resisted the detachment of its lower jaw. He sat down on
the bench without removing the dust and passed the palm of his hand over the
white keys, carefully, caressing them without producing any sound. He inserted
his fingers between the black keys and let them reach the folds of his fingers,
as when two lovers cross them and hold hands, and for a few seconds squeeze
them tightly and hold their breaths and join their souls, for a few seconds,
their souls, and they wish the second would be eternal, and they don´t feel the
weight of their steps on earth and they are light, and they are ethereal and in
that precise moment of consciousness of the last time, in the shared
desperation with which one condemns himself to death to save the life of the
one he loves, as the hero who gives his life for the life of others, or as the
prisoner who looks into the eyes of each of the soldiers in the firing squad,
each of his executioners as frightened as he is, at that moment Kartunen wept
silently, his throat strangled by pain and sorrow, and he no longer felt strong
nor was he sure he wanted to drown himself , that he wanted to die. But he said
nothing and waited for Peter to settle in his place.
Peter
sat into his usual seat, forgotten for many weeks, embraced the cello and
waited for the piano to play the initial triad. The contact with the cello´s wooden
body and its turpentine smell transported him to the icy stillness of Bergen's
music room, to Elianne's kisses, to her crystalline laughter, her watery eyes,
her fresh cheeks, the steam exhaled from her mouth, to her round, pale ass,
tense and full. He began to tremble in the chair, excited or cold, perhaps
afraid. He could not say. He closed his eyes and opened them when he heard the
first chords and saw Kartunen crying on the piano.
The
melody began with its slow and progressive cadence, like a meditated descent
towards death. And the images of their lives, of their joys and their mistakes,
flowed as their throats were gripped and their spirits rose lightly over their
bodies. Memories began to create images that multiplied, linked and overlapped,
and the gaps and shadows began to make sense, kaleidoscopic images, the mirror
reflected in the mirror to infinity, and in the infinite, death doesn't make
sense, it doesn't exist and there is no place for resentment or revenge; When
everything is relative, it is time for forgiveness and forgetfulness, but not a
therapeutic or forced forgetting, but the forgetting of Saint Francis of
Assisi, when forgetting is forgiving, because there is no forgiveness without
forgetting. And both cried with gratitude and emotion, like when after having
fought for a toy, two children discover that it is much better to play
together, better love than quarrel, love between the chosen brothers, as they
had always been, a long time ago.
