The Piano Tuner of Earthquakes Page #5

- I wonder if he can sing.

- I think not.

Then he could whistle.

What might he whistle then?

Emmanuel,

he could whistle a tango.

With all that facial excreta

and ecstatic nose bleeds!

I think not.

But, er, maybe

there's a role for you, Assumpta.

Oh. I already have one.

I've always had one...

...Emmanuel.

Of course.

The illustrious whore.

Whose garments are wiped clean

by the epileptic's saliva.

Oh, but we did, already,

that one, Emmanuel.

Last year.

You're forgetting.

Maybe your hammer is,

erm, needing... fresh leather?

Assumpta!

'That night, the gardeners' shouts

led me to another automaton.'

'Malvina.'

'She looked at me, she saw me,

she spoke to me, she held my hand.'

'But she called me

someone else's name.'

'Is that why she's here? '

'Because this Adolfo abandoned her,

and then she tried

to take her own life? '

So everything's fodder for tangos,

huh, Mr. Felisberto?

Forgive me, Doctor, I've been here...

Mr. Felisberto, I must draw

your attention to the fact

that the woman

with whom you were seen

trying to engage in conversation

yesterday is a patient of mine.

The lady has suffered

a grave illness.

Her condition, shall we say,

might even be described as, er,

terminal.

So, you will kindly desist

from importuning her any further.

- Importuning? That's the last...

- Have I made myself clear?

Good.

'Then, to my surprise,

the Doctor invited me

to play a small but special role

in his opera.'

'He explained

that it would be a reconstruction

of Madame van Stille's trauma,

and that only by using this therapy

could he ever hope to bring her back

to her more natural self.'

And what was her trauma,

if I may be so bold?

Oh, tragically...

...her fianc broke off

their relationship

the very day before

they were due to be married.

Of course I'd do anything

to help Madame Malvina,

but as I said, my voice is hopeless.

I can't sing.

You needn't.

You will whistle.

I am like certain feminine opera fans

who listen only with their clitoris.

Look closely

at that triangular muscle.

These vocal folds...

...made up from nerves,

blood vessels and membranes.

Then imagine Malvina's.

As delicate as ripening grapes.

A scent just waiting,

anticipating,

dreaming of succumbing

to pollutions of mist and fogs

upon the coolest slopes.

Malvasia.

Mammolo.

Marzemino.

And this sublime prolonged weight

of her vocal cords

around my music,

slowly breaking

the cap of its skin...

...oozing swollen juices,

crushed and glistening vanillas.

'Doctor,

clearly it's you

who's inhaled the spore

of Malvina's voice.'

Malvina.

Adolfo.

See?

Good. Once more.

How many times more?

Kiss me.

The Doctor rests every afternoon

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