I Called Him Necktie by Milena Michiko Flašar Page B

He stood in front of it, neither laughing nor crying. In the back row someone whispered: How heartless. This man is made of stone. However, I knew better: In his restrained demeanor, with his breathing the only movement, I read how he listened to his inner silence and was united with his wife’s silence, for she was already there. It was as if he were listening for her, her footsteps slowly departing.
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    Did you see the teacher after that? I suppressed the trembling in my voice.
    Yes, I visited him several more times. Obviously my parents were disappointed that the only thing he taught me was to listen. They thought he’d cheated them out of my hidden talent, and still regretted sending me to him yearslater. In their opinion the teacher had destroyed any musicality in me forever. And they remained convinced of that. They were almost relieved when he died, shortly after the death of his wife, and they could finally bury their hopes.
    The house is still up on the hill in any case. I went there once with Kyōko. Through the boarded up windows we could make out the piano, with a sheet of music on it, covered in dust. The door to his wife’s room stood wide open, but through the cracks we could see little more than a narrow bed. We sat down on one of the steps that led into the garden and listened for a long time to the wind as it roared through the trees. I hear him playing, said Kyōko, and pointed to the waving branches. Her finger towards the skies: I hear them all, up there, playing.
    Be that as it may.
    I would like to see the teacher again, because I’d like to admit I was a poor student. I am sorry, I’d like to tell him. I am sorry you wasted your time on me.
    He drew a circle in the gravel with his toe, put his feet inside it and took them out again. He loosened his tie: Otherwise I can’t get any air.
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    If I remember correctly. He hesitated. Actually I’d rather death were the end. A clean cut. With nothing after. You step into a vacuum. No body any more, no history. Completely dissolved. Or how is it? His voice like crumpled paper. You should know. I didn’t tell you the whole truth. His breath became shallow. When you asked me if I hadchildren. Kyōko and I. We have. We had a son. His name was, is Tsuyoshi. He pulled the tie from around his neck and threw it quickly over the back of the bench, breathed more freely, continued. His voice like crumpled paper, carefully unfolded and smoothed out again as best as possible: Tsuyoshi. The strong one.
    We don’t talk about him very often. And when we do, it is Kyōko who talks about him, not me. She curls up on the couch, like a cat, buries her head in a cushion and talks into it. Always the same: I called him the little glowworm. His smile, so bright. And: You know. The blue sweater I knitted for him. How I undid it, stitch by stitch. And: You know? The little stuffed rabbit at the head of his bed. His rosy cheeks as he slept. And: You know? The similarity. It’s always the same. She talks of things I can’t remember. Of soap bubbles and dandelion heads. The only thing I remember is the pain, a hot wave, the pain of indifference, when they told me: Your son is handicapped. He’ll never be like others. The feeling, no feeling: There’s been a mix-up. This child is not mine but someone else’s. It is a mistake, this child, I reject it.
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    Good News! Kyōko ran towards me.
    The best thing about working ...
    ... is coming home. She pulled me by the arm, through the hall and into the living room. Our house. She had furnished it, had gone through the rooms right after we bought it and took measurements. The couch would go here, the television over there. The snow globes and the musical clocks on the sideboard. The dancing ballerina onthe side table. The naked lady with her feet in the sand would hang on this wall, on the other one the sailor with the droopy eyes. Our home. All the furniture and objects and photos. But most important of all were Kyōko’s books.