The Piano Teacher
Walter Klemmer strides over and helps his piano teacher into her winter coat with the fox collar; he is quite familiar with her coat from all their lessons. It’s got a belt and it’s also got that sumptuous fur collar. He covers the mother in her black Persian-lamb-paw coat. He wants to continue the conversation, which had to be interrupted. He instantly says something about art and literature, in case Fräulein Kohut has bled out all her music after the triumph she has just celebrated. He latches on to her, digging his dentition into her. He helps her into her sleeves, he is even so bold as to pull her shoulder-length hair out of the collar and arrange it neatly upon the fur. He offers to accompany the two ladies to the trolley stop.
Mother senses something that can’t yet be expressed. Erika has mixed feelings about any attention showered upon her. Let’s hope it won’t turn into hail the size of hen’s eggs, the hailstones could strike holes in her! She too has been given a gigantic box of candy; Walter Klemmer has wrested it from her and is now carrying it. He is also holding an orange lily bouquet or something of the sort. Burdened with all kinds of things, not the least of which is music, the three of them (after cordially saying goodbye to our host and hostess) trudge to the trolley stop. The young people should walk ahead, Mama can’t keep up with those young feet. Besides, Mama has a much better view from behind and can hear much better. Erika is already hesitating, because poor Mama has to slog along behind them, all alone. Usually, the two Kohut ladies enjoy walking arm in arm, discussing Erika’s achievements and unabashedly praising them. But today, some young male upstart is replacing faithful old Mother, who, crumpled and neglected, has to bring up the rear. The apron strings tighten and pull Erika back. They pinch her because Mother has to walk behind her. The fact that she herself offered to do so only makes it worse. If Herr Klemmer weren’t so seemingly indispensable, Erika could comfortably walk next to her mother. The two women could ruminate about the recital and perhaps graze in the candy box. A foretaste of the cozy, homey warmth awaiting them in their parlor. Perhaps they can even catch the late show on TV. That would be the nicest finale to such a musical day. And that student keeps getting closer and closer to her. Can’t he keep his distance? It’s embarrassing to feel a warm, steaming, youthful body next to you. This young man seems so dreadfully intact and carefree that Erika panics. He doesn’t intend to burden her with his health, does he? The twosomeness at home, which no one else can share, appears threatened. Who else but Mother could guarantee peace and quiet, order and security in their own four walls? Every fiber in Erika’s body longs for her soft TV armchair behind a locked door. She has her customary chair, Mother has her own, with a Persian pouf for her often-swollen feet. Their domesticity goes awry because Klemmer won’t skedaddle. He doesn’t intend to force his way into their home, does he? Erika would much prefer to creep into her mother and rock gently in the warm fluid of her womb. As warm and moist outside as inside. She stiffens in front of her mother when Klemmer gets too close for comfort.
Klemmer talks and talks. Erika remains silent. Her rare experiments with the opposite sex flash through her mind, but the memories aren’t good. Nor was the reality any better. Once it happened with a salesman who tried to pick her up in a café she finally gave in just to shut him up. The wretched collection of white-skinned homebodies is completed by a young law student and a young high school teacher. Since then, years have passed and passed away. After a concert, two academics had held up her coat sleeves like machine-gun barrels, thereby disarming her: They had the more dangerous weapons. After each of these experiences, Erika wanted to get back to her mother as fast as possible. Mother didn’t suspect a thing. In this way, Erika grazed through two or three bachelor pads with kitchenettes and sitz baths. Sour pastures for the gourmet of art.
At first, she enjoyed preening herself: a pianist, albeit temporarily not performing. None of these men had ever had a pianist sitting on his sofa. Each man instantly behaved like a gentleman, and the woman enjoyed a wide view, over and above the man. But when she’s having sex, no woman remains grandiose. The young men soon took charming liberties, both indoors and outdoors. Car doors were no longer held open, fun was poked at clumsiness. The woman was then lied to, cheated on, tormented, and often not called. She was intentionally left up in the air about his intentions. One or two letters went unanswered. The woman waited and waited, in vain. And she did not ask why she was waiting, because she feared the answer more than the waiting. Meanwhile, the man began to deal with other women in another life.
Sex started those young men rolling with Erika, and then they stopped sex. They turned off the gas, leaving only a whiff. Erika tried to hold them with passion and pleasure. She pounded her fists on the swaying dead weight on top of her, she was so excited she couldn’t help shrieking. Her nails pointedly scratched the back of each antagonist. She felt nothing. She simulated overwhelming pleasure so that the man would finally stop. The man did stop, but then he came another time. Erika felt nothing, she has always felt nothing. She is as unfeeling as a piece of tar paper in the rain.
Each gentleman soon left Erika, and now she doesn’t care to have a gentleman. Only feeble charms emanate from a man, who makes very little effort anyway. Men do not go to any trouble for such an extraordinary woman as Erika. Yet they will never meet such a woman again. For this woman is unique. They will always regret it, but they leave anyway. They look at Erika, turn and depart. They make no effort to investigate her truly unique artistic qualities; they prefer to deal with their own mediocre knowledge and chances. This woman seems like too large a chunk for their dull little knives. They accept the fact that this woman will soon wither and wane. They lose no sleep over their realization. Erika is shrinking into a mummy, and they go about their dreary business as if a rare flower were not asking to be watered.
Unaware of such events, Herr Klemmer sways along, like a living bouquet of flowers, next to the younger Kohut; the older Kohut follows in his wake. He is so young. He doesn’t realize how young he is. He risks a venerating, conspiratorial sidelong glance at his teacher. He shares the secret of understanding art with her. He is certain that the woman next to him is wondering, as he is, how to render the mother harmless. How can he invite Erika for a glass of wine so that the day might end on a festive note? Klemmer’s thoughts go no further. His teacher is pure for him. See the mother home, take Erika out. Erika! He pronounces her name. She pretends she has misunderstood, and she quickens her pace, so we can advance, and so the young man won’t have some bizarre whim. He should simply go away! There are so many streets he can vanish in. Once he’s gone, she and her mother will gossip about the fact that this student has a secret crush on her. Are you going to watch the Fred Astaire movie tonight? Yes, indeed. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now Herr Klemmer knows what to expect: nothing.
In the dark underpass of the elevated line, Klemmer makes a daredevil attempt, he briefly grabs at the professor’s hand. Give me your hand, Erika. This hand can play the piano so marvelously. Now the hand coldly slips through his net and is gone. A puff of air arose, and then the air fell still again. Erika acts as if she hasn’t noticed the attempt. First misfire. The hand got up its nerve only because Erika’s mother was walking side by side with them for a brief distance. Mother has become a sidecar in order to supervise the front line of the young couple. There are no autos in the street now, and the sidewalk is narrow at this point. Erika perceives a danger and gets her foolhardy mother back on the sidewalk immediately. Klemmer’s hand falls by the wayside.
Klemmer now sends his mouth on this zealous trip. His mouth, lacking the fine creases of age, opens and closes effortlessly. He wants to talk to Erika about a novel by Norman Mailer, whom Klemmer admires as a man and as an artist. Klemmer saw such and such in the book; perhaps Erika saw something entirely different? Erika hasn’t read it, and the discussion seeps away. No exchange can ever come about in this way. Erika would trade anything for her lost youth, and Klemmer would like to trade his youth for experience. Th
e young face of the young man shimmers softly under streetlights and illuminated store windows; next to him, the pianist shrivels, a piece of paper burning in a stove of lust. She doesn’t have the nerve to look at him. Mother will certainly try to separate them if necessary. Erika is monosyllabic and uninterested, becoming more and more so the closer they get to the trolley stop. Mother prevents the transaction between the two young people by talking about the danger of a cold and by tempting fate with a detailed description of the symptoms. Erika agrees with her. One should be careful not to catch something now; tomorrow may be too late. Herr Klemmer makes a final desperate attempt to spread his wings. He blares about knowing a good way to prevent colds: You have to harden your body in advance. He recommends going to a sauna. He recommends a few good laps in a pool. He recommends sports in general and the most exciting kind, white-water canoeing, in particular. Now, in winter, the ice gets in the way, you have to make do with other sports for the time being. But soon it’ll be spring, and that’s the best time for white-water canoeing, because the rivers will be filled with melted snow and ice, and they’ll pull everything along. Klemmer again recommends going to a sauna. He recommends long-distance running, cross-country running, fitness running in general. Erika isn’t listening, but her eyes sweep over him; then, embarrassed, they instantly glide away. Almost unintentionally, she peers out from the prison of her aging body. She will not file away at the bars. Mother won’t let her touch her bars. Klemmer won’t go along with that, no matter what Erika says. This ardent warrior boldly gropes another step forward, a young bull, stamping around the fence. Is he trying to get to the cow, or does he merely want to get to a new meadow? Who can say? He recommends sports so you can have fun and generally develop a sense of your body, through your body. You wouldn’t believe how much a person can enjoy his own body, Professor! Ask your body what it wants and it’ll tell you. At first, your body may look plain and homely. But then, oh, boy! It comes alive, and the muscles develop. It stretches in fresh air. But it also knows its limits. And Klemmer can reap all these benefits from his favorite sport, white-water canoeing. A flimsy memory flashes through Erika’s mind; she once saw something or other on TV: white-water canoers. They popped up in a weekend sports panorama, before the movie. The paddlers were wearing orange life vests and reinforced helmets. They were squeezed into tiny boats or similar contraptions, like baby pears in a bottle of liqueur. They frequently toppled into the water. Erika smiles. She briefly recalls one of the men, whom she loudly cheered, and then instantly forgets him. All that remains is a feeble desire, which she likewise instantly forgets. Well, we’re almost there!
The words freeze in Herr Klemmer’s mouth. He arduously mumbles something about skiing, the season’s about to start. You don’t have to go that far from the city to reach the finest slopes, almost any angle you like. Isn’t that great? Why don’t you come along sometime, Professor, young people belong together. We’ll find friends my age there, and they’ll take marvelous care of you, Professor. Mother terminates the conversation: We’re not all that athletic. She has never watched any athletics from closer up than the boob tube. In winter, we’d much rather retreat with a good whodunnit. We generally prefer to retreat, you know, from anything whatsoever. We know what we’re retreating from, and we’d rather not know where we’re going. A person can break a leg.
Herr Klemmer says he can borrow his father’s car almost anytime if he lets him know in advance. His hand burrows around in the darkness and reemerges completely empty.
Erika feels a growing repulsion. If only he were gone! And let him take his hand along with him. Go away! He is a terrible challenge hurled at her by life, and the only challenge she normally accepts is to perform an opus faithfully. At last, the trolley stop heaves into view, the Plexiglas shelter is illuminated reassuringly, as is the small bench inside. No mugger, no killer in sight, and the two women can deal with Klemmer easily. A lamp is shining. Two other people are waiting, a pair of women, unescorted, unprotected. This late at night, the trolleys run less frequently, and Klemmer, unfortunately, still won’t leave. The killer may not be skulking around, but he might still show up, and they would then need Klemmer. Erika shudders; he should stop trying to get to her. Here comes the trolley! Soon she’ll be able to discuss the whole business in detail with Mother, from a distance, once Herr Klemmer is gone. He has to leave; then he’ll be a topic of thorough discussion. Not much more tickly than a feather on your skin. The trolley arrives and blithely carries off the Kohut ladies. Herr Klemmer waves, but the ladies are preoccupied with their purses and tickets.
The child, whose talent is discussed for miles around, falls. She is dreadfully clumsy. She usually moves as if she were inside a sack, up to her neck, stumbling over objects, arms and legs flailing. SHE loudly complains that these tripwires have been placed in her path because other people are so inattentive. SHE herself is never to blame. Teachers who have observed it all greet and comfort the girl who trudges along under the exorbitant demands of music. On the one hand, SHE sacrifices all her free time to music; on the other hand, SHE makes herself ridiculous in other people’s eyes. Despite their observations, the teachers feel a vague repulsion when they state that SHE is the only one who doesn’t have just nonsense on HER mind after school. Nonsensical insults weigh upon HER mind, which she tries to unburden at home, with her mother. Racing off to the school, Mother complains loudly about the other pupils, who are trying to destroy her wonderful offspring. And then the concentrated fury of the others really strikes home. There is a vicious circle of complaints and more vehement causes for complaints. Metal crates full of empty milk bottles from the school lunchroom turn up in HER path, demanding an attention that they do not receive. All HER attention is secretly focused on the boys at school. From the extreme corners of her eyes, she steals glances at them, while her head, held high, flails in a totally different direction, taking no notice of these future men—or boys trying to practice manliness.
Obstacles lurk in the smelly classrooms. Every morning, they fill up with the sweat of each simple normal student who just manages to get by, while his parents hectically work their fingers to the bone, fiddling around on the switchboard of his mind, trying to make him at least pass his courses. In the afternoon, the classroom is given a new lease on life by special, musically gifted students attending the music school which is temporarily housed here. Noisy contraptions pounce like locusts upon the silent spaces of thought. And throughout the day, the school is inundated by lasting values, by knowledge and music. These music pupils come in every size, shape, and form, even high school graduates and university students! They are all concerted in their efforts to produce sounds, alone or in groups.
SHE snaps her teeth more and more fiercely at the air bubbles of an inner life, of which the others have no inkling. At the core of her being, she is as beautiful as something ethereal, and this core has concentrated in her mind all by itself. The others do not see this beauty. SHE thinks she is beautiful and gives herself a fashion-model face, all in her mind. Her mother would order her to stop. She can change these faces at will; sometimes they are blondes, sometimes brunettes—gentlemen prefer either. And she goes along with such preferences, because she’d like those gentlemen to like her. She is everything but beautiful. She’s talented—lovely to listen to, but not lovely to look at. She is homely, and that’s what her mother keeps telling her, so the child won’t think she’s beautiful. Mother threatens her in the meanest way: The only way she’ll ever captivate anybody is with HER knowledge and HER ability. Mother threatens to kill the child if she ever so much as sees her with a man. Mother keeps her eyes peeled, she checks, hunts, calculates, concludes, punishes.
SHE is swathed in her daily duties like an Egyptian mummy, but no one is dying to look at her. For three long years, she tenaciously longs for her first pair of high-heeled shoes. She never forgoes and forgets. She needs tenacity for her wish. Until she gets her wish and her shoes, she can apply her tenacity to Bach’s so
lo sonatas, because Mother craftily promises her the shoes in exchange for mastering the Bach. She’ll never get the shoes. She can buy them herself someday when she earns her own money. The shoes are constantly held out to her as bait. In this way, Mother keeps luring another bit and yet another bit of Hindemith out of the child. Mother loves the child more than the child could ever love the shoes.
SHE is superior to everyone else. Her mother puts her high above them. SHE leaves the others far behind and far below.
HER innocent wishes change over the years into a destructive greed, a desire to annihilate. If others have something, then she wants it too. If she can’t have it, she’ll destroy it. She begins stealing things. In the garret studio, where drawing classes are held, things vanish: armies of watercolors, pencils, brushes, rulers. A pair of plastic sunglasses with iridescent lenses (a stylish innovation!) also vanishes. She is so scared that she throws her loot, which will never do her any good, into the first garbage can, so it won’t be found in her possession. Mother seeks and always finds any evidence of a secretly purchased chocolate bar or ice-cream cone for which she secretly saved her trolley money.