Read Online Stella Descending by Linn Ullmann - Free Book Online

had no problem adjusting his hearing aid.
    Naturally I had to ask him why he had a hearing aid, if there was nothing wrong with his hearing. That was when he slammed the door in my face.
    “Well, thank
you
!” I yelled.
    I heard him behind the door, muttering something under his breath. Then he shuffled off to what I presumed to be a very expensive modern stereo system and turned the volume up even louder. Some second-rate opera singer, I think it was, screeching her way through a frightful libretto that someone had slapped onto a clarinet concerto by Mozart.
    That did it. I marched back to my own apartment and turned up the volume on my own stereo. I have a CD of Janet Baker singing Mahler so divinely anyone would think Mahler had written the piece with her in mind. I shut my eyes.
    I opened my eyes. My neighbor had turned his racket up even louder—in order to drown out my Mahler.
    I hammered on the wall.
    My neighbor hammered on his wall.
    I turned up the volume.
    My neighbor turned up his volume.
    The whole building rang with the noise.
    Every now and then, time seems to pass without my being aware of it. I get confused. The day starts and the day ends, and all of a sudden it’s nighttime. Where have I been? What have I done?
    I heard the sound of running feet and voices on the stairs. Loud knocking on my door. A man’s voice shouting, “Grutt! Grutt! Are you okay?”
    I stepped out into the hall, past the gilt mirror, and calmly opened the door.
    “Are you okay?” asked the young dark-haired man standing outside. He was panting for breath. I recognized him. He lived two floors above me; as far as I knew he was a writer and a conceited ass. It was difficult to hear what he was saying. Mahler was drowning everything out.
    “Why, yes, I’m perfectly okay,” I replied.
    I did my best to speak in a normal voice, even though the music was so loud. By now I could hear only my music. My neighbor must have switched his off.
    “But you’re waking the whole building,” the young man shouted, looking over my shoulder as if expecting to see women dancing languorously around my living room.
    “It’s Mahler!” I shouted.
    “Right, but this just isn’t okay.”
    I looked at him, wanting to explain that I knew very well the music was far too loud. Everything went quiet for a moment, long enough for us both to catch our breath. We eyed each other. A few seconds passed. Then the music struck up again from the first track on the CD. I jumped.
    “It’s Mahler,” I repeated, gazing at the floor. “My neighbor was mangling Mozart; it was unbearable. You must have heard it. I know I shouldn’t play it so loud. I beg your pardon. But he was mangling Mozart. . . . Won’t you come in? I’ll turn down the volume and you can listen to it yourself—to Mahler, I mean.”
    The young man sighed, glanced at his watch.
    “It’s past two o’clock,” he said. “I went to bed hours ago: me, my wife, our kids, and the dog. The whole gang. It’s the middle of the night, don’t you realize that? And it just keeps playing over and over. Did you forget to cancel the repeat button?”
    “No . . . yes . . . I’ve—I don’t know.”
    Now I was confused. I said, “Couldn’t you come in for a moment, so we can sort this out?”
    The young man glanced at his watch again, suddenly at a loss.
    “I want you to hear Mahler as he ought to be heard,” I went on, firmly now. “That’s Janet Baker singing—anyone would think Mahler wrote this with her in mind. . . . Listen! It’s all about a child dying—his own, you understand. His own child.”
    The young man shrugged, as if about to turn and go, but to my astonishment he followed me into the living room and sat down on the sofa. I turned the sound down. Janet Baker’s divine voice filled the room.
    “Well, maybe we could sit here for a little while,” the young man said, “and listen to your music. Without having to talk to each other, and without having to do it again