Read Online The Spirit Cabinet by Paul Quarrington - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Quarrington
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eyes not out of ecstasy, but as an aid to memory. Even so, he’d bog down halfway through any piece, allowing his fingers to drop from the keyboard, slumping forward and sighing, as though to continue would be more than the soul could bear.
At which point Anna Thielmann would enter the room, dressed as one of the great heroines from grand opera. She would take all roles, soprana, mezzo, alto; it made little difference to her. She was not focused on such niceties as pitch and tone; her accent was more on the dramatic. Although she might begin by standing erect with her fingers locked in front of her bosom, it wasn’t long before she started drifting through her little crowd, staring deeply into eyes, caressing cheeks, pulling on forelocks. Soon she would take advantage of any purely musical interlude to kiss a listener or two, undo shirt buttons, perhaps even thrum a crotch. Of course, this was just for the love songs, the arias that dealt with romance and the stirrings of the heart. If tragedy were invoked, Anna would reel throughout the room, bouncing off walls, tears spilling over the ridges of muscle that formed her face. Her Tosca, Rudolfo remembered, was especially effective; when she heard the shots that meant that Cavaradossi had been shot—damn that Scarpia—she would wail and keel over backwards, landing with a thud that shook plaster dust out of the ceiling.
Some years before, when young Albert Einstein, an employee of the Swiss patent office, had lived at Kramgasse 49, he had alreadylargely worked out the Theory of Relativity, bickering about it with his wife, Mileva, over the breakfast table. A tall reading stand stood in the corner as testament to Einstein’s having lived there, although Anna, not given to reading, used it mostly as a place to dry her dainties.
Little Rudolfo had more second-hand contact with the previous tenant. In the quiet, dust-filled afternoons, Rudolfo prowled about the apartment. He was constantly finding pencil scratchings on the walls, formulae and brief exclamatory sentences. As a child, Rudolfo crawled about the place trying to make sense of these cryptic runes.
As a man, Rudolfo could still see the letters and numbers clearly when he closed his eyes. They remained a mystery.
Samson strutted into the cage, affecting an air of careless inquisitiveness, much like a janitor who has discovered the stockroom door left open. Seeing his master with another animal, he came to an abrupt halt, his head jerking back as if slapped. He recovered well, disdainfully squirting a stream of urine onto the sawdust. The albino leopard spied a sparkling ball, perhaps three feet in diameter, across the circle. He loped toward it, reached out and pulled the ball backwards with a huge paw. Throwing a glance toward Rudolfo and the panther (Rudolfo was on his feet, wiping sawdust from his dark blue bodysuit), Samson leapt on top of the globe. Unfortunately, it had been some time since he’d performed atop the gleaming ball. He was paddle-pawed and his joints were sore. Managing only a few clumsy minces, he rolled off sideways. He sought to regain some dignity by affecting a regal stance shortly before he hit, then there was a dull sound and a huge cloud of sawdust.
Rudolfo walked over to Samson, now pretending to be asleep, snoring with such conviction that his pale tongue curled and unfurled like a party favour. Rudolfo gave the beast a gentlenudge, saying, “Come on, Sammy. Let’s go see how big a mess Jurgen is making.”
Samson struggled up. He licked the back of Rudolfo’s hand and then made for the cage’s doorway. The panther roared at him, standing up and shaking his genitals. Without changing his gait, Samson contemptuously let loose another stream of urine. It was one of the few benefits of aging, the ability to summon piss at any time.
Rudolfo felt as guilty as a lover who has been caught humped over the wrong backside. While it was no secret that animals were being trained to
At which point Anna Thielmann would enter the room, dressed as one of the great heroines from grand opera. She would take all roles, soprana, mezzo, alto; it made little difference to her. She was not focused on such niceties as pitch and tone; her accent was more on the dramatic. Although she might begin by standing erect with her fingers locked in front of her bosom, it wasn’t long before she started drifting through her little crowd, staring deeply into eyes, caressing cheeks, pulling on forelocks. Soon she would take advantage of any purely musical interlude to kiss a listener or two, undo shirt buttons, perhaps even thrum a crotch. Of course, this was just for the love songs, the arias that dealt with romance and the stirrings of the heart. If tragedy were invoked, Anna would reel throughout the room, bouncing off walls, tears spilling over the ridges of muscle that formed her face. Her Tosca, Rudolfo remembered, was especially effective; when she heard the shots that meant that Cavaradossi had been shot—damn that Scarpia—she would wail and keel over backwards, landing with a thud that shook plaster dust out of the ceiling.
Some years before, when young Albert Einstein, an employee of the Swiss patent office, had lived at Kramgasse 49, he had alreadylargely worked out the Theory of Relativity, bickering about it with his wife, Mileva, over the breakfast table. A tall reading stand stood in the corner as testament to Einstein’s having lived there, although Anna, not given to reading, used it mostly as a place to dry her dainties.
Little Rudolfo had more second-hand contact with the previous tenant. In the quiet, dust-filled afternoons, Rudolfo prowled about the apartment. He was constantly finding pencil scratchings on the walls, formulae and brief exclamatory sentences. As a child, Rudolfo crawled about the place trying to make sense of these cryptic runes.
As a man, Rudolfo could still see the letters and numbers clearly when he closed his eyes. They remained a mystery.
Samson strutted into the cage, affecting an air of careless inquisitiveness, much like a janitor who has discovered the stockroom door left open. Seeing his master with another animal, he came to an abrupt halt, his head jerking back as if slapped. He recovered well, disdainfully squirting a stream of urine onto the sawdust. The albino leopard spied a sparkling ball, perhaps three feet in diameter, across the circle. He loped toward it, reached out and pulled the ball backwards with a huge paw. Throwing a glance toward Rudolfo and the panther (Rudolfo was on his feet, wiping sawdust from his dark blue bodysuit), Samson leapt on top of the globe. Unfortunately, it had been some time since he’d performed atop the gleaming ball. He was paddle-pawed and his joints were sore. Managing only a few clumsy minces, he rolled off sideways. He sought to regain some dignity by affecting a regal stance shortly before he hit, then there was a dull sound and a huge cloud of sawdust.
Rudolfo walked over to Samson, now pretending to be asleep, snoring with such conviction that his pale tongue curled and unfurled like a party favour. Rudolfo gave the beast a gentlenudge, saying, “Come on, Sammy. Let’s go see how big a mess Jurgen is making.”
Samson struggled up. He licked the back of Rudolfo’s hand and then made for the cage’s doorway. The panther roared at him, standing up and shaking his genitals. Without changing his gait, Samson contemptuously let loose another stream of urine. It was one of the few benefits of aging, the ability to summon piss at any time.
Rudolfo felt as guilty as a lover who has been caught humped over the wrong backside. While it was no secret that animals were being trained to
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