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    The imagined room

Sandra was playing. In the soundproof room, sitting at the pianoforte, the hands were gliding on the silky keys without losing rhythm nor concentration. She didn’t need to read the score: every note of every sonata was a secret that was enclosed inside her soul and implored to be revealed. Sandra closed her eyes, and her hands, creators and beneficiary of that revelation, danced.

Then the first light of day came, and Sandra woke up at the sound of an old alarm clock that only a light slap could make it shut up. That was her morning protest, followed by a lazy tossing and turning in the bed, vainly trying to hold on on the interrupted dream.

When Sandra let it go, her black eyes had already adjusted to the real world and the woman swallowed its few crumbs with a sigh: the usual rotten flavour immediately invaded her stomach.

Her hands danced no more on the silky keys, but prepared breakfast, cleaned the house, hold shopping bags, drove the car, and cooked lunch.

In the afternoon, after having washed the dishes, her hands transformed into the impartial judge that resolved disputes between the two brothers, granted again to the cures of their mother after school.

In the evening it all repeated again, with the unsatisfying variation of a kiss and a question: "How are you?".

Husband and children dispersed in the house, seeking refuge in the living room and in the bedrooms, and leaving Sandra alone in the small kitchen of the flat. Confused voices on TV and children laughters came to her ears while the sound of the water caressed her hands, now chapped and rough, hands that hadn’t touched the keys of a piano for years.

A feeling of dejection pervaded Sandra: she tried to imagine herself in the soundproof room with the music in her body and the hands dancing along.

"Mum, Stefano has stolen my car!", shouted Marco, ruthlessly breaking the silence of an imaginary room.

"Tell you father", tiredly answered Sandra, still washing the dishes.

"Dad said to me to tell you!", protested Marco impatiently.

Sandra closed her eyes and sentenced: "Tell your father that this time it’s him who will resolve the matter."

Her voice trembled, and Sandra struggled to remain calm. The child look at her perplexed, then ran away shouting his father’s name.

"And tell him I don’t want to be disturbed", murmured Sandra. "I’m in my room, with my piano. I don’t want to be disturbed."

 

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Written by Shiningarden and translated from the Italian by Marta, 04th May 2009

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