PUCCINI
PUCCINIHE-Puccini, score of happiness, promise of passion. She, in love with his enigmatic look, in a face full of hidden labyrinths, mysterious and incapacitating like Beethoven's symphony. She could not imagine herself without him, she was a wave flowing around the keyboard of his body.
He extracted previously unknown sounds from her, in his strong hands she became an instrument of harmony and delight.
He sang her arias of Verdi and Puccini, painted fiery Pegasus heads, recited Mickiewicz, dreamed dreams.
'I'll plant a tree, build a house for our son, and you'll be with me because I want to. No one will ever love you like I do. You must be mine, immediately, do not say no.
Honey,I’m sorry.I can’t fall asleep without you,I will help you with your fears.Never leave me, I’ll kill myself if you leave…I’m your ticket to life.
She was afraid of that raised voice then and impetuosity, but she knew it was the biggest confession of love.After attack of aggresion, he suddenly began to embrace her tenderly, They made love hidden behind jasmine bushes.
She has never experienced such ecstasy and caresses again.
-Kitty, do not run away from me, you will always be mine.
Puccini's voice still she hears in her dream.
HE-musical genius, wrote, composed, recorded records. He made a career, he was invited to congresses and conferences, toured in Berlin, Paris and Manhattan with outstanding artists. He did not allow her into his world. SHE- always supported him, took care of the house, made delicious dinners, washed, ironed, cared for all the prose of life. She didn’t even have time to watch film and read favourite book. She stopped taking care of herself.She explained to herself, that at home without Puccini she doesn’t have to look nice anymore. Three rooms with kitchen was now her world. She began to get used to the role of a housewife. After all, she was married to a famous musician. Her hands hurt from cleaning and carrying shopping. She felt like a bird in a cage created by her idol.
HE-liked to spend money going out at night to pubs, started playing in the casino. Before wedding he had no attraction to alcohol. He said that after a glass he composes better. They drift apart more and more.It seemed to her that he had someone.He no longer showed such a desire for sex,he became abrasive and inaccesible. He said that she no longer met his expectations. And then a third child appeared. She hoped he would love her more. But it was even worse. He would come home late at night. She knew that he had a mistress, but with her he probably wasn't happy either. He was looking for more and more delights in the stimulants and strange company, but they gave only emptiness, which drove him crazy.
SHE-oversensitive, perfect, her husband’s loving secretary-she took care of the children and sick mother.Ties with friends loosened, there was no time for meetings. She closed herself in the house.He took over her completely.True, he was impetuous and violent, sometimes after a glass he even hit her, but it’s nothing, bacause he knew how to love her. She must replace his family, which he never had, forgive small offense and asssure of her love.She will be an even better lover and mother.Or maybe he stopped liking it, he found a younger and prettier one? The harder she tried, the more Puccini became a stranger and cold as Bach cantata. He said that he wanted someting more from life.He is a musician, he can’t go to work every day in a suit and sit behind a desk, That would destroy him.She felt anger, humiliation and shame. She always forgave and excused him.She wanted to run,but she had nowhere to go.She was suffocating in the perfect world of Puccini’s music.
One day she read in a newspaper about a literary competition. The prize for the best story was a trip to Sopot. She never saw the sea as an embodiment of freedom for her.
-I want to take part in this competition and leave, then everything will be as it used to be.
-You won't go anywhere. Your place is at home. And who will take care of the children? I have no intention of taking care of your sick mother. I'm an artist. You won't make me a housewife.
He came out and slammed the door.
SHE-slowly unpacked her suitcases and spiced up dinner with tears...
Short story by Anna Banasiak
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Editors' choiceWritten on 2023-07-09 at 09:42
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