Xem trong Thư phòng    Xem định dạng khác Xem định dạng khác    Xem Mục lục Xem Mục lục 

SÁCH AMAZON


Mua bản sách in

The day I returned to my new owner was a late winter day, late winter or mid-winter, it was cold, snow covered the road, drawing white lines all over the bare branches.

My new owner was a small girl, a bit skinny, with long hair and a very playful personality.

I had no regrets saying goodbye to my old owner to return to the little girl. I had changed owners many times in my life, and to each owner I was just a wooden instrument, an inanimate object. If they treated me with care, it was only because they were afraid of having to spend money to buy another instrument, they felt sorry for their wallets, not because they felt sorry for me. Some people get married because they love their wives, some get married because they need a woman, the difference between an artist and a painter is in that...

A long time ago, my owner wanted to sell me because I was old, ugly, useless, but he couldn't find a customer. Where are the old days, I was once young and beautiful, lying very seductively in a glass cabinet in a famous piano shop in Valencia, Spain. How many skillful hands came every day to hold me in their arms, to play the high and low notes, how many longing looks hovered back and forth in front of the shop, how many foreheads and noses pressed against the glass cabinet to admire my beauty. What is beauty if not firm skin, shiny paint and a resonant sound.

But let's not mention it again, it's no use adding to the suffering, everyone has a youth. Traveling from Spain to Paris, time has worn out both body and soul, each time it changes hands it is a price drop, from peseta to the book is still worth more than ten thousand francs (a fraudulent price). It is so humiliating, not to mention the bargaining, the collisions during the trip, what is left of me...

My new mistress is very poor, even poorer than all the previous owners. She lives in a dark attic, the whole room is not as big as a corner of the kitchen of the previous owners, if the light is not on during the day it is no different from night. But being poor but having a little soul is still better than being a bag of rice and a rack of clothes, selling affection on the black market, considering a guitar worth less than a piece of firewood. For them, a hundred-pound stick of firewood can cook a pot of rice.

To buy me, that girl had to sell some books, fast for several days on fruit and meat, and then ask for contributions for two months.

My old owner really wanted to get rid of me, but he had to get rid of me at a profit. What could be better than meeting a naive girl, using the excuse that I was a precious treasure brought from Spain, a descendant of the breed, not a vulgar one like the guitars made in France. Only when I put them up for sale to someone would I hear such compliments, but "who knows me better than me?..."

So that afternoon I followed the girl to her new home. To the previous owner, I was just an old, sickly guitar, my presence only made the house crowded, and no one paid any attention to me all day. Here I am a treasure, her number one lover.

Although there is a hawthorn zither in the house, when we meet, we are not jealous, angry, or cold like most ordinary lovers. Hawthorn is obedient and knows his place, he does not dare to ask for anything. It has been a long time since my master has hugged him, all his love is only for me. Every night I sleep next to her, every time she coughs a little, all my strings vibrate in unison.

I go with her to sing all day long.

There are nights when she comes home late, she trembles in fear and tries to act strong to avoid the curious looks of drunkards, madmen, and those who have forgotten their morals. There were nights when the streets were deserted, only the two of us were awake, I was her best friend, her guardian angel, and also her lifeline.

There were nights when we were cheered enthusiastically, she looked at me and smiled, a smile that contained all her emotions. On the contrary, there were nights when she met a wooden audience, who definitely did not understand, people came not to listen to music but to flirt with each other. She sadly sat alone on the "box" reserved for artists, she cried in my heart, her tears fell on my skin, creating stained dots. Are the tears of the rich and happy like that?

There were moments when she missed her homeland, her mother, she sang loudly with me, the words that came from her heart. Holding me tightly in her arms, her small hands tapped the keys to keep the rhythm, her fingers sparkling with the diamond ring commemorating her old mother who died without being able to see her. She sang without a song, were those just words spoken from her heart, a few rhythmic harmonies following.

Whoever saw us lovingly clinging to each other would not believe that it would be like that forever... But as for time, every minute that passed, how many people loved each other, how many people were apart, how many people were looking at their reflections in the mirror, plucking a gray hair, smoothing a wrinkle on the corner of their mouth... Me too, for more than a year now, there have been many days when I felt my body aching, my body felt like it was falling apart, the contours around my body were almost loose and the glue was about to come off.

On stage, I had tried to betray her because my keys were getting loose, I couldn't keep the right tone. Who can control time!

Time is truly terrifying...

Then one day, I still remember it clearly as if it were yesterday. As usual every morning, she was rehearsing with me when the phone rang. She was invited to sing at a concert. That summer was so hot, and it was far from Paris to the suburbs, so we had to go by train.

Neither of us wanted to go, but because of life, she couldn't refuse, so she had to accept. When we got to the station, we had to go a little further by car. We felt tired. The car was crowded, there were many musicians, and the organizers were not good at their job, so there were many shortcomings.

They put me on the roof of the car with other musical instruments. Usually, she never wanted to leave me, but today, perhaps it was fate that made it so. The car was going fast, and at a turn, I fell onto the road.

Why me, why not another drum, another cymbal... Now I still felt pain from body to soul, and that was it... That was it, I became a broken instrument, a cripple, a useless invalid. She hugged me, crying, trying to play a few notes, but there was nothing but a faint sound like the sound of clothes hanging outside the fence.

Everyone was bustling around asking her questions, they showed her how to fix it, they told her the address of a shop that specialized in selling illegal lutes. Some even offered to lend her the instrument so she could go on stage, but she refused.

The last time I played with her, it was her kind intention to let me greet the audience one last time. Knowing that my voice was gone, she had to come and whisper to the musician to follow her voice with the piano rhythm instead of me, thanking her for her delicacy but the more she thought about it, the more she felt sorry for herself.

Then the applause that day, did anyone hear, mixed with my sobs.

It's over... everything is over...

On the gloomy way back, gloomy like the future color of a broken piano.

Weeks passed, every time she came to hug me it was only to sigh, she never sang a whole song with me. She always sat at the desk calculating, numbers, plus and minus signs everywhere... for what?

One morning she came back from somewhere with another piano, brand new, shiny and pure. The piano was milky white, its sound was warm and sweet. I looked at her in pain, the diamond ring of memories had disappeared, no longer sparkling on her little finger, had she taken it or sold it?

If only she understood my heart, God! I know that I am unreasonable, she has to live, the guitar is an element of her life, why am I jealous. After all, she is just a human being, living among humans, she has to bow her head and obey the common laws of humanity.

Knowing that, how can I not be sad, the place where I usually lie is now the place of the new guitar, she is infatuated with him as she was once infatuated with me.

I have to admit that he is handsome, he is young and his voice is strangely warm, he is even more beautiful than I was in the past. Although I do not deny the truth, I cannot accept my fate like the Ha Uy guitar. I was once loved so passionately that the scene of being abandoned is even more painful. She put me on the cupboard to save space in the house, is this my last place to lie? Every day a layer of worldly dust is added to my body. Occasionally she looks up at me, says a few words of comfort, but for what? I want more, I want to resonate, I want to tremble in my arms, I want to be in harmony with her voice.

Those wishes today are just crazy thoughts that can never be realized. The third guitar has come to capture all the love in her heart, and I am just a broken guitar, a pile of rotten wood.

This afternoon is cold, just as cold as when we first met. I lay on the loft listening to her talking to a friend next to the fire.

- I'll probably burn this guitar, wait for the coldest night, I'll invite a few friends, or just one friend, to witness my burning of the guitar.

- Why do I have to burn it?

The friend asked again.

- I'm afraid he'll suffer every time he sees me holding the new guitar in my arms like I used to hold him.

- This girl has many strange ideas, why not just hang it up? One day when you get married, and when you are old and sick, your husband will also want to burn you, will you accept?

- You don't understand, but he will surely understand me. It's better to be glorious for a minute and then suddenly dark...

I sighed. My mind has been tense since then. Thinking of the moment when each piece of wood is set ablaze, I will try to let out a final cry of farewell.

Burn me, yes, please burn me. It's better to suffer extreme pain for a minute and then die than to have to watch my rival's voice echoing in someone's hands every day. We are not a table or a chair for people to lie on, to then when the frame breaks, to be thrown away in a corner and not be noticed. We are instruments with souls, with sounds, with tones... Especially me, who have loved and been loved...

Burn me so that I can end my life... Who knows, maybe we will meet again in the next life...

MĐHT

(Excerpt from the story collection "He")

» Tải file Word về máy » - In chương sách này

Tiếp tục nghe? 🎧

Bạn có muốn nghe tiếp từ phân đoạn đã dừng không?