Chopin's Nocturne Opus 9 Number 1 was Edmond's favorite piece, my young pupil, and he often asked me to perform it for him. To my greatest happiness, sitting on the piano stool covered in burgundy velvet, I was playing; but music had never given me such a feeling.
Transported, I gradually detached my gaze from the score, closing my eyelids. I felt like I was on the run. Go. And yet my feet were firmly anchored in the oak parquet.
The piece finished, I could not yet make up my mind to open my eyes, savoring this curious feeling of belonging only to myself. Such an impression was only madness: never before had I been able to decide anything. It must be said that this was often the norm for us.
As if echoing my thoughts, I heard an applause; it was time to emerge, to come back to this reality over which I had no control. Turning my head towards Edmond, I noticed that the little boy had left his hands on his knees; the one who had applauded was a man, unknown, standing in the doorway of the living room.
Our eyes met. It was, I believe, the beginning of everything. Or it had started earlier when I was playing the piano.
My thoughts scrambled to try to understand, to describe, to feel, but none succeeded: the words did not form, because they were not mine. So slowly, I tried to let my voice speak. Mine, only. Trembling, I whispered; it was soft and fragile, in my image it seems.
She had to strain her ears to listen to my voice, and she did; so, gently, I asked him to let himself be guided. I owed him my being, my words, and every single gesture I made, but above all I would have liked to owe him love.
When she was done listening to me, I froze. It was a beautiful spring afternoon, and I could almost feel the rays of the sun shining through the large living room window on my skin. Sitting on this piano stool, I kept chanting to myself: "In May, do what you like". I had read this saying in the first chapters of the novel, and I had found it charming, without however imagining then that it could one day have so much meaning for me. Because in the books, the characters are not always masters of their destiny; it is necessary to manage to take its author by the hand for that. Succeed in training it with you.
That day, I took Elisa's hand. Leaning over her spiral notebook, I watched her write the beginning of a passion between this man and me. I did not know him, and it would only be over the lines that I would discover his first name, the sound of his voice, his habits; the taste of her kisses, and the softness of her hair. I couldn't help but love him. Was it written? Whatever: if it wasn't, it was.