Silent Songs

There she sits, past the masses of thick hardbound books, past all the university students making use of the music library, at the far right corner staring out the window. Staring at the snow drifting down over the city, like a blanket of serenity. A slight body swaying to the notes. Crashing, melding into one, fingers moving like delicate dancers. Loud, then quiet. Happy, then sad again, filling the room with noise. Rich harmonious sound that grips the heart and holds on for eternity. The music keeps moving on like the sea, rushing in then out again. Holding so much inside the melody that nobody could ever know about.

It is Clara’s space, and everybody knows not to approach her. Nobody knows how old she is, nobody knows why she is here, nobody knows any of the secrets to her magnificent performances, but that she plays on, head held high, staring over the library’s upright piano out the window, watching the world outside go by.

It is midwinter, and now the snow is slowly floating past the library’s window, gently settling on the outer ledge. Still the girl sits and plays, not once looking down at her fingers, nor at her music score for there is none to read from. The girl just sits and plays and stares off into the distance. She was even caught once counting the snowflakes.

The only one who seems to know her is Richard, a famous lawyer with a firm downtown. Every day at precisely one thirty pm, he approaches the piano and gently coaxes her out of her position.

“Clara,” he whispers, “It’s time you ate. Your fingers will become cramped, and your body needs nourishment- eat.” He plants a kiss on her pale cheek, leaves a packed lunch on top of the piano and leaves, never once looking back.

Only once she hears the sleek library doors slam shut does the child slowly, meticulously take the sandwich out of its wrapper and begin eating, but not before she lets her eyes dart around the room- left and right, ever fearful of prying eyes.

It is a mystery, but one nobody is inclined to solve.

                                 *                 *                *

Clara gazes out the window. The snow has stopped and is now turning to wet slush. She notices the sky, now a shade of navy blue speckled with stars and realizes with a start. Her mom will be worried. She grabs the remainder of the lunch her father brought and sprints out of the building. Nobody has any time to question her presence and that is how she likes it. No interference, no well meaning people trying to meddle with her, just her and her dad.

As soon as Clara arrives home, the drama begins again.

“Clara! I’ve worried about you so much! Why do you stay out so long?”

Silence. Clara cannot reply to that question. Should she tell her mom she does not like being rushed for time? Should she tell her she cannot leave the library at four like all the students who use it, because then she may attract unwanted attention? Should she just smile sweetly and say “Oh, I was busy with a school assignment”?

None will do. She holds her piece.

“Clara, I’m your mother. I care about you, and I want to know where you’ve been these past few days. It’s not like you to stay longer at school.” Her mom’s eyes are trained on Clara now, beady searching eyes. Clara’s face flushes.

As an afterthought, her mother adds,

“Apart from which, I heard you’ve not turned up at school for a while now. Is that true?”

All Clara can muster is a whispered “Yes.”

“Why Clara? Why didn’t you tell me? Where have you been spending the school days?”

Again silence. There is nothing to say.

“Clara, is something bothering you at school?”

Her heart is full, bursting at the seams. She longs to tell her mother how it is all so unfair, how nobody understands her- not at school, not at home, not anywhere really. She longs to describe the serenity she finally feels while at the piano. Alone, with no one but herself and the music she is creating. She wants her mom to understand how at peace she is at the library, how she has never felt so at home in her life. How it provides a small amount of clarity in a world where nothing is certain and nothing is right. No words come out though, hard as she tries.

A strangled sob breaks the tension.

“Clara! Why won’t you talk to me? I try everything but you still won’t talk! I’m your mother! I want to understand you! I want to know you and show you I love you and shelter you and make sure you never get hurt again! Why won’t you let me?!” She bursts into tears.

                                 *                        *                          *

She has been speaking to the headmaster again. Clara knows it because a mini shipment of sensory equipment has arrived. A wry smile, then a full grin spreads over her thin face. If the house is equipped for a small army’s sensory needs she will no longer be pressured into going to school. She can spend all day at the library!

Clara is about to leave when her mother stops her.

“No Clara,” her voice sounds fake, slower than usual and vocabulary lowered to that of a two year old.

“No, today we shall have a great deal of fun at home! I’ve bought a new set of toys for you to play with!”

Her mother’s voice rings untrue even to her own ears, but being helpless she tags along into the living room. A cassette is playing with slow lullabies, a carpet has been rolled over the linoleum, and a ball of sensory lights is set up, bathing the room in calm hues that float around and change color. There is a spiky ball in the corner and a few other paraphernalia- a lava lamp, a few maracas and a pile of fluffy pillows near her. On the windowsill at the far end of the room- a book.

Clara inspects the book, and the title explains it all; Children with Autism and How We Can Help Them. Practical Techniques for Bringing the Autistic Child Out of His Shell, by Patricia Sander.

She runs out of the house faster than a race horse. All she knows is that yet again her mother has believed a view that is based on falsehoods. Once again her mother has listened to those who consider her different, of lower intelligence, of lower standing.

She runs.

 Passersby gawk at the girl pelting through the snow wearing no coat, running as if fleeing from some monster. She sprints along the icy streets, growing colder by the minute but not caring in the slightest. Clara runs faster, faster, speeding up until she is but a flash. There one minute, long gone the next. Down the road, around the corner, across a street. All wonder where the child is running, what, or who she is fleeing.

 She tears along, not feeling the slush and ice. She slips on the icy road a number of times, but does not feel any pain. Not the bruising, nor the grazes that have not yet been discovered on her knees. Still, she sprints, zooming past the urban scenery. Closer and closer to the music library, further and further from the real world. The world where people reside, judging one and all. The world where she feels nobody will ever understand a child like Clara. A world where people like Clara are treated as if they have some sort of psychiatric disease.

She runs, closer and closer to paradise. Closer and closer to the haven she knows, loves and belongs to. Clara does not slow down- to the contrary; she speeds up faster than ever, barreling through the swinging glass doors of the library, making a beeline for that piano at the corner. Clara’s private dance floor.

Finally, she collapses onto the piano stool and begins playing. Stronger, louder, more forceful than ever. Why can nobody understand? Why does everything have to be so complicated, so tough, so lonely? Clara lets her fingers go loose. They begin dancing as if of their own accord- slowly, gracefully- even royally. A slow waltz step wanders up and down the piano keys, steadily gaining momentum. It starts quietly. Slowly, artistically, trance like, becoming gradually louder. So slowly she does not notice the change in dynamics, she does not notice her fingers dance faster, more vigorously, emphatically now.

Her fingers dance, run, jump, in perfectly synchronized motion. This is where Clara feels best, this is where her fingers are set free from society’s shackles, this is where she can just be. The simple tune soon turns into a complex symphony, combining childish innocence with the painful truths of life.

Academics making use of the library have silently gathered, ogling the child prodigy playing music never heard before, with no music score. Furthermore, the child performs at a level nobody has played at since the days of Mozart. Still, Clara goes on. Dancing, soaring, flying along the keys.

The music, though in essence played on the piano, has a complexity and as many separate components as if a full orchestra were playing. Melodies and harmonies blend, painfully raw yet retaining the underlying optimism of the background melody.

Slowly, the background accompaniment melds into the foreground, gently coaxing the music into a more positive light. Still the music plays on and still more people crowd around watching the sight, silenced by the awesomeness of the moment. Clara is in a world of her own now and her hands play tricks with the keys, producing still more intricate patterns of sound, an exquisite tapestry of operatic genius slowly unfurling on the library’s piano. 

Out of the blue, a tap on her shoulder.

 Startled, Clara slams the piano lid shut, pushes her way through the crowds and begins to stride out. She does not know why there are so many people milling about, their eyes following her every move, but she does not care to know. As she desperately tried to move out, a strong yet gentle hand grips her shoulder. Holding her back, yet caressing at the same time.

She has been forced to stop, but does not dare turn around.

“That was beautiful Clara. Have you always played like that? I… didn’t know.” She seems at a loss.

Help.

All color drains from Clara’s face and she feels the ground give way beneath her feet. Clara struggles to retain her balance. It is her mom, and she has been found out.

“Clara, you play like a legend. Why didn’t you tell me you can play so well? Why didn’t you play for the school orchestra? One does exist, you know. I thought you didn’t want to, or didn’t have the talent. I didn’t know… Why didn’t you ever talk to me?”

Her mother peers through her spectacles, her eyes two pools of undisguised pain. A messy pile of pain and love mixed together- A contradiction, yet no contradiction. Clara can do nothing but gaze back at those eyes. She has never noticed them before, always thinking her mother was like the rest of humanity- always judging, never appreciating and always criticizing. Only now does she notice that she has never told her mom about her world. The world she lives in. She has never even tried, and now she has hurt the person she loves most.

The tears fall fast and furious as she is overcome by guilt. Her mom is here for her, wants to understand, but has never been given a chance. She has not been isolated by her loved ones but has isolated herself.

Lost in the moment Clara leans forward into her mother’s embrace. The mother she has never known. Not for lack of wanting, not for lack of love, but for lack of noticing things. She feels her mother’s chest rise and fall underneath her cheek, pumping blood through her mom’s veins and now that she notices it, through hers as well.

She takes her mother’s hand and begins to walk. Together. It feels like a dance, a slow dance that goes to a folk tune. a special one that belongs only to Clara and her mother. It is reverent, almost a holy song, hymn like.

This time instead of dissonant chords and irregular time divisions, Clara begins to hear a beautiful melody. Slow at first and quiet, it swells and rises until it reaches a crescendo. But then the music slowly quietens again, until it ends on a major key somewhere in the middle of the keyboard range, neither loud nor quiet.

She is not able to make sense of the situation, but she does not have to at that moment, because her mother speaks.

“Clara.”

This is all that is needed now.

The silence speaks louder than words ever can and for once Clara’s mother understands her daughter’s silence. There is so much in that quiet that can never be spoken to the same effect. The stillness is expressing what cannot be said between mother and daughter. Suddenly it seems far more valuable and sentimental to remain quiet. From the stillness Clara opens her mouth in a hoarse whisper.

“Mozart used to say the music is not in the notes, but in the silence in between.”

Clara’s first sentence to her mother. Nothing long, nothing big, but a start.

A tentative step onto the frozen surface of the world. A step into an unforgiving world knowing full well that it is unfeeling, cold, cruel, but still knowing that to skate, to dance into the night first one must step onto the cold, hard ice.

Clara does not know how to skate but she knows that if she tries now, one of two things can happen- either she’ll learn to skate, dance along the ice and navigate its curves, fly on well deserved euphoria, or the ice will melt heralding the spring warmth.