THE STRUGA PIANO
I knew him personally and all those
articles about him in the newspapers had absolutely nothing to do with the
truth. I also know the director of the Struga House of Culture, Krste
Chachanski, and the director of the Museum of the City of Skopje, Gorgi
Chulakovski; and I know the president of SOKOM, Stojan Stojkov, as well as
the representative from the Ministry of Culture (Valentin Inachkov), who
intervened with the Minister of Culture, Ganka Samoilovska Cvetanova--whom
I also know--about the sorting out of the documents and the written support
to SOKOM... I know them all and could not but wonder that they would put so
much effort into something which was, in fact, non existent. The piano, as
only a few know, on which I performed twenty-one years ago at the Struga
Autumn Music Festival and which had been brought, especially for me, from
Skopje to Struga, was taken back immediately after my concert. It might not
have been taken to exactly the same place as it had been taken from, but in
view of the dispute about its transfer from Struga, from the small room
where, hidden from the eyes of the world, it is allegedly kept by Krste
Chachanski, what is relevant is only that the piano is not there, in the
small room, nor is it anywhere in that town (as just a few know!), and
yet—the town authorities and, primarily, Krste Chachanski, will not give it
up. I was sure and could have confirmed most responsibly, that for
twenty-one years now—which is just as long as I haven't even whistled, not
to speak of playing any instrument—the piano has never been in Krste
Chachanski's small room, nor anywhere in Struga. So, a dispute was going on
about something which was not there, and the Struga people refused to give
up what they did not have. And that is why it is to no purpose that Krste
Chachanski always carries the keys of the secret little room with him, for
they can neither lock nor unlock anything but that nothing.
"The Petroff piano which SOKOM was trying to return to
Skopje last month is still in the House of Culture in Struga," reported
"Vecher," and I read it and wondered what made the journalist, by-lined as
A. Dimoska, so certain about a question which had so transparently left
reality that one could almost hear the bang of the door closing between
reality and fiction. "In spite of the document proving ownership and the
support of the Ministry of Culture, SOKOM has failed in this latest attempt
to recover the instrument. According to SOKOM president Stojan Stojkov, the
director of the House of Culture, Krste Chachanski, refused to hand over
the piano, and would not allow the SOKOM representatives to even as much as
see what condition the piano was in. SOKOM claim that the piano has been
neglected, stored in some room and almost never used. Just as a reminder,
the piano was taken to Struga some twenty years ago, for the Struga Autumn
Music Festival, but since it is rarely used there, SOKOM is claiming
it back, to be used at the concerts they organize." Everything had been
neatly woven in. All it needed for complete precision was my name.
The Minister, the SOKOM president, Valentin Inachkov and the
aforesaid A. Dimoska cannot know the details surrounding this business, for
twenty years ago they were all, if not children, then certainly too young
to be interested in pianos, musical autumns, loves and unbecoming
reactions. But Chachanski, Chachanski really puzzles me, not because he's
the oldest of them all and therefore remembers further back than they do,
but because, I am sure, that on that fatal night he was not only present at
my concert, but also caught me and the professor at that one and only
moment when Fate wields its axe. Therefore, I truly wondered why he should
so persistently hold by his refusal to give up something he does not have.
All that night the piano was unreservedly on my side giving
of its best to transform my music into a secret message to my professor,
that what he had on his hands was, after all, a genuine talent. Both I and
the piano were nearly carried away, and just when we thought the music had
succeeded in conveying all things public and secret to the professor, he
approached us, leaned on the piano and said to me: "In my whole life, I
have never heard a worse performance. You are hopeless."
The Petroff piano sided with me, and all the time I was
distractedly caressing its shining wood I could feel it promising that
sooner or later it would take its revenge on the professor for the pain he
caused me and which predetermined, now I know it with certainty, my whole
life. My poor instrument, it was hurt even worse than I was, for over the
years I understood that the emotional foundations are far more important
than whether or not one has a real bond with a being not coming from the
sphere of reality, but still, I have to admit, I was terribly flattered by
its devotion to me. Not to my music, but to me personally, for, to be
honest, it seems that I have never been particularly gifted, which means
that the weakness the piano felt for me could not have been based on that,
but was of quite a different nature... Afterwards I cried, I told the
professor that I didn't care for music, for the piano—I hope it will
forgive me, my poor and only friend—and that all I ever wanted was to be by
him, and since music was the only legitimate chance to achieve that, I had
played for hours, days, months and years, not because I understood the
music, but simply to send him my obsessive love packed within it. The
Professor said nothing, reacted in no way, and only in the most secret part
of his left eye I detected a hesitation concerning whether to kiss me or to
smack me. Twenty-one years after that event and almost ten years after his
departure from this world, I know for sure that he loved me too, but he was
the kind of person who prefers things to run their normal and spontaneous
course and loathes all those who see the future as an apple which can be
picked at any moment. With fierce strength he kicked the friend whom I knew
so well and who was always on my side, and then started beating it with his
fists, with his elbows, knocking it over onto the marble floor, and a
terrible jolt echoed through the empty and deserted House of
Culture—actually we thought it was empty and deserted, because it was long
after the concert had ended and the visitors had all gone. It was at that
moment that Krste Chachanski's bewildered head appeared at the door, and,
as Fate raised its axe to strike us with all its force, he shot a
penetrating glance around the room and then was gone. I don't know if the
professor saw him at all, for he was delirious and kissing my hands for a
long time, especially the fingers, and it seemed to me that he listened
with unseen passion to the music pouring out of my heart. Then he went
away, leaving me with my broken friend.
Just as all good writers find out about other people's
stories faster than about their own, so did Krste Chachanski managed, by
channels unknown, mysterious and unbelievable, to construct, based on that
one and only flash, our whole life story, mine and that of the professor;
to find out and to understand and to try to cover up for us by pretending
that he would not give back the piano. This should not seem illogical to
you, for compared to a writer's memory, the twenty-one years which separate
us from this event is not such a long time. He did not know then the
purpose for which he remembered our drama, but be that as it may, life has
put him in the position of director of this very House of Culture and he
probably thought that he could hush up the secret of others by locking it,
and carrying the key in his pocket everywhere he went. He could not let the
people from SOKOM, or anybody else, somewhere see something which was not
there, for if he did he would have to stop being a writer and be something
else which, considering his age and the value of his work, would be good
neither for him nor for contemporary Macedonian literature in general.
Defending the room which everyone believes holds the piano, Krste
Chachanski was in fact defending his works and the literature he has given
himself to entirely. What would it look like if he let those people see the
piano, when it's not there? Imagination, pure fiction, and Chachanski,
though a master of such things in his writing, in reality acts according to
precisely stipulated rules, meaning: if you want to protect somebody's
truth, you should let nobody see it. The professor was a very famous
person, and it was not difficult for him to organize the return of the
piano to Skopje, early next morning. Some men came, collected the
disfigured instrument with blank faces as if it was a normal Petroff,
loaded it onto the truck, and off they went. He left with them, with not
one look at me. My music, loaded in his memory, left me for ever.
For twenty-one years nobody asked a single thing about me, or
the piano. I knew it had not been taken to Skopje, at least not to where it
came from, but I do not know how the Struga people managed to convince
themselves that it had remained there.
I asked Stojan Stojkov on the telephone what was going on
with the Struga piano, how much longer the articles in the newspapers would
go on, and he said:
"I don't know what to tell you... We provided a special
vehicle to transport the instrument, we allotted finances to move it to
Skopje, but it was all in vain, since the director of the House of Culture
refused to give us the piano, in spite of our submitting all the proper
documents.
"The piano is not there," I say. "How can he give it to you?"
"How can he give it to us? Now we've made this arrangement
with Gorgi Chulakovski to renovate the hall. It's been used so far for
concerts, and in the future it'll be used for chamber music, with concerts
organized by SOKOM, and by other concert agencies in the city too.
"The piano is not there," I said.
"Where?"
"It's not in Struga."
"I don't believe that Chachanski would have gone so far as to
move the piano to some other, secret place. And what use could it be to
him, anyway? He's a writer, not a musician!"
For days I had been preparing myself mentally to call Krste
Chachanski and ask him how long he intended to hide the truth about the
nothing locked in the small room in the House of Culture, and eventually
decided to go to Struga in person, for the first time in twenty-one years,
and see what I could make of my own truth.
"You played wonderfully that night," said Chachanski as we
sat on the terrace of the Drim Hotel. "Why did you stop playing?... Did you
love him that much?"
"Yes."
"How much?" This is the writer asking, staring at me and
looking for the answer in the wrinkles around my eyes, which have just
started to grow dim.
"Twenty-one years and a few years before that. That much."
"Come with me," he says enigmatically, nearly dragging me to
the House of Culture. We cross the Drim and walk down the promenade towards
the building. I don't know what he wants to show me. I'm slightly
frightened that perhaps inside, in the hall, I will meet my pain, but no...
He takes me to the small room at the side, takes the key out of his pocket
and opens the door wide.
"Look," he says, showing me my one and only Petroff.
Wonderful, magnificent, shining, gorgeous... "I created it for you!"
"But how?" I wonder, distractedly caressing its shining wood.
"I made it out of words!" says he.
"But didn't the professor..."
"Hush!" Chachanski puts his finger to his lips and whispers:
"Don't mention him. You two have done enough for each other, now you
apologize to art."
A sat down to play, after twenty one years, but neither my
hands nor my fingers could move unless they were kissed by somebody.
"You are my best conceived character," says the writer, and
leaves me alone with my memories. He closes the door of the small room
behind him and, together with the piano, I become nothingness.
Translated by Ljubica Arsovska and Margaret Reid
