They told my father not to travel because his heart was weak. A few days before leaving for Rome he gave us a scare. Luckily, I was at home, because Maria got very flustered; she was frightened when she saw he couldn’t even talk about the pain in his chest. And I leapt to the phone, an ambulance arrived, and we went to the clinic. He was back home two days later, but with very specific orders from the doctor, which he obviously ignored because they included not going on tour. The doctor told him he should drink, and that a few sips of whiskey in moments of high stress would do him good. I don’t like whiskey, said my father with a scowl. The doctor got a bit angry: Well, suit yourself, I can’t do anything more for you. My father zipped his lip and said no more. It seemed that the doctor had given up on him; it was as if he’d said, you can start ordering the custom coffin, because you won’t fit in a regular-sized one. I wish he had because later, we really did have problems finding one that was big enough.
He had been worried for some time—but, on the outside, he seemed the same as ever, Maria and I didn’t think much of it. But when he had that angina, Maria came to me and asked, tears streaming down her face: What are we going to do, Mark, how can we keep him from going on tour? We can’t, Maria, I said, shaking my head in resignation. Maria burst into tears. She was so loyal to him; that was why I insisted she had to come to this concert in Berlin, it was important that Maria come to commemorate that concert ten years ago here, on the eastern side of this city, with such a heavy past. That was the leitmotif of that whole tour: Karl T. had grown up in East Berlin, and it was very important that he return to do a concert there, once that the wall had been down for all those years. I tried to explain that to the maid, and I ended up saying: This whole tour is very important to him, but especially the concert in Berlin, and if he doesn’t do it, he’ll die from the disappointment. We looked at each other, and we understood each other without another word. Maria dried her tears. It was obvious that it was better he die doing what he wanted than staying home.
And that was what happened. My father did the concert in Berlin. As he was flying to Vienna alone, because the rest of the orchestra, singers, and soloists had taken another plane, he died. There was nothing anyone could do; he only suffered for the briefest second, and by the time the stewardesses realized, he was gone.
When they told me, I felt lost for many years. I mean, literally lost, because my father was my point of reference, the path I followed to reach some unknown destination in music and beyond music, since I had met him. I would have liked to have his austere lifestyle, cloak myself in that mysticism that impregnated his vocation and the rest of his life—if he had any other life, because my father lived for music.
But I’m different. I need to also live outside that world, and I need friends and I need a wife. A different wife; this one is smothering me. I think that tonight, when the concert is over, after she’s finished playing, I’m going to tell her it’s over. I’m fed up.
Maria heard me shout when I answered the phone, and she came running. Then she saw me crying and she heard me asking for details. With my eyes filled with tears, I moved the receiver away for a moment to tell her: He’s dead. She just stood there. For a few seconds, while the orchestra manager on the other end of the line explained what had happened, she didn’t move, her expression didn’t change, she didn’t even cry. Then she turned and vanished.