[Goanet-News] Goanet Reader :: Short Story :: Dalmira's Home ... (Belinda Willard, Tivim)

[Goanet Reader]

DALMIRA'S HOME: IN THE SONATA OF CHANGE

By Belinda Willard
willflo711 at hotmail.com

It was the third house Caitan was looking at that day. The
door opened ten minutes after he knocked.

"Good afternoon, Dalmira," he said.

"Yessss," she hissed, "And who are you? Knocking my door down
in the middle of the afternoon like a veritable hurricane."

"I'm sorry madam, but I'm Caitan, the real estate agent,
remember? I called on you yesterday."

"Nonsense! I'd have remembered you if you had come yesterday,
bunch of crawling mice you estate agents are, creeping all
over my house when ever you please."

"May I come in?" he asked politely.

          "No, you don't. You wait until I tell you to. I'm
          not ready to receive you yet and shut the gate,
          will you? I don't like estate agents and goats
          strolling over my property," she said going into
          the house and closing the door behind her.

Caitan stood there bewildered and confused, even more so when
he looked at the gate which was wide open, when he distinctly
remembers having shut it as soon as he entered.

He heard her voice coming in through the closed door.

"Called on me yesterday he says as if I would not remember a
face like that. Then he leaves the gate wide open,
insensitive little man. Calls himself Caitan."

He stood a long time in the balcao of Casa Dalmira, waiting
for her to open the door again. The sunlight came in filtered
and mellow through the mother of pearl sheets that lined the
balcony. She finally opened the door.

"You may come in now, young man," she said, showing him the
way. "Sit down, no not on that chair," she said patting it
gently, "That's my husband's chair." And her voice took on a
gentle tone.

"You have a very beautiful house," he said feeling sure that
the statement would please her.

"I know," she said in a tone of voice that would curdle milk.

"So your husband and you wish to sell this place?" Caitan
asked timidly.

"I wish to sell, my husband died ten years ago."

"What about your children?"

"I have no children! What has it to do with you anyway?"

"Sorry I did not mean to be snoopy but I just wanted to know
if the titles are clear."

"Every thing is clear and the papers are in order." She said
walking to the grand piano near the window, wiping off a
speck of dust.

"Your house is really spotless, you have a maid that comes in
and helps you with your chores, I guess."

"Wrong guess, young man. I live alone and do my own chores. I
never believed in outside help. Now would you like to come
and look around at the house?"

"Yes that would be nice," Caitan said scrambling to his feet.

"This house, I guess you've noticed, is a Portuguese house,
built by my grandfather over a hundred years ago. This is the
drawing room or the living room, which opens into this
passage," she said lifting the off-white brocade curtain high
enough for him to pass so that he would do so without
touching it. "There are two bedrooms on the right of the
passage and two on the left. This is the master bedroom," she
said walking in.

>From the corner of his eye he saw the curtain of the next
bedroom gather up in the center ever so slightly. He turned
around and the curtain dropped back into place.

The tour of the house complete, they walked back into the
drawing room.

"You may leave now, I have a lot of work to do. What did you
say your name was? Oh yes! Caitan. Please inform me in
advance before you bring any one to see my house."

"There is a couple that would like to come and see your
place tomorrow," Caitan said timidly.

"Are they Catholic?" Dalmira asked.

"Yes they are"

"Good, then let them come, see that they are here by 6 p.m.
sharp tomorrow."

Dalmira stood in the balcao and watched him shut the gate and
walk down the deserted road until he disappeared into the
avenue of trees. When he was gone she slid into the rocking
chair that stood in the balcao, her thin long legs stretched
out, casting distorted shadows. She rested her head on the
back of the chair and looked up at the teak wood beams on the
high ceiling that the white ants had begun to invade. Tears
filled her faded gray eyes and spilled down her pale hollow cheeks.

"I know I promised to keep this house standing for you but
it's hard, it's too hard. I can't do this any longer," she sighed

Outside the first drift of the monsoon winds blew from the
Arabian Sea and the rusting palm leaves shuffled in the
impending darkness.

Is this the house, Smeera wondered as she stood at the gate,
then she saw the name 'Casa Dalmira' almost hidden between
the boughs laden with pink and white Bougainvillea. The house
itself was hidden from view behind a canopy of trees. The
door opened even before she placed her fingers on the brass
knocker.

          "Oh, it's you, nice of you to come again," Dalmira
          said putting her arm around Smeera as they walked
          together into the drawing room. Smeera looked
          confused.

"I've never been here before," she said.

"Of course you have, you came here last week to take a look
at my house. I remember you. You were wearing this same
pullover, could not forget this gray and blue combination. I
had knitted a pullover exactly like this for my sister Dina a
long time ago. She died three years ago, the poor girl. Right
in the middle of the monsoons it was. Thunder and lightning
and the wind from the sea. She went out to draw water from
the well, stepped on a loose stone and fell in. Died on the
spot. But why am I telling you all this? You've come back
because you like my house. You think it's beautiful, don't
you?"

Smeera nodded.

"Yes it's a very beautiful house. I'd like my husband to see
it too. Is it okay if I bring him over tomorrow?"

"Sure you can, but come, let us take a walk in the garden,"
she said leading Smeera by the hand. It was nearly sundown
and an orange glow filled the evening. It must have been high
tide because the sound of the waves tumbled over the coconut
groves reaching the hard cold stone bench where they sat.

Dalmira's mind began to wander over the years, it must have
been the gray and blue pullover that muzzled memories.

"My sister Dina and I were born in this house. We had no
brothers so my father made us promise that we would continue
to live in this house even after we were married and keep it
standing for him always. I married.  Dina did not. We
continued to live under one roof."

"Those were happy days. Some times when I close my eyes I can
almost hear the laughter and the voices again. You must have
noticed the grand piano in the living room. That was Dina's.
My father got it for her on her seventh birthday. All evening
the house would resound with the sonatas that she played. I
had no ear for music, so I could never play, hard as I tried."

"They all went one by one. First mother, then father, then my
husband. Last of all Dina.  I did not expect her to go, she
was my little sister and we thought we would always be around
for each other, helping to keep the house standing for dad.
They all went away around this time of the year. It's the
monsoons that took them away."

She rambled on, like she was seeing it all happen again.

Smeera hugged herself and shivered as darkness descended upon
them and the cold icy wind blew from the west. She licked her
lips and tasted the salt of the sea.

"Have you ever witnessed the monsoons in these parts?" she
asked, without waiting for an answer she went on. "It's
beautiful and awesome at the same time. It will be on us any
day now. You can tell from the texture of the wind, the smell
of the earth and the anger of the sea."

"Your house is one of the most beautiful houses I've seen so
far. I love the place." Smeera told her.

"That's all I want," she said "The price I get is not
important to me, but I want some one who loves this place to
take it. Then I'm sure they will keep it standing the way
Dina and I did. The real estate agents, they are the ones I
do not trust. Always saying they will get me a good price
only so that they will be able to make their sordid 2% on the
sale."

A blue moon looked down on them between the leaves of the
coconut palms. From where Smeera sat, she could see the
vegetable garden and the well and the figure of a woman
drawing water at the well. Or perhaps it was the shadow of a
tree that swayed a little as the night wind blew. Smeera
stood up. It was time to leave. They walked together to the
gate.

"Good bye Dina." Dalmira said. And Smeera's blood ran cold.

Smeera told her husband about the beautiful house that she
had seen and the strange but lonely lady. "You've got to come
and see it tomorrow. I've told the lady we are coming."

"Don't you think a house of that size will be too big for
us?" he asked but Smeera was adamant.

It was past 6.30 p.m. They were late.

"It's awesome," Smeera's husband said, as they stood before
the sprawling mansion.  There was no one around and the front
door was closed. The house vibrated with the sound of Sonata
in D Major that came from the pit of the grand piano. They
knocked several times, the knocker thudding on the large
oaken door. No one opened the door and the sonata filled the
evening.

"Maybe the back door is open," Smeera said, "let's go through
the back and see if we can find Dalmira."

They went by the garden path that Smeera and Dalmira had
walked through the previous evening. The same figure of a
woman stood at the well drawing water.

"Is that Dalmira at the well?" Smeera's husband asked.

"No, Dalmira is much taller and has straight white hair
that just about covers her ears."

"Let's ask her, may be she will know where Dalmira is."

They walked towards the well but the woman did not turn
around. She had short curly hair but was much shorter than
Dalmira.

"Hello!" Smeera said. The woman did not turn around.

"We are looking for Dalmira," Smeera's husband said.

When she heard his voice, the woman slowly began to turn
around. She did so by degrees until she faced them.

What looked at them was not a face. All they saw was a gaping
hole through which the stars in the night sky shimmered.

The sonata played on.

In the dark balcony a rocking chair had stopped rocking.
Dalmira's blank eyes wide with death stared out at another
monsoon night.

ENDS

The writer lives in Bodiem, Tivim.

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