Between the two.
 

The name is Jack. Jack Antherm, that is my name. They told me to write my story so I could get a better understanding of what happened. I do not believe them, but, still, this has to be written, for words may alleviate the terrible weight of this unlit and shadowy past.I used to work in a bank, the prestigious England National Bank, as an accountant. I was 35 years old at that time, and I had been working in that bank for almost ten years.  Even though working with figures was not the kind of work I longed for, I was a very stringent and precise accountant. I have to talk to you about the girl who worked beside my office. She always smiled at me when I entered the bank, always fussily on time, seeing me through the window of her small office next to mine. Her name’s Suzan. And I liked Suzan. Suzan used to take a certain pleasure tantalizing me, blaming me for eating my cookies so steadily. I’m sure she was jealous of my tall, slim, even skinny, silouhette, despite my five packs of cookies a day.  Anyway I liked very much eating my cookies, for some reason it made me feel less anxious. She also used to make fun of my habit of rummaging surreptitiously , at the end of the day, all the bins of the floor so as to enrich my stamps’ assemblage. I found it so fascinating to discover new ones, news colors, new shapes.  Any way, it’s our secret with Suzan, she doesn’t talk about it to the others, and she often put aside for me special stamps that she finds on the huge amount of letters she opens every day. She is a secretary, in case you didn’t get it. I enjoyed very much walking back home, passing through the huge park that stretched out from the 5th to the 10th ; I lived straight after the 12th, and, when I was in the mood, I enjoyed exploring some of the numerous little streets that abound close to those avenues. 

That’s where I’ve found this thing that changed my life. 

I can remember it was  a very warm, stifling and hard summer day. Working under that heat was very tiring ;  a real martyrdom.  September was beginning, though the streets were still so warm. Outside, I can remember a peculiar smell, like a smell of burning.The work had been humdrum, as usual. Suzan had given me a swedish stamp that I didn’t have, and that was a pure joy to me. I had decided to walk back home. It was not so late, around 7 p.m., and I had no hurry to be home. The atmosphere was dense, but, oddly, I was walking with a spring in my step. That day, in the park, the beauty of the huge lake surrounded with high poplar trees, struck me.  Passing through the little forest was even more charming to me. A few instants later, I was walking through the 11th and, as usual, I took to the little streets in the direction of my little appartment.  The street I aimed at was rather empty ; that emptiness remained in my mind for long. Suddenly, a violent storm broke out and it began to rain heavily. I hardly could see what was in front of me. I didn’t want to soak my suit, so I started to look, blinded, for a shelter. A humble dwelling place, almost tumbledowned I believed, appeared suddenly. Some kind of a large green door. Open. I came in. A small inner courtyard. Flowers. Powerful scents updated, brought out by the rain.  Behind those, in the corner, a closter that was sheltering a grand piano. In spite of the rain, I could hear a melody. It was one of a rare beauty ; a little melancholy. Keys that carry you along. I had the sensation of floating, of wandering in the air. The intensity was absolute and all my being was ascending, carried by this delightful music. I could fell the fierce beating of my heart, blooming and blossoming in my whole body. The man, a tall middle-aged distinguished man, was possessed as if he was playing with his blood. It made me think of my twin sister, Anna, who was a great singer, an opera singer. She was one of those individuals that fascinate you when talking about their passion, even more amazing was she when she was singing. A great artist. It was like entering into an other world. A world more intense, more deep, and also full of lightness. A grace. Her gift was divine. And i can remember that hearing a so much, a so powerful and harmonious melody going from, passing through, such a frail body was extraordinary.  She was a fantastic and subtle combination of power and fragility.  At the height of her success, she fell in love with a rich American. America was a dream to her, a marvelous land of freedom and completeness. He brought her to his home, in North Carolina. She never came back. That took place ten years ago. Since then, no news ; nothing. We, my parents and I, didn’t like that man for whom she was so much enamoured. He was a boor and coarse man. A slug on a rose…  No one could understand her strong attraction for that man. I keep hoping she’ll come back someday. She is probably dead. Anyway, it is like as if she were. Not in my memories, though.  

I ‘ll never would forget those instants of pure beauty and joy. A while after that enchantment, I felt exhausted and I fell in a deep sleep. 

Indeed that discovery acted as both a terrible and terrific shock to me. I was haunted by that music, by that melody coming from mysterious and enthralling lands.  I’ve undergone huge difficulties concentrating myself in the office, being an accountant. I couldn’t keep my mind and my body away from that music. It was above my strenght. All my being was aiming at the evening when, at last !, I’ll be experiencing this enchantment as a real life, as instants of grace. One should have tied me up to my desk to prevent me from going in that little tumbledown, to prevent me from drowning…  Nevertheless, each evening, I was there, near the pianist. I had the impression, only there, to be awake, fully awake, to be in life.  The rest was a dream, a continuous nightmare.

I started to eat no longer five, but six, then seven, packs of cookies a day. Suzan was worried about my health. If only she had known that, for the first time of my life, I knew exactly what it was, to live and breathe.  I couldn’t share with her that secret, which was getting a burden that made me more and more suffer while I was in my office. In response, the evening, i was ever more existing.  Every evening, I was there, a new world was dooming up. This was a delight to me, but also a source of terror.

The byzarre thing is that stamps didn’t interest me anymore. I started to pretend I was pleased when Suzan kindly kept giving me stamps, but, in truth, that kind of interest had completely gone, evaporated. I also deserted to my habit linked to the bins, from now on that was foolish and tasteless to me.  More unusual, i soon began to arrive late at work ; and i didn’t care much about it at that time.

The event of the beginning of September had been the most significant event of my life. There are only, in a man’s life, two or three events in which the real life appears- the rest of the time we evolve in a dream.  On the dull and almost colorless surface of the daily dream, a breach suddenly occurs- a breach that indicates your place, and a chance is given to you to enter in the life. Music was my breach. Each key had a color, and the shade was infinite. I was living from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. every day. Sometimes longer. 

A few weeks had gone by. I was increasingly fascinated by the music, and, consequently, my pain of not being there, next to the piano, was increasing more and more. 

One day, after an other lateness, my boss came into my office. « What’s going on with you Jack ? » – he said- « almost a decade you work with us, and for the first time, those last weeks, you’re making mistakes in your counts. You’re often late, and you lost your efficience. Suzan talked to me. She has also observed some important changes in your behaviour. You’re going wrong, Jack ! If you do not quickly pull yourself together ; in spite of all those successful past years and my sympathy for you ; you’ll have to leave our Bank Jack. There will be no more warning. » …

That’s when I started to fully realize the urgency of my situation.

Music had became an obsession to me, a tragic passion that was going to make me lose everything. I could not forget the virtuosity of the pianist, which, I knew it, was going to remain for ever in my heart, in my blood.  I cursed that evening of September, where my consciousness araised. But it was too late. No possibility to erase that past, that was making my present.  That pianist was demoniac to me. No one could play like he played. That intruder had to die. It became an evidence to me. 

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A few days later, the 13^th of November, the police department of London found the corpse of Jack Antherm, 35 years old, at his apartment.The body was laying on the back, close to a grand piano, a dagger through the heart.  

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            They told me it’ll make it. Everything becomes clear to me now. I’m going to rejoin the wonderful land of musicians now. For ever.