The mid-september was already near and with it - the new season of the Musical Theatre. At this time my Dad used to blow the trumpet all day long, orchestrate pianos in the break, sign scores and transcribe violin concertos for the trumpet under the compassionate look of my mother and the monotonous accompaniment of the sewing machine.
She didn't believe in the world career of the concerting actor. She wasn't sharing his illusions and doubted his genius, which he was taking calmly, dignified.
This fall the trumpet was covered with dust. The notes were resting in the folders and my father was throwing all his talent and strength on the sideboard.
He was so mad about his work, that at one moment he began to look like a buffet himself: he was just as silent, imposing, distant and alien. Not from this world. It seemed to me, that he had forgotten the final goal: what's the point of what he's doing, in fact why is he doing it, what will come out in the end? He was making a buffet because of the buffet itself, with pathological dedication.
My mother sensed this moment too, but she misinterpreted it. The neighbours, who were burning with desire to witness the failure of my father, undertook counter-blow. They started to drop hints - like what's he doing, they would've done hundred buffets by now, looks like he wasn't making any buffet, who knows where he goes, all of a sudden he might have found some rich mistress, as handsome as he was!
The wives summoned their men again and began to throw sympathizing looks at my mother when waiting in the queues. When she opened a word about buffet they were silent, looking at her eyes with no expression, and when she turned her back, they muttered, covering their mouths with palms of their hands.
My mother began to drop plates. The remainders she sweeped with stone face. With her very eagerness she dropped the plates when my father was coming home from the basement of Georg Henih, tired and exhausted.
"Why don't you throw them straight through the window" - he suggested. "Why do you bother sweeping?
