The Song of Silence

By Leara Martell

What would you be willing to do if one day you awoke in a cell and discovered that you were the primary suspect in the murder of your husband?

Aida Lizaro’s life was perfect. A loving husband, a beautiful house, money, and the social status necessary to be someone. She had it all until one day she wakes up with no memory, locked behind bars, and with the only certainty being that she didn’t do it, regardless of how much the evidence insists on insinuating otherwise.

A prostitute, a nurse, and a child will be the ones to demolish and reconstruct the falsity of the Delvecchio marriage. Three witnesses to a life full of abuse, lies, facades, and pain. Three witnesses who will bring embarrassment and desperation to light.

What would you do to preserve your life and that of the people you love most if the rest of the world turned its back on you?

How many punches can be taken without screaming?

Her silence was Carlo Delvecchio’s greatest weapon and that gave Aida wings with which to fly. Love, passion, weakness, blood, and a beautiful background song about death and liberation. Months ago, when the music didn’t stop playing.

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“She has managed to deceive the reader in order to provide an ultimate surprise. The method and the ending are not gratuitous either, they are well-developed and it comes out well. As a debut it suggests a good start for this young novelist.” - Anika Lillo, Anika entre Libros

“Upon reading the grand finale I felt like getting up and applauding until my hands bled.” Edelia, Ex Libri

“Leara keeps us glued to the pages from the first act, eager to understand the entire mystery around the murder, with the certainty that it is a developed and gruesome plot.” - Daniel Ojeda, Fantasymundo.com

“What I enjoyed most was the narrative style, the phrases so crafted and full of meaning through which Leara was able to transmit Aida’s struggles.” - Beleth, book-eater.net

“In conclusion, it is a difficult and sad book, but it’s worth reading just for the author’s marvelous narration.” - Alhana, A Doble Altura

“I was surprised by this author’s maturity in constructing a story that is bitter, sad, and complex, which will leave the reader with a disconcerted feeling. Very well-written, with well-defined characters and a certain dose of intrigue, a book that can be read in one sitting.” -Adivina quien lee

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leara Martell
• Release date: Jul 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781633392908

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The voices become quiet; all they can do is wait anxiously to hear them sing. The curtain is raised and the show is ready to begin...

As much as I try, I am incapable of quieting the whispers that dance around me. It’s just in the past couple of hours that I have understood their true purpose. And despite the fact that I thought it was just to make me lose my mind, confuse me and force me to escape my own reality, I was surprised to learn that their effect is just the opposite. It is precisely they, with their insinuating and attractive sound who reveal my secret, the torment of my desire...

It’s not me.

It never is. Although that doesn’t seem to matter.

This peculiar feeling that has been pestering me for the past two hours is strangely familiar. It is not anger or resentment, nor the fear that people in my situation must feel, but the terrible confusion of not knowing where you are. Or worse even...why you’re there. And for the first time in days I no longer feel fear, but true terror.

But at least I’m not alone, not this time. The emptiness that devours me inside doesn’t have space at this moment; same as the guilt which I oddly don’t feel. Although I can’t help but realize that something too big and powerful is telling me that I should. I can’t breathe. I am scared! Where is my knight?

Despite everything, I smile. What else can I do?

Their voices are so familiar that at times I even confuse them with my own. I force myself not to consider what it all means, nor whether they are to blame for the fact that I find myself in this situation. I just know that without them here, these four bare walls would close in on me and consume me. Then I surely would give myself up to the hounds of darkness and confusion that try to deceive me.

No one knows that when I cry, they cry. If I laugh, they celebrate with me. And if something saddens me, they clamor for their rightful vengeance.

I notice various sets of eyes fixated on my back. They are hard and cold, without compassion or understanding of what I’m going through. And though I can see the movement of their lips, their intention to communicate with me, all that reaches my ears are the voices of Musetta and Marcello confessing their incontrollable love at the doors of the Cafe Momus, at the end of a beautiful and frenzied second act.

The music sways me, and for one miserable second I find myself calm and at peace. The fear and confusion have gone. I feel myself profoundly adored on an imaginary stage, while my voice rises and replaces those that were distracting me before. That impossible dream pervades me again and I know that it isn’t real, but right now it is the last thing that could matter to me. I have the audience at my feet, but that doesn’t distract me either. The notes escape from my throat, liberated, flowing to where I would like to be.

A diffuse shadow hides the faces of my companions, but that doesn’t matter. I know perfectly well who they are. We’ve been together too long for me not to know. 

I can only think that, finally, the grand finale approaches.

The baritone and soprano melt into one voice, a voice only capable of expressing love. Bohemian love, but ultimately love without limits. The ears listening to us tremble, and the synchronous leap of hearts that fill the room is almost as thunderous as our confession. Maybe not quite as beautiful, but moving enough so that a tear courses down our cheeks, threatening to destroy – or if we’re lucky, to enhance – our perfect scene of smoke and flowing eighth notes.

The voices are so distinct and at the same time so wretchedly similar. Voices of one person made two. None of that matters.

Sing. 

Shout.

Cry.

Love.

I am that person for everything, willing to interpret even four different roles. So malleable and so insatiable in my search for external recognition that the darkness has disappeared and only the incandescent light of the horizon allows me to continue. I reassume the lead role and the wings of my feet are capable of making me fly.

Free, being Colline.

Love, being Mimi.

Passion, being Mussetta.

Loneliness, fear, sadness, tears, and ugliness, being simply myself.

ACT I – AIDA

They haven’t allowed me any type of information for some days now. No newspapers, no radio, nor the sound of the small television that the guard uses at the end of the hall. "Doctor’s orders", was the only answer I received when I asked about this new measure. Since then it has turned into the cruelest joke I have ever heard.

It has become so repetitive, so base and cruel, that a new pattern has been established. A new norm, so simple, but at the same time so necessary, that I strongly doubt if I would be able to fall asleep without it. The lights go out but the flame in my soul continues to burn. It’s that stupid phrase and even more so the sarcasm in its slippery words that extinguish my hope.

I shouldn’t be here... Another new pattern.

I am the caged bird which can only sing for its freedom. My wings are folded in this space so confined that I can’t even breathe, and my voice trills in a failed attempt to elevate itself to the mockingbird’s symphony. Despite everything, my imagination takes flight night after night, spreads its numb wings, and in the end is able to equal the singing bird.

This place is not comfortable. It is cold and smells bad. The walls are cracked, and the ceiling preserves the names and memories of all those who were once in my place. I listen to the screams and protests of the other prisoners at the end of the hall. Their arguments are indecipherable and their behavior sufficiently crude.

Victims of desperation and injustice, as everyone here has once been, they make their presence known only so that they do not fall into silence and oblivion. Hate has always been better than indifference. Even so, it is they who are my company during the sleepless nights. There are no words between us, there never have been; but this mutual ignorance is the strongest tie that binds us. A silence of respect. A silence of comprehension. But above all, a silence of compassion.

Don’t be afraid, is heard in the silence.

I have missed you.

The smile appears on my face without me even thinking about it. The mattress upon which I lie is the closest thing to a hard and flat piece of brass that I have ever had the pleasure of lying down on. I don’t have anything; I no longer possess any memory of all that I had. Nothing matters anymore; I just want to lie down with my hands folded on my chest.

Where are you?

My gaze is fixed on the ceiling with its mysterious mold stains, but my eyes look directly to the sky, a sky with white clouds and the sound of wind.

I don’t even need the rhythmic echo of his footfalls in the hallway. It’s the time and that cheap cologne of his that he uses at his discretion that tell me he has finally arrived. I wonder what it is that causes him to be here every day at 5:30, like clockwork.

Do you know how disconcerting it is that I find you in the same position every day?

The squeak of the door’s rusty hinges isn’t enough to make me open my eyes and look at him. I don’t pay attention to my surroundings, nor am I going to pay attention to him. The rubber soles of his shoes muffle any sound of his passing, and the only thing that gives me a clue as to what corner he’s chosen is his nervous laughter and light commentary. He gives the impression of being a nervous rookie.

Honestly? I suspect he is.

Mrs. Lizaro, I think we should talk about why you’re here. His voice sounds tired and anxious.

How many times do I have to tell you to call me Aida? My lips stretch and a smile appears. My father specifically chose that name for me.

I’m sorry. His response is automatic, as is mine.

No need to be.

These awkward silences that occur between us are the most fun I can have here. With a nervous hand, my young lawyer adjusts his cheap tie numerous times, even though he knows it’s perfectly in place. Suddenly, the top button of his striped shirt is too confining, and as much as he tries to loosen it, the strength of his fingers is insufficient.

I think what makes him most nervous is my inalterable tranquility. No part of my body moves without me willing it to do so. I possess it. I am in control. And even so, it doesn’t seem to serve much of a purpose when I don’t even believe that I’m here.

I think I’ve made him suffer enough. It’s time I started talking.

I’m sorry for my appearance, is the only thing I can think of saying. 

I’m sorry? The poor guy always seems bewildered and disoriented.

I know it’s not how I should look. The time of day has arrived for my voice to crack, and I understand, with horror, that he is expecting it. I can’t stay locked up in here!

The moisture on my cheeks makes me open my eyes. The slap of reality keeps my ears muffled and I need to use both hands to keep from falling to the floor and into the engulfing emptiness of truth. I can barely sit up in my cot, my eyes riddled with tears and my legs shaking.

Are you ok? Now he really is scared. Something in his voice, his gestures, and his new eagerness to separate himself from me as much as he can, indicates that his tone is not due to concern, but rather to real dread. Mrs. Lizaro?

Aida! Call her Aida! 

Silence.

Breathe. 

You have to. Breathe!

You memorize entire books and you’re unable to remember a goddamn name with two fucking syllables?

It’s times like this that I wonder about the origin of the urban myth of putting your head between your knees when you have a headache equivalent to a stampede of rhinoceroses. More than once I’ve been able to confirm that it’s nothing more than an old wives’ tale, and that the only thing it does is increase that feeling of stupidity while the blood accumulates in my head. 

I don’t hear, I don’t listen, and the only thing I see are the borrowed shoes I’m wearing. Luckily this is not the first time it’s happened and I know what I need to do. I stay calm while I wait for the pain to go to hell.

Guard! Guard!

My visitor’s screams shake me from my abstraction. I look at