historical novel

He decided to study the patterns of the exotic rug on the floor, while his right hand fiddled with his weathered briar pipe as he waited.
"Would you prefer some tea, Mr. Weiss?" The butler asked.
"A cup of coffee please." Weiss responded without moving his gaze.
"I see you're as punctual as always, Mr. Weiss." A while later, Weiss heard Schiff's booming voice, and the sound of his footsteps, interspersed with the sound of Schiff's walking stick tapping on the marble floor. Schiff walked over to the seat opposite of Weiss and sat down.
"Still using your old briar tobacco pipe? There is another kind of pipe, fashioned from the material called 'sea-foam', that gives a cooler and deeper taste of the tobacco. I could provide you with a perfectly new example, without cost."
"No need. I depend upon this earthen taste to refresh my memory of the hard labour and sweat of the common people."
"I take no offense at your sharp tongue because I am a man with a generous temper, and because you are a valuable . At the moment. If I was a different man-" Schiff stopped to speak with tense silence. Weiss moved his gaze from the rug to Schiff's eyes, but Weiss remain unfazed.
"But let's not waste our time with these trivial digressions."

"I have information from a reliable foreign agent that the minister"
"I would prefer if you would refrain from such contrivances in the future." Weiss spat.
"Not everything is written down in books." Schwarz enunciated.


********

An etude. Sommer shuddered a little. In all of the infinite sea of words there are in a dictionary, there is probably  nothing that brings young Sommer more physical discomfort than the word "etude".


He heard some soft notes and chords.


But her right hand suddenly turned into the ruthless winter wind, barging through every key on the piano,
Her left hand skipped across the keyboard supplementing the piece with heavy chords.

An unstoppable flurry of notes were pouring out of the piano. Sommer couldn't move his hands or his gaze. Weiss was



Men who were whispering their secrets stopped. Hagel put down her book.

But still her right hand wouldn't stop.


Then she stopped.
She turned around, bowed, walked off the stage.




********



"How is it that you could love this for so long?" Sommer groaned.
"You speak as if there are better things to do.


But I know that when I press a key, there is a sound. Maybe not in tune, but there is a sound. I know that when I press different key at the same time, there is a chord. Through different intervals I can play a consonant chord that conveys joy or calmness, or a dissonant chord that conveys anger or uneasiness. By pressing different keys and chords, in succession, or at the same time, I can express feelings of serenity, then anxiety, and dispel it with a chord that returns to the beginning. I could speak a message, convey feelings, tell a story, bring to mind the audience a journey of different emotions by shifts in consonance and dissonance. All of this no word can ever reach. And I could do this for hours and hours, by just pressing my fingers, without tiring my voice. I agree with others that music is a refuge, where we are in full control, where we understand why and how everything is where."