She wished she could listen to the music Mr. Bombompsky and his friends had made. She wanted something knew from her piano.
She had gone to Italy for a vacation because she thought she had needed a break.
But every second of every minute of almost every hour, she dreamed of being back in her apartment, playing the piano. Sometimes she would start moving her fingers around, trying to play. Each time, she forgot where she was. And her pieces always echoed through her head, just like they did after she played.
Sometimes, she held her hands to her head, and tried to figure out why she was so in love with this instrument. The one thing that had helped her through that was writing her own piano piece. She had already written 3 pages of music, without even getting to play them. But the music in her mind stayed, and she heard it none stop. When she went on a tour of the temples in Italy, everyone could here her humming. It was as if her humming made the temples come alive, and everyone around her could feel the energy of the ancients sorounding them.
Everyone liked it, though. Everyone on the tour asked if she was a proffesional musician. She didn’t know what to say to that, so she smiled, and said, “I am the living female Motzart.” That was what she hoped she was.
And Ida had thought her response would make people laugh, and go away saying she was a crazy old woman, but it did the oppisite. People became fascinated with her. They watched her, while she didn’t even know it, because Ida wasn’t trying to impress people. She just felt a sudden urge of happiness, which she expressed through the humming and the composing. Evan a few mothers asked to get autographs for their children.
She sipped her passion fruit Tazo Tea.
“Excuse me?” Ida heard someone say. She turned and looked to see the young boy with strawberry colored hair next to her. He was wearing a red t-shirt and cargo shorts with lots of pockets.
“What’s your name?” he asked in a British accent, a sound that Ida always had loved to hear.
“Willy, please,” the woman said to her son, looking sheepishly at Ida.
“Oh, its fine. My name is Ida. Is yours Willy?” she said.
Ida never understood why some parents were so embaressed when there child simply asked a question to a stranger. Her parents had done the same thing, and she always wondered why.
“Yup! And this is my mum. Why are you going to Germany?” Willy asked, grinning.
“I live in New York, and I’m supposed to transfer planes once we get to Berlin. What about you?”
“I’m just on a vacation. I live in England. We’re going to visit my mum’s sister, my cousins.”
“Oh!” Ida replied, than looked back to her book.
“Can you tell me a story? I desparetely want to fall asleep, and I can’t without a story. Its so important; its Willy tradition!” Willy’s voice came out.
Ida looked up and followed Willy’s gaze to his mom. Willy’s mom (Ida decided to call his mom Ms. Willy) tried to speak once again, but she sounded like a mute, saying through saying nothing, motioning with huge gestures.
“My mum’s voice is all gone from yelling at me, so she can’t tell me one,” he finished, almost bursting out with laughter.
Ida looked at Willy, then to his mom. By this point, Ms. Willy was ingnoring her sons questions and working on a book of Soduko.
“There once was a land with no rain. It was bare, as dry as a skeloten bone. The orchards had dried up, the crab apples had turn rotten and sour, and flocks and flocks of sheep, cattle, and even birds, had no energy to do anything. Especially the people. One hot, sunny, dry, scorching night, under the moon, along the dried river bend, came a young woman, with flowing dirty blond curly hair. Seeing this curious woman, the town gathered around her. The woman started to sing, her voice making the most butiful ranges of sound. The sad music awakened there eyes, and they started to cry. They cried through the night, and as the song started to become softer, to soothe the citezans eyes, the rivers filled, the empty bottles in everyone’s straw homes filled with cool, blue and clear life, and golden apples bursted from the trees.” Ida looked at Willy. He was lying on his mom, sleeping, muttering “water, finnaly”, and having the most happy look on his face Ida had ever seen.
Willy had watched her tell the story. He had watched in away that showed a lot of admiration. With Willy sleeping, she opened the book.
Mr. Bombompsky stretched his arms and rubbed his eyes. The afternoon light was pouring in from the window, and that meant it w as time to get up. He looked at his watch.
Twelve oclock in the afternoon! The night before, the music kept on going until three in the morning. Mr. Bombompsky was the kind to clean up at the start, so he had only gone to bed at four.
He went to his closet and put on his robe. With the warmth on, he walked to the bathroom and splashed cool water on his face. He shivered, and became fully awake. Today, he would really have to pack for Marceille.
Mr. Bombompsky took out his black rolling duffel. He put in 2 sweaters, 4 long sleve button down shirts, 2 t-shirts, 2 shorts, 2 short pants, 2 long pants, his underwear, and socks. He ran down the stairs and got his Boston style Berkenstocks and his sneakers. He ran back up and stuffed the shoes into the side pocket of the duffel. He closed his eyes, and smiled.
He looked back at his packing. Shirts were sticking out, the shoes created lumps in the pockets, and half a pant leg was flickering in the wind from the window. Mr. Bombompsky sighed, covered his eyes with his hands, and fell down on the bed. He was going to Marseiile, France, because he wanted to see one his favorite author’s (and mentor) give a talk on one of his latest books. The book he would talk about was called “No Squares”. The book was about how different cultures of the world can not be judged by just a group of people. Robert Goldman, the author had gone around the world interviewing people about what steriotypes were onto in their country.