This happened to a friend of a friend of mine.
The music was playing loud and clear. The windows to the garden were open. Marisa was not allowed to mingle with the other girls from the neighbourhood. Why? Who knows? Maybe her parents believed that they were more important than the other people living in the area. Or maybe they were ashamed.
Marisa had a boyfriend. The boyfriend was the son of a local businessman. The marriage had been arranged by their families long ago.
Marisa played the piano. Sometimes the music filled the area with melancholy, at other times with distress and sometimes, just with sweet melodies. She played; others listened.
One day everybody was alarmed by cries. The police were there. What
happened? Marisa was not in the house. Marisa had eloped. Where? Who
knows? Is she safe? Where is her boyfriend? He is at home, running the
business of his father. Marisa is not with him. Where is Marisa?
Many years have passed. Maybe thirty years. The house where Marisa used
to live was demolished and there are apartments now. Time has changed so much; things and people. Marisa’s mother and father live nearby, in a small apartment. They seem to be happy. They never talk about Marisa. They do not mourn her. She is not dead, is she?
A note reads: “My dear wife, I always congratulated myself on allowing Marisa to escape from the horrible life that she would have endured if she married her boyfriend. I hope she found her happiness far away from here. All the debts that we had then were not worth giving up Marisa in marriage to that drunkard. He would have killed her. She was not responsible for the debts we created for ourselves. She was entitled to her own life. Maybe some day we will see her again.”
This tale has a response-tale: I am a House
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