Peck of Dust
The Violinist
Man in White Gloves
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“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent”
― Victor Hugo
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First they move on her neck, tenderly searching for irregularities forming patterns, just like wood crafter testing the timber he is about to carve. Fingers coil themselves around the legs and twist, gently, to not disturb. The strings as if from steel, barely budge upon the touch, if not the delicate blow of a bow, they would strain them-self for nothing, quite useless. Head rests where it should, overlook at the sturdy fingerboard, open and wide like an alley ready to take one into not unseen land. I held the bow in position the harder I tried to keep it steady, the fiercer its jerking was. My old friend came back, lingering over the brows, ready for the spectacle. To my left sat Sylvia, her name was not really Sylvia, but it matched her. She looked like Sylvia to me, even when I had never encountered an individual named as so. To my left sat Sylvester, I do think his name was actually Peter, but Sylvester was how I named him- shush- he mustn't know. I am glad to be surrounded by people with names forming alliteration, as I named myself Sebastian, after the great Germanic composer. We formed a long sss, sounding just like an intake of breath I took right now- as always- before the concert began.
It’s like a loving a woman- playing - I suppose so, as I never did so. The tenderness the passion, that eagerness to push; yet, the art is in maintaining oneself in the right moment. To not spoil to not rush, to keep both parties happy. My hand moved up and down her neck, as the bow did similarly across her strings releasing the trapped cords from the cage. Fly those, be free and go, go to thy masters. Tell them, tell them! The music was like a wave; all violinists became a set of one united sound, ready to blow everyone with their take on the note.
Our dictator was the moon to our sea, others call him a Wizard, because his dark hair jumps along with him as he spins the baton like magic wand, casting spells on us and we joyfully obey. I do enjoy this concept. It adds the magic, just as if I were a puppet from a fairy tale, a spark in the dull life. But I try my best to not look at him, because when I manage to peek my mind goes off track and I start to compose a lively, magical piece that suits to his prancing. Instead I look up.
The hall's calling is blank. I do not blame the architect. Who would look up if there's a parade going down there? The bleakness, it is beautiful, a canvas for me.
It always happens when I play with my string orchestra. Just like one of the listeners in the sits scattered in front of me, I step into the tune, follow its flow to uncover a story- and when I do- no need to play the bow, as it is now playing me. The story unfolds itself; I am a mere observer or a marionette that supports the drama with the soundtrack.
On the ceiling, out of white, a woman is created, Mexican by origin, dress and nature. By her temperament of move I believe she might be dancing Baile Folklorico, with that frilled costume that fits the match. But unlike the feisty nature of the dance her moves are slow, lunatic and almost refined. And that dress is not the usual fierce crimson that reflects its origin, instead it is dark as the night, but blue as if on painting, not alone, dotted with constellations and stars and galaxies. She's dancing with a shadow- no- she's dancing with a ghost. Why such a noble dame did not ask for a partner, with her splash of brows and thin lips any folk would jump into the moving duet. Her void isn't that empty, for observer it might be, but in her eyes she's dancing in company of lost lover. With the smile and joy as if he was there. Step by step, tune to time. And her movements are like night, paramount in the middle, so dark and mystic and scary. She ends the composition with a bow, and I set it down to the series of claps.
Sylvia and Sylvester congratulate me and them. We then rise and make to an exit.
The backstage is not as magnificent as the hall, the props of some childish play and lamps and microphones are stuffed into chaotic mess of corners.
"Well done boys, well done." Says our puffy representative, he looks like character out of books with his tomato red inflated cheeks and small nose, the features lost in balloon-ish combination, thick knit of the white brows and walrus moustache make him a man out of cartoonish comedy rather than grim life. He even has round mount of a belly that is covered with struggle by strained buttons on his shirt. He calls entire instrumental team boys, even when major proportion is women or undefined.
"What a spectacle, what a spectacle!" When he laughs his entire front starts dancing. "Now, now, boys the Royal Theatre has an open slot for the musicians, they seek for volunteers. Anyone interested?"
If it was paid more arms would've shot up, but alas, it wasn't, so to my sight came ten or twelve arms. Whichever it was, mine was a plus one. Someone told me to grasp any opportunity falling on you. You never know which one would be a one to change your life.
"You are Sebastian?" Said someone to my front, it was coming out of a girl dressed as if coming from twenties of the America. With shortly cut hair and white dress, holding a small valet in her white gloves. She was a thing old movies are made from, I haven't watched them, but seen the white-black pictures. I know that she is daughter of one of the Hall founders, he has this looks of richer man I could have spotted when going down better end of London, that’s all I really know about her.
The thing with people, when they start speaking instantly the ceiling starts to be unimaginably interesting. This time super turned my shoes, I realised they were brown and used to be crafted in leather, but now the material was scrapped as if of some shedding reptile. "I've seen you play, wonderful, Beethoven was always my favourite."
"Only pure at heart can make a good soup." I said.
"What?" She must have looked surprised.
"It was what he said. He- Ludwig van Beethoven."
"Well then I have to be rotten." I did not code. "Me plus kitchen it is a mathematical equation for apocalypse."
I wanted to tell her there's no such equation, but she distracted me by touching my arms. I jerked them backwards taking a step in similar direction for reassurance.
"Sorry, did I startle you?" She found it funny, but as I didn’t laugh she quickly changed the topic. "Why are you wearing gloves?"
I looked at them- they were coiled around my fingers which were coiled on the instrument.
"I have condition."
"Oh. You are super delicate?"
"No, I sweat a lot." She stayed quiet so I elaborated. "Hyperhydrosis or silent handicap, it sort of messes with the instruments."
She nodded. We stood in silence, she swaying to some tune in her head and me trying to rip out biggest bit of ripped leather from my shoe.
“When you were out there, playing, you weren’t looking at the sheet.” The girl said, using her fingers to bring my eyes on her. “You were looking far beyond. It was wonderful, almost as if you were in trance.”
I didn’t hear the last part as the short eye contact made me tremble and in erratic pace shoot into new direction. With a haste but delicacy I put my violin into the casing, then without looking back I rushed towards the doors, hoping for girl to not follow. Thinking about her following made me shake in dread; I had to go straight to the house, not marauder because she'll ask questions I cannot answer to.
As I trotted downstairs I overheard a conversation muffled by shushes. It featured my name and so sparked interest. I wondered about the point of talking about me; but without me in the picture.
"You know how much it means to him how passionate he is." My heart fluttered upwards and I pried closer to the wall. It was the bouncy voice of our round director.
"But you have to agree with me." Said a voice; female in nature and new to me.
"I do. When you listen to the orchestra his work is the one to stands out the most." I regard that as a compliment. "He might be the most passionate musician from the orchestra, but he's the least talented."
I jolted from the wall as if it stung. I dug into my hair and allowed distressful yelp to echo through the corridor. I must've heard incorrectly, they couldn't be talking about me!
"Tell him then, his work destroys entire composition."
Destroys is such a strong, violent word, and it cannot describe me and my artwork. I am soft with the notes, slow with the rhythm, arguably only one in our second wing of violinists that really understands and feels the work. That must be my punishment for prying.
Light drizzle welcomed me as I stepped out of the premise; the backstage exit wasn’t designed for A-Star guests. Butler haven’t kept your company, instead to your assistance came graphitised walls and leftovers of the cafeteria. But the outrage did not shock me as much, as I was lost in thought; you’re not called Destroyed of The Music every other day. I was glad it was raining; it covered my tears, no matter how cliché it was.