Broken Melody

Broken Melody

“Do you see that guy? God, I feel so bad for him. Poor thing.”

“Ugh, I don’t feel that bad for him. You can smell him from over here.”

                The girls’ hushed voices move past me quickly, and I smile faintly. It happens all too often these days. After all, no one has a use for a blind violinist. That’s why I’m here in the first place.

                I breathe in deeply, and over the stench I give off, I can smell fresh bread from the bakery across the street. I’ve never seen the bakery, but the smells alone are enough to tempt me.

                I’m reminded suddenly of days in my mother’s kitchen, the warm, yeasty smell of bread in the oven as Dedushka placed my small hands on the violin that he’d carried with him across the sea when he emigrated. The smell of the smooth wood was exotic and exciting, making my mouth water even as I thought of an ancient forest that had stood for centuries and would stand for many more.

                The scraping of the bow against the strings made me shudder, but Dedushka slapped my hands with his calloused ones and cursed at me. “Not like that,” he said through his heavy accent as he pulled the violin away. “You make her cry if you play like that! She is a lady, like your mama! Dance with her, Vanya, dance.”

                And the rosined bow danced across the strings, making music that made it clear to me what love was. And my mama laughed and caught up my hands in hers and twirled me around the room, and we danced around the kitchen to Dedushka’s haunting melody.

                I’m jolted back to the present as a small boy’s voice says, “Mama, why is that man sitting there like that?”

                “Hush,” the mother hisses. “Don’t say such things where he can hear you, Joseph.”

                “He looks like he’s sleeping,” the little boy persists. “Why doesn’t he sleep in his bed, Mama?”

                “Hush,” the mother says again before their voices fade and I’m left with the faint, rosy scent of her perfume.

                Irina used to love roses, I remember. She tucked one fresh from her garden into my buttonhole before every concert, and smiled up at me sweetly and kissed both my cheeks for luck.

                I held my violin in my hands and stared out at the crowds, every one so different and yet the same. And I thought of Irina and the way when I buried my face in her soft neck, roses filled my nose and I could almost taste them because the scent was so thick, and the lights would fade around me until I was playing to Irina and her roses and Dedushka’s rough hands led mine as the bow danced across the strings, evoking melodies I remembered and melodies I improvised and at the end, the crowds returned with a roar, yet I couldn’t remember a single face from all the thousands of people I’d played for years and years ago.

                “Are you okay?” a new voice, deeper than the others, asks me. A young man, perhaps. I realize that I am breathing heavily, caught up in my memories.

                “I am fine,” I say, shocked at the harshness of my voice. I cannot remember the last time I spoke.

                “Can I get you anything?” he asks, and I smile, touched by the unusual stroke of kindness. Most people pass me by, because I am invisible here in the stench.

                “No, thank you,” I say, my voice coming more smoothly now. “I am fine.”

                “Well, if you’re sure,” he says, but his voice is uncertain and I do not hear retreating footsteps.

                “Who are you?” I ask when he still does not leave.

                “Alexander Jackson,” he says, saying it like an apology. I smile and shake my head once. Such a mouthful of a name.

                “Who are you?” he asks, breaking the silence again.

                “Ivan Petrov,” I say, saying the name with pride, the way Dedushka would have said it. I know that he is too young to recognize the name; it has been ten years since I saw a stage.

                “Why are you here?” he asks, and I hear the curiosity, thick in his voice. This, I think. This is why he stays.

                “Why are you here?” I ask, countering his question. I wonder if he knows that I know the answer already.

                He hesitates. “I’ve seen you here before.”

                I smile. So he is one of the silent onlookers who watch the poor blind man as he dozes and drifts in the past.

                “I have nowhere else to go,” I say. It is the truth, and a lie, all at once.

                Again, he hesitates. No confidence in that boy. Dedushka would have a fit, I think, smiling.

                “If you need a place to stay,” he offers, trailing off as I shake my head.

                “I belong here,” I say, and though it sounds strange, he seems to understand.

                I feel another strong hand gripping mine, and he says, “Good luck to you, Ivan Petrov.”

His footsteps are long gone when I finally say, “Call me Vanya.”

As he leaves, I think of the days when I was a young man, when the violin and Irina were all I needed, and I long for that time, before the fire that took my beloved wife and my sight from me in one blow, and I lost the concert halls and the faceless crowds and the scent of roses.

I rest my head in my aching hands wearily, and I wait.

I can sense when dusk is coming. It’s not the light, like most people would think; I cannot even see the shadows. It’s the hum of the people as they begin to slow down from their days. The pace is slower as twilight comes on, and it soothes my homesick soul.

I rise stiffly, pulling my violin case from behind my back, removing the old instrument carefully. The violin still smells faintly of foreign trees, and I can feel the smoothness of the ancient wood in my hands, and I smile faintly, thinking of all the other hands that have traced it before me.

As I dust rosin on the bow, I remember Dedushka, the only teacher I had, training my little boy hands how to do it properly. And then I tuck the violin firmly under my chin, I raise the bow, and then it dances, the melody wrapped tight in its arms.

I play first for Dedushka, the old man who has been gone for so many years, and he grudgingly admits that I might amount to something one day, as the yeasty smell fills my nose again and Mama dances to the tune, her smile wide. And then the melody turns wistful and Irina and her roses are smiling at me and she kisses my cheeks lightly before the tune shifts again to the girl whose pity I did not want and the girl whose harshness I forgive. And then it is almost playful as the little boy grins up at me and wonders why I have no bed and then it drops to a whisper as his mother hushes him but nods to me slightly, a sign of respect for elders, no matter how grimy they may be. And then there is the young man who stopped and spoke to me, Alexander, who had seen me before and wondered, and the melody soars, rising higher and higher until I can hardly remember that I’m anchored to the ground, because my soul is free for that moment.

And then the melody stops, and I am only a man again, only Ivan Petrov, a ghost of a man with nothing but ghosts in his past and the faint whisper of a melody, full of broken promises.

***

Author's Note:

This was written based on a writing challenge issued by AlexThomas--to write a story without using visual description--and it turned out better than I had ever hoped. :) So it's dedicated to her.