A Novella in installments, tracing the intermingling autobiographies of a boy and a violin, spanning over a century. The previous episode is right here. To find any episode, look here.

(The protagonist posing with some old friends: a Japanese shakuhachi, A Zimbabwean mbira, and a good ol’ American jaw harp.)

(9) – Humans Need To Practice!, Albany, 1898

For three more weeks Rowena collected me, every Wednesday, and brought me with her to school for her music lesson with Maestro after her classes finished for the day. My excitement would build all week long in anticipation. I even learned to memorize the sequence of week days, knowing in advance when Tuesday night had arrived, meaning wonderful things would happen the following day.

But something subtle was off within all these exciting developments, revealing itself gradually. Comrade Bow detected it first. In Rowena’s grip. He confided to me there was a certain clumsiness in her manner of swinging him through space against my cords. Haphazardly against my cords, as he put it. I countered to Bow that he was simply comparing her technique unawares to that of Maestro’s, whose every muscle nuance was a thing of exquisite economy and precision. And that he needs to allow the child some time to build fluency. But Bow was a keen judge of human tactile sensitivity, born no doubt out of his scrumptiously graceful yet authoritative long arch shape. “Observe for it in the way my horsehairs caress your cords under her command, dear Viol”, he advised, feeling neither contradicted nor impatient. And I did so, for there was something pleasing and reassuring in Bow’s strident discernment. True enough, when she bowed me the pressure was uneven and sometimes she contacted the incorrect cord. I vibrated less ecstatically. Worse than this, the Maestro from then on utilized his own violin, a somewhat snobby dark-toned one whom I didn’t get along with, during her lessons and so I never got to re-experience the harmonious delight under his fingers as I had during ‘Silent Night’. In hopeful January.

On her way home after the 4th lesson I could tell Rowena was fraught about something. Maestro had sternly warned her that if she did not practice more her fingers would keep missing the correct spots where to touch my cords so the tone of the note played would sound out of tune and tentative. I learned much from this. First, there were specific places along my svelte African blackwood neck — the Maestro called it ‘ebony’, a delicious word — where the musician’s fingers were supposed to press. And second, more exciting for me for sure, there was something called ‘practicing’ which was supposed to happen, especially with new musicians. And this involved getting played and even bowed at home during the week as opposed to waiting forever for the next Wednesday to arrive. But Rowena never did this. Practicing. She just placed us, case, violin, and bow, in the closet corner until the next time she had to attend a lesson. And we waited the uneventful hours, unstimulated, like furniture.

When we got home there were actually tears in Rowena’s eyes, and she ran to her mother straight away before even placing us down. Thus, we heard their entire conversation. Rowena said she didn’t want to play violin or take lessons anymore, for it was too too hard, and the teacher was very strict, and she was not suited for it. She begged to be able to join the chorus at school instead, for she much preferred singing, and it would be with her friends. She was more upset than we had guessed and kept alot of emotions shut within. Her mother soothed and hugged her, to calm her down. Then she agreed. She told Rowena that if she truly liked singing more it would be better if she spent time doing that instead. She said Iain might like playing me better but he would have to wait a year or two for his fingers to grow some more. She said she would contact the maestro and apologize and explain, and send a note to her school about joining the chorus, which also happened on Wednesdays. And Mondays too!

Rowena went off to her room, humming and grateful, and placed us in her closet, and seemed to forget about us for what we feared might be an epoch. It was dismal and terrifying. At first Bow and I shared thoughts upon various topics. But gradually we noticed that it felt as though we were almost losing consciousness. Nothing happened. Literally nothing. Time ceased.

_______RS

NOTE: The next episode, if it exists yet, is right here. To find any episode, look here.

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