From a distance an old man looked at me with glassy eyes. He was with my father, who looked haggard beside him. My father motioned towards me and the two began walking. I stood with the water fountain at my back and a stone in my shoe. The townsfolk were all hurrying about their own business. The old man continued to stare at me as they approached. I was still just a young boy. I fidgeted at his gaze. I looked down unable to keep hold of it for long. I could still feel the stone in my shoe and attempted to shake it to a more comfortable position. My father and the old man came closer. I flinched when I noticed them in front of me. I continued to look down towards the pale red cobblestone floor, trying not to think about the stone in my shoe. Trying not to think about anything at all. The old man lifted my chin up with a finger, meeting my eyes to his. He looked to my father. “He will do,” he said. “How much?”
Stop. Stop thinking. Old memories have plagued me recently during mundane and odious tasks alike. Old memories run riot within moments where something else needs to be done. As it did now, while I run through the hallway of the practice rooms towards the concert hall.
I run gasping, breathing in air that smells heavily of musk, wood and resin. I cannot afford to be thinking of stale memories. I have other things that need my full attention. The king’s concert is about to start. I hear the timbre of the drums; feel its vibrations coming from the walls and the ground as the first song begins. I cannot be late. I pick up my pace.
I enter through the backstage door as quietly as I can. I am behind the dark maroon curtains once again, where I always am during these concerts. I walk as quickly as I can, being careful not to step on the squeakiest floorboards, and hand over my most important possession to the old man from my memory.
He smiles at me with his mouth, though his eyes are telling me he feels otherwise. He does not thank me. He never does. He simply takes the violin from my hands and puts it to his chin.
Just then the orchestra begins to sing.
The last king, King Joland, died a month ago and the period of mourning had just passed. This morning was the coronation of the new king of the Meadowlands, his only son Artimer. Tonight the court orchestra plays his inauguration concert.
The drums beat loud and the cymbals clash. Then a softer melody follows as the string instruments play.
I picture the new king sitting in his new throne at the topmost box facing the stage. The large white balcony was accessible only through the third floor, where only the royal family and the ‘third floor staff’ were allowed.
The other six boxes in the room mirror each other on the wings of the concert hall. Each box is comprised of balcony space and a private room which are accessible by their own spiral staircases tucked into the aisles of the hall. The staircases are painted the same colour as their balconies; red, orange, yellow, green, violet and blue. Today five or four of those balconies would be used. There would be enough people in attendance to justify most of them cleaned. No one touches them otherwise. Too much of a hassle. I want to stick my head out the curtain to see the people there, but I dare not even peep through the crack.
I imagine the king pleased with the way his big day was turning out. His family would be beside him. His wife, to his left, along with his three children. The youngest boy would have his young nanny close by, the only castle staff member allowed on the balcony with the royal family. She doted on the boy, gave him whatever he asked for, followed him wherever he went, except when on an errand for him or during her break times of course, then she turned into a regular gossip like the rest of the castle folk.
The king’s youngest sister would be up there too, watching the proceedings with her usual expressionless features cemented on her face, fanning herself with her sparkling glittery golden fan. That particular fan hardly left her side, it was her favourite colour. She had rejected many a foreign prince whilst fanning herself with it. She had also issued many a command with it, ushering out any unwanted attention by snapping the fan towards the nearest exit and demanding tea by waving it in the air in a particular manner.
The king’s two other sisters would also be present, along with their respective families from whatever kingdom they hail from now. Their hair done up with flowers and pearls, their makeup spotless. They would be wearing fancy bright clothing made by their personal tailors, adorned with jewellery from exotic foreign continents, and their children would have been told to sit still and behave. The children would be far too excited though. They have never been to this faraway castle before and probably have not listened to music like this. They would be clutching to their seats eyes glued to the performance, trying their hardest not to exclaim a single ‘look at this!’
Music is something special, and listening to an orchestra play in a concert hall like this, is something magical.
Playing in it, as one of the instrumentalists would be something better.
I picture the crowd of people enraptured as they listened to the music. I imagine the castle staff stuffed by the doors, encroaching towards the aisles, crowded around the seats.
The king would definitely be pleased. And why wouldn’t he? The symphony being played was one of the king’s favourites after all. He requested it at least three times a year, and that was before he became king. His late father requested it more. Sometimes the pieces were accompanied by singing, but today it was just an instrumental. The way our new king liked it, and the way the composer meant it to be heard.
The symphony told the story of the finders of the three kingdoms of the End Continent. Three princes exiled from their home, with their masses of servants, (who else would clothe and feed them?) set sail on a ship, searching for a new world. They drift and nearly starve until they find the End Continent, our Continent, which is believed to be the last continent discovered. (The first movement: Discovery Over The Seas).
The brothers land on a beach and argue about where they should stay and who should become king. After days of debate they decide to make their way to different parts of the region and set up their own kingdoms, vowing to never be at war with each other. They take their enchanted lanterns that would never run out of light, and their most prized possessions and depart. (The second movement: Arguing Over Nothing).
The eldest brother Malinus sets for the North with his favourite feather quill (represented by the piano). He builds his capital Lanternstop in the middle of the Marshlands.
The youngest child, Eldinus, takes his best hunting bow and sets down South. He builds his capital Watcherway in the middle of the Forestlands (represented by the harp).
The middle brother, Soldinus, wonders the middle of the land, where the meadows lie. He takes his trusty violin with him, and deciding where they landed was nice enough, he forms his capital Summerhold (represented of course, by the violin). (The third movement: The Forward Journey).
In the next movement, Soldinus builds himself a wonderful castle, with walls that echo, a glorious large ball room and a concert hall so grand. He decorates the castle in art; paintings, tapestries, and ornamental furniture. He is happy. Or at least he thinks he is. Until he discovers he has no one to share his creations with, no one to share in his joy. After moping for a bit, he opens up his castle to his subjects, and to his brothers, and their respective subjects as well. He writes letters inviting them over whenever they wished for a concert that he would hold in his castle every month (the fourth movement: What Happiness is).
Every child of the continent knows the story of the three finders. However, only one man has managed to weave the story into a musical masterpiece. The old man in front of me. His eyes are closed as he listens to the sounds of the stage from beyond the curtain. The dark brown violin in his hand is singing, albeit softly, hardly making a noise compared to the volume of the orchestra. Hardly making a noise at all.
For the violin he was playing was a mute.
Mute violins are the same size as a regular violin, but built without a sound box. I always thought it looked like the skeleton of a violin. When I first saw it, I wondered if it was broken. I stared at it and wondered where its middle sections were. It has a violin shaped frame and a bar across it where it holds the bridge of the violin up. The violin plays its tunes softly in quiet perfect tones. I hardly ever have to tune my mute, the notes were usually always just right.
The violin never sings its songs boldly. Possibly harshly though, if you press down on the notes hard enough. Though play as you might, its voice would never reach further than the end of a small room. But each tone, each note, a small delight. Muted perfection.
The old man plays the song matching note for note, exactly as the first violin. His eyes are close as he listens intently, possibly conducting the piece in his mind. It is his song; he would know how it is played best.
The first movement finishes. A short break comes. Then the second movement begins. I watch entranced by his playing, as I did when I first saw his fingers move across the strings so many years ago. I itch to play. I am always itching to play.
Then sooner than I realise, it was the first violin solo, in the third movement. The part where Soldinus takes his violin and finds himself pleased with the Meadowlands.
The melody he plays is one I am too familiar with. The old man made me practice it over and over again. It was the first song that I learnt from him. The very first song that made my fingers ache and bleed. Strings cutting deep, droplets of blood spilling forth. I rub my now callous fingers together. I will never forget this song.
It is not a hard piece to play, but it was still the first piece I was taught. Music was harder to produce then I first believed. But as my master said when he saw the cuts on my fingers,we bleed life into our instruments, and they sing out with their soul. That is how music is formed.
He plays beautifully, without error. So did the soloist playing beyond the curtain. The old man’s pride and joy. His son.
Close to the end of the song the old man stumbles on his feet a tiny bit. He keeps on playing though, still making no mistakes until the piece finishes. Past the stage, people were beginning to applaud; it is the end of movement three.
He needs to sit down. While the audience claps, I run out to get him a chair.
When I return the next movement begins. I am too late. I place the chair beside him. He would not notice though, enveloped as he is in his world of sound.
Cymbals clash, signalling the concert’s end. The audience roars, chairs skidding and clattering as people rise to their feet. The old man collapses onto the chair that I placed beside him.
He pants and wipes sweat of his brow with the back of his hand. As always at the end of these concerts, I want to ask him why. Why do you do this? Almost every concert and every large group practice. I would return to him the violin that he gave me. He would join everyone, but from a distance, hidden away. Every time, I watch him uncertain about what I should be doing. Why didn’t he just pick up an instrument and go join them? Why did he let his son take over his performance duties if playing was what he wanted to do? But I never let the questions escape.
I never understood and maybe I will never understand. In a rare moment he once said "My son, he needs to shine. I need... I need to let him shine. It’s the only thing I can do as his father, for the son of my dearest wife. The only thing".
Two minutes later he sighs and removes himself from the chair. He hands the violin back to me, carefully, wordlessly, thanklessly. The people are still clapping. He walks towards the curtain. Towards the world I itch to touch. The announcement is made, thank you for your wonderful work, please come to the stage and take your bow, let us welcome and give a round of applause for composer extraordinaire Mortimer Prisell! The old man flings the curtains open and the people clap more violently. The cheers intensify and I take a glimpse of the world beyond the curtain before the curtains falls back to place, cutting me from the view.
I picture the rest of the scene in my head. The old man bows and receives his bouquet of flowers. The clapping intensifies once again as they announce the violin soloist, the son of the genius composer and ex-violinist, the genius violinist himself Mikail Prisell.
The clapping grows and grows. Everyone else important is announced as I put my violin away in its case. I cradle it in one hand, pick up the chair with my other hand and return it to its rightful place. Out of sight. Away from here.
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