The Unnamed Violin

I just shrugged and walked up to a table in the private room – where outsiders were not allowed during performances – and in a black, slightly open case lay this damn violin. I reached out my hands to the instrument, my skin covered in goosebumps.

To hell with it! I took the violin and bow out of the case, the black silk slipped from under my fingers and fell at my feet.

The violin on the left shoulder, under the chin, the bow in the right hand … This instrument will not produce anything except a squeal and wheeze, I have never touched violins, they have nothing to count on – I even hold my hands anyhow. Four strings, the sound comes from the movement of the bow along them, its body is just a resonator, not a demonic artifact at all …

With the bow raised above the violin, I froze, catching my breath, it became difficult to even think. A strange, familiar – but as if long forgotten – smell from the chinrest of the instrument touched the receptors, the memories awakened by the scent of perfume were ghostly, elusive. As if I was trying to remember a dream – the plots of which are impossible to describe in words.

It was so simple: to make at least some sound … But I resisted. I just stood there and stared with wide-open eyes off into space, the music coming from somewhere far away filled me from within, it flowed into my ears, mixing with the growing hum, covering everything around with a babbling veil. It was hard to breathe, and something heavy was pressing on my chest, but my body was almost ready to start playing. To surrender.

But I resisted.

It is said, musicians have a special sense of time – because they foresee the future through unplayed notes that sound in their heads. To live a whole life, to die a little death through music … Another idealization, romanticization, attributing magic properties to phenomena that do not possess ones.

Emerging from the pool, I discerned the surprised and expectant faces of the demon musicians staring at me. What are they waiting for?

It seemed alive, and its warm body and breathing lines of shiny wood sang a pleasant, alluring melody, audible only to me. They coaxed, they begged me … They called me.

The hand holding the bow almost dropped onto the open string, and an unplayed note was already ringing in my ears … And then a sharp pain pierced my hands, causing me to wake up in an instant.

Yellow eyes flashed before me, dissolving in the black shadow, and I felt a dead cold inside, a cold from which there was no escape. Everything disappeared instantly, and I, feeling the growing pain in my wrists, took a step forward, carefully placed the violin and bow on the table and went out.

Nobody stopped me.

8. Price

When I was fifteen, I already knew for sure that I wanted to become a real musician. Success was heady – even if it was a crowd gathered to listen to a teenager with a guitar on Dam Square next to the Royal Palace in the center of Amsterdam.

By that time I was already playing well. I picked out popular tunes that were on the radio by ear, I could imitate anyone’s voice – and the audience did not mind my unkempt appearance, nor the fact that at some point I could suddenly jump up and run, escaping from the police, who did not always allow street musicians to entertain the crowd.

But I even became friends with some of the patrolmen. True, they always joked that I should put a red street cat on my shoulder and tell everyone that I was a drug addict in rehabilitation.

I never considered myself lucky, but that period was when good fortune was with me – since two strangers gave me a real legendary acoustic Gibson, to replace my old guitar that was out of tune. I almost started squealing with joy, I didn’t really see their faces – I only remember two silhouettes that came up to me while I was sleeping – in the square on Marnixstraat, where there is a monument in the form of a coat, a hat, and a violin case without a person inside.

I woke up, I realized in my sleep that they wouldn’t hurt me, and there was a new guitar already standing by the bench. One had long hair and cat-like green eyes, the other had a bowler hat and a goatee … Later I began to think I had made up their appearance – because no one else like them had ever approached me in the three months that I had been playing that guitar.

Then the envious hobos, whose bread I was taking away by the power of music, broke both my arms at the wrists and almost put the broken guitar on my head.

Then I finally realized that everything has its price – especially success.

The hand was bleeding again. A week had passed since the incident in the alley, the hematoma from the noose had almost healed, the cut palm no longer caused any discomfort … Until tonight.

Why did I listen to Kaftz and pick up this violin!

I was pacing around the empty restroom at the club, I turned on the cold water faucet and put my hand under the icy stream. A crimson puddle spread across the sink, and I pressed my left hand to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

How come is there so much blood …?

My sight was dimmed. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t have the strength to think about it. If I waited, the clouding of my mind would pass.

The main thing is that sympathetic mates don’t show up in the restroom.

I often took advantage of the fact that demons do not ask unnecessary questions and are understanding of my secrecy. Sometimes it seemed to me they took me for someone else … This time, they clearly overestimated my violin skills.

I put the paper towel, which was instantly soaked with blood, to my palm and looked at myself in the mirror. For a moment, it seemed to me my light gray eyes flashed yellow … An overactive imagination and the effect of light.

The theatrical scenery turned out to be too realistic, it was a shame to believe in the mysticism we created with our own hands. The puppet is only playing, it must remember that the stage has an edge, the ceiling overlays the dome of the sky, and the sun above is just lighting fixtures.

I looked around hauntedly as I left the building, hurrying to get home – but naturally there were no shadows or violins even in the darkest corners and nooks.

9. Gray

As soon as the waitress approached me, I asked for an americano and still water. I wasn’t hungry, even though I hadn’t eaten since the day before. The lawyer had called this morning and said something about a will, but I hadn’t listened to the details, as always, with half an ear. I had agreed to meet him at a coffee shop in Midtown, and now I was glancing at the clock while I waited.

I arrived early – but not because I don’t like being late. This way I could enjoy my coffee alone.

The waitress, setting out the cutlery, looked at me oddly from under her lowered eyelashes; I didn’t immediately realize that she was making eyes. In response to her smile, I merely thanked her routinely and looked away.

I took a place with a view towards the entrance out of habit. The bell rang, and Mr. Gray appeared in the door, awkwardly shouldering into the stiffly opened leaf.

“Good morning, Mr. Reichenberg,” he greeted me as he drew level with the table.

“Good morning, Mr. Gray.”

Rex Gray1had been sorting through my paperwork for years – and not just mine; he was the only one who addressed me by my real name. On paper, I was still Victor Myer, with the simple last name assigned to me at the orphanage.

He sat down opposite me, I immediately turned around and found the waitress with my eyes, who was nearby within hearing distance.

“Double espresso, please,” I asked.

I didn’t need to raise my voice, she heard me anyway. My cup of coffee remained untouched at that moment.

“Thank you,” the lawyer replied and put a leather binder on the table, his gaze catching my hands. “You remember.”

I nodded.

“I must know how to appease you so that you don’t torment me with questions for a long time.”

Gray chuckled, still not taking his eyes off my hands lying on the table.

“What happened to your hands?”

“Trifle, not a big deal,” I said casually, trying to answer as naturally as possible. “No harm done.”

Gray sighed. He probably thinks I cut my veins … Or fell off the stage while drunk at a concert.

As soon as he was served coffee, he unzipped the binder with three practiced movements.

I felt the waitress’s gaze on the back of my head.

“I’ve learned that you have acquired an antique musical instrument from the early eighteenth century, and—”

I let out a pained groan, dropping my head onto the outstretched hand, covering my face.

Having interpreted my reaction in his own way, Mr. Gray continued, “… you know that it is my responsibility to keep records of all your financial transactions in order to avoid various incidents. I don’t care what you spend your money on,” he looked me in the eye, trying to understand if I was listening to him. “However, what instrument you purchased specifically puzzled me.”

I raised an eyebrow. Gray was obviously expecting me to comment on his remark … Or maybe he was expecting a different reaction.

I was silent.

“Should I remind you of your family history, Mr. Reichenberg?”

I remember everything without him. But what difference does it make? Is he really going to tell stories about my ancestors’ magic violin?

I pursed my lips.

“I have every reason to believe that the violin—”

“It belonged to Count Vladan, my distant relative from Eastern Europe,” I finished for him, leaning back on the sofa in disappointment.

The lawyer nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Reichenberg. The von Reichenbergs are the only heirs of Count Vladan. The violin is part of your inheritance.”

I slapped my palms on my thighs in frustration, the pain echoing in my hands. A beautiful tale about a rare missing violin – nothing more. Even Baphomet confirmed that he had acquired the instrument to play, not to show tricks!

Fantastic stories have always been made about families with famous last names, titles that have been abolished in modern times without the preposition ‘von.’ Over the past few years, I have been stuffed with this religious nonsense about the Fractured Star Universe, and now this violin of the Architect …

Another legend says that the Count studied alchemy in the castle – should I believe that? If he hadn’t been messing around, the wandering architect visiting his domain wouldn’t have stolen the violin.

“… documents confirming my words, and the purchase will have to be contested. However, this is not just a violin, Mr. Reichenberg, this is a special one – everything that has happened so far matters. Whoever stole the violin was a talented musician, he—”

“Yeah, I know, the violin was magic, and the architect really liked it …” I interrupted Gray and grimaced mockingly. “The architect wanted to become the Architect. I remember this story. As a child, I heard all this more than once.”

The age of fifteen I called childhood.

“Then you must understand, the violin did not fall into your hands just like that! You are the only heir to the instrument. I see that you are skeptical and do not want to hear me, but—”

He suddenly fell silent, looking around cautiously. Leaning forward slightly, the lawyer said in a half-tone quieter voice, “Everything they say about the violin is true. It, like the Star, in each variant of multiverse, allows you to comprehend the Architect’s design, shows invariants – so that the player can know his fate. Count Vladan’s castle was the only place where one can use the violin – because nothing happens in the castle. Since then, your family has owned the violin for centuries, comprehended the rules of the game, and the demons served them …”

Yes, it turns out he is a sectarian! My jaw felt the force of gravity.

“Mr. Gray, I could not expect you to believe in the Fractured Star, you pleasantly surprised me, but let me know why you remind me of this?”

As if regretting his words, the interlocutor quickly zipped the binder.

“This is all nonsense, Mr. Reichenberg. Don’t worry about it. Your purchase of the violin – I insist, purchase – was unnecessary. I will do everything as it should be, the violin is yours by right of inheritance, the transaction will be contested, the money will be returned.”

I wanted to object, but Mr. Gray had already stood up and was extending his hand for a farewell handshake. As soon as he left the café, I downed my long-cold coffee in one gulp and tried to get my thoughts in order.

It was a completely pointless conversation, which brought nothing but new questions.

I did not want to acknowledge the violin as my own. I did not need it, let it serve Baphomet, and let him command the demons, not me.

10. Demons

In the corridor, the two rushed at me: a goat’s head in place of a human’s gave away Kaftz, and his companion turned out to be bassist Belial – with a wolf’s muzzle and ruby eyes sparkling in the semi-darkness – his usual stage image. The masked men thrust a bottle of water into my hands, muttered something indistinctly and hurriedly slipped away in the opposite direction.

No musical event starts on time. Half an hour before the show … The main thing is that they return – and preferably sober.

Mephistopheles – the keyboard player and DJ – was engrossed in reading a novel by a famous author, sitting on a chair with his legs stretched out across the dressing room. He nodded at me absentmindedly, without looking up from the book’s plot, and I stepped over his feet.

In childhood and adolescence, books were almost the only consolation: I swallowed everything that came into my hands from cover to cover – English classics, stupid penny dreadfuls, historical references, and geographical atlases – anything whatsoever. I haven’t read anything for a long time.

A couple of minutes later, rhythm guitarist Asmodeus entered – and, taking his instrument and bear head mask with him, immediately left the room without even saying hello. Mephistopheles did not tear himself away from reading, only turned the page. I suddenly felt envious: I, too, was not averse to escaping from the dull routine.

Before I could sit down on any horizontal surface in the cluttered dressing room, Baphomet and drummer Beelzebub burst through the door, cackle-cackling. Continuing to laugh shrilly at a joke known only to the two of them, they began to walk in circles around the room.

Mephistopheles did not pay attention to their appearance.

“What are you looking for?” I asked, stepping aside and watching them bend down and peer under the chair with the motionless book lover.

“I lost my earpiece—”

Beelzebub laughed as soon as the giggling Met came into his sight.

“I told you: you should always play with a metronome, then the earpiece wouldn’t disappear!” Baphomet croaked, choking with laughter. “When guitarists screw up, their picks disappear too – I swear!”

He knows where the in-ear monitor is. I didn’t share their amusement at the tricks with the disappearance of objects, Baphomet often performed this hocus with everyone except me.

The search was unsuccessful, Beelzebub snorted, picked up the boar’s head standing on a shelf in the corner and headed for the door. Already stretching out his hand to open the door and demonstratively leave, he turned to me.

“Oh, this will come in handy!”

He pointed to the bottle of water in my hands – and a few seconds later he was already pouring the contents onto his shaved head.

When the drummer left the dressing room, returning the half-empty bottle to me, Mephistopheles spoke up, “Demon gentlemen, it’s time for us to go.”

And he, putting on the head-mask of a bald hare, gave us a nod, inviting us to follow him.

I caught Baphomet by the rosin-stained sleeve.

“Did you take the earpiece? When will you stop?”

He tsked disapprovingly, as if I was somehow guilty. I spread my hands, almost spilling the rest of the liquid from the open bottle. Baphomet put the mug of a giant moth-eaten cat on his head and left the room.

Before turning off the lights and leaving the dressing room, I took my mask out of the drawer.

The seven demons will play again to the devilish accompaniment of the violin.

11. She’s Mine

I dreamed of her dark eyes and pale face. I couldn’t touch her, but she was close, I felt her warm breath. She didn’t say a word, there was no need for it – I could understand without words.

It seemed to me, I always understood her without words.

Her hands reached out to me, her eyes were sad and tender, but it was as if an invisible wall separated us, and we simply weren’t destined to meet. Simply weren’t destined. I understood that.

I tried to persuade myself to be patient, I tried to restrain myself from screaming in despair, I waited for this invisible barrier to disappear and for me to be able to embrace her and inhale the scent of her hair.

For some reason I thought I knew what her hair scented like – bath salts and vanilla, some magic herbs. I waited, looking into her beautiful face, breathing only to await.

Suddenly a black shadow appeared from behind her, eclipsing all the light, and yellow eyes blocked out the world, burning through the darkness. The shadow enveloped her, and long hands in black gloves grabbed her shoulders – as if they wanted to make her a part of themselves. Swirls of darkness, wattling my legs and her legs, like a long and wide cloak flowed around the tall black silhouette.

His yellow eyes narrowed in triumph, and he pulled her toward him, leading her away. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t stop him from taking her away from me – my body was frozen in a deathly cold. I called out to her, begging her not to give in to him, but she only looked at me guiltily and took a step back.

The black shadow dragged her further and further. I beat my hands against the invisible barrier, my voice scraping the throat raw, but my heart-rending cries were drowned out by the growing melody of the funeral mass – strange, unfamiliar and at the same time familiar. The more furiously I tried to break the wall, the louder the devilish violin sounded. The shadow laughed at me, and its mocking, evil laughter was painful.

I must stop him … She is mine, mine …!

I caught up with them – they were standing in front of me. His figure – the figure of a black man without a face – towered over us, and her body that he embraced with black tentacles seemed like a fragile porcelain figurine.

I reached out my hands to her – to protect her from this shadow – but they immediately appeared far ahead. He was playing with me, sending one illusion after another. His chilling laughter again cut through the ringing silence.

Turning her face towards him, holding her chin with his long black fingers, he moved closer to her. He knows I can’t get them, he knows, and I’ve lost …

He leaned down to her lips and pressed a kiss to them. A thick shadow enveloped them and everything disappeared.

Waking up from my own scream, I sat up in bed, gasping for air.

12. Autumnal Hopelessness

The yellow and brown clots of oil paint formed uneven, rough layers and flowed down the canvas. I had the impression that I was not in a gallery, but in a public restroom.

I tore myself away from contemplating a painting called ‘Autumnal Hopelessness,’ there was no escape from hopelessness. For some reason I kept wanting to wash my hands, the ‘Art of Despair’ exhibition at the New Museum of Contemporary Art in Bowery was not what I expected.

My despair is usually black and white … I took two steps back without regret, and the crowd immediately squeezed into my place. Everyone wanted to gawk at the hopelessness, and I was puzzled why people were so similar to swarming flies.

I left the hall hoping I would have better luck in the next room – but there, too, disappointment and the same motifs awaited me. Even the cats – a sure bet – were in shades of brown. It’s a pity that I can’t offer my own version: how the cat, following the leitmotif of the exhibition, went crazy from autumnal hopelessness, confusing the bowl with the litter box!

Maybe I’m just out of touch.

“How did he end up here?”

A voice broke into my thoughts. In a corner of the room, devoid of liveliness, where I had managed to hide to rest from the oppressive topic of hopelessness, there was an interlocutor. Her age varied between fifty and infinity, but she was one of those who wear Prada and look down on the new generation of the bon ton crowd.

“Caught a good wave,” I responded.

And I almost added: ‘From the sewer.’

I didn’t understand contemporary artists, Ned Everglade2 with his ‘Life Is Pain, and After It Is Death,’ despite the loud title – like all conceptual art – hung on the wall as if out of place.

He was the only one who didn’t give the impression of total hopelessness.

“And that’s why he’s rightfully hanging in the corner,” the woman shook her head.

She said this without regret.

“Is he a copycat?” I guessed.

“Yes, the one who understands what he’s doing.”

“Why?”

She looked up at me – I was a head taller than her.

“The Art of Despair is about the art of selling your pain for money and fame.”

“He doesn’t have any pain.”

“One can fake it.”

“Why not draw cats?”

“Depression is in fashion.”

“Pooping cats.”

“To dilute the oppressive motives. To lighten the atmosphere.”

Thus, with serious faces and stilted epithets, they usually discuss Botticelli’s ‘Primavera’ in the Uffizi … We discussed the copycat in the Bowery gallery – and the creations of his colleagues.

The woman introduced herself as Martha Thompson. She was ironically supporting my taunts as I commented on the objects in the exhibition and suggested ways to arrange them so that the ugliest examples would hang in the dark parts of the room. She listened attentively.

The only valuable thing I noticed was the artist’s works not with visual images, but with texts, sharp and concise phrases. ‘I just wanted to live and do something important,’ in nervous handwriting, with a black spray paint; ‘I can’t make a choice, so I’m just waiting,’ in patient, even letters.

When Mrs. Thompson learned that I was a musician, she clasped her hands approvingly. I never knew how to react in such situations: what we did on stage was not to everyone’s liking, outrageousness was not to the taste of audiences accustomed to evenings of string quartets.

Moreover, she called me a Byronic hero. I didn’t argue.

In the Lower East Side, the autumnal hopelessness of a moist and cool October awaited us. We went outside, the conversations did not end, I invited my interlocutor for coffee.

Martha Thompson didn’t drink coffee, she drank green tea. Martha Thompson turned out to be the owner of a large interior design studio, and she knew some of the artists whose works were exhibited in the gallery personally. As if by chance, she complained that not long ago she had to fire some employees – since they were ineptly copycatting each other.

“I thought you were studying art,” she drawled, hearing that I was neither a student nor an artist. “What do you do besides music?”

I shrugged. I binge-drink, I think, then I try not to think.

“Nothing. I’m boring,” I replied after a pause.

Mrs. Thompson probably expected a different answer.

“You’re not like your peers,” she continued. “You’re twenty-two—”

She remembered my age. She convinced me that not many young people knew about the history of silent films, tenebrism, and decadent poets. I wouldn’t have known either – if not for a coincidence.

I couldn’t shake the thought that she had some plans for me.

“… but you reason like an old man.”

Young people my age smoke weed and hang out in clubs and bars, or, at best, work the cash register at a fast food restaurant … The only difference with me is that I don’t deliver pizza or sell chicken strips.

“I just live in the wrong era,” I blurted out, and I stared gloomily into my cup.

When I looked up, Mrs. Thompson was studying me intently – like paintings in a gallery.

“You remind me of my niece – she looks like she stepped out of a 19th-century sentimental novel. Margaret wants to be an art historian – but with her involvement in the process, she’s more likely to become the curator of the Capponi Library.”