The Unnamed Violin

She said something else, described all of Margaret’s virtues to me, and I finally understood.

“Isn’t she a beauty!”

Mrs. Thompson had already pulled her mobile phone out of her clutch and a few moments later turned the photo towards me: a pretty girl with copper-brown hair, a dimpled smile, freckles, a book in her hands … Mrs. Thompson knows what she’s talking about.

“She’s been all in her books since she graduated from university, she doesn’t go anywhere,” Mrs. Thompson continued. “Only to classical music concerts and the theater. I wasn’t like that.”

Margaret is like a flower in their family’s greenhouse.

“If you go on a date with her, I’ll be very grateful.”

I was taken aback.

“I used to think it happens a little differently,” I chuckled. “She doesn’t know me. And you don’t know me at all.”

Mrs. Thompson tilted her head to one side. I would sooner believe that Mrs. Thompson liked me.

“I think you are the hero of her novel.”

I covered my face with my hand. If Margaret is Gretchen, then I am obviously the old fool Faust.

It’s a pity Mrs. Thompson hasn’t heard of the seven demons playing on Halloween night. I doubt Margaret would want a risen corpse or a growling monster – unless she’s into gothic novels.

The image of Margaret as described by Mrs. Thompson appealed to my selective taste, and the phone number so insistently offered I took obediently. I left my number on the copy of her business card, we exchanged contacts and decided to stay in touch.

Already at night, going to bed, I remembered Margaret’s phone number, written on the back of my new acquaintance’s business card. Before my eyes appeared the image of a smiling red-haired girl who dreams of a handsome prince. I am no prince … I found a lighter on the nightstand in the semi-darkness and clicked the shutter, the flame spotlighted the letters of the Martha Thompson design studio logo from the darkness. Soon the sheet of paper was engulfed in red fire.

When my fingers became hot and the fire began to lick my hand, I left the business card to burn out in the ashtray and closed my eyes, leaning back on the pillow, folding my palms on my chest. Through my half-sleep, I heard the impatient cars humming under the windows, the autumn rain dripping in a confused rhythm that only it understood.

I didn’t regret. The art of despair turns into a craft, autumnal hopelessness passes by winter.

I knew that someday it would get easier.

13. Birthday

“Happy birthday!” the hall bellowed.

I almost went deaf from the cacophony of sounds.

Someone was already dragging me to the center, I did not immediately realize that dozens of pairs of eyes were staring at me, that the congratulations were addressed to me.

“Look at him! He forgot it’s his birthday today!” Kaftz laughed, and a murmur of approval went through the club again.

“I really did forget,” I replied, trying to pull my forearm out of the demon’s tenacious grip.

“Not another word. Remember then! Today is your special day!”

…We drank a lot. Friends, club employees, familiar and unfamiliar faces, someone’s touches – friendly, stinging, greedy – to which after a while I had already become accustomed. Demons remade the songs of our repertoire, changing the words, I shrieked with laughter shamelessly, so much so that it seemed a little more – and I would not only lose my voice and go hoarse, but also die of cackling on my twenty-third birthday.

I haven’t had this for a long time … Never had it at all. So that’s what it is – the feeling that I belong somewhere, feeling good somewhere.

Vincent the bartender beat Belial and Kaftz at poker, and then I beat Vincent. It was late night, past midnight, when I decided to crawl out of Good Room into the backyard for some fresh air. Reeking of weed, hookah, booze, and cigarettes, I made my way through the dark corridors of the club, with a mental note of satisfaction that the crowd was finally calming down – and I no longer had to try to be everywhere and with everyone, I could be alone again.

The party was a success. There were no more shouts from different corners, no one was jumping out at me, no one would prevent me from getting to the back way.

I really needed some fresh air.

Leaning my back against the closed door, I greedily gulped in the chill. The night was clear, and the dark sky, sparkling with distant stars, looked like an endless tent.

I wanted to go home – to lie down in bed, to fall into it without undressing, right in my shoes. To collapse and fall asleep, to forget that it was my birthday. I was tired … It was as if I had worked tonight – not for myself, but for others.

I didn’t tell anyone about leaving, I left without saying goodbye.

I couldn’t remember how I got home – with my bad habit of drunk driving – I was unlocking the door, not getting the key into the lock on the first try. Leaning my shoulder against the leaf, I cursed impatiently through my teeth.

At last, I stumbled into the entrance hall, almost knocking over the floor lamp.

Having called the host an idiot who doesn’t know that floor lamps tend to fall over and therefore shouldn’t be placed at the entrance, I remembered that it was me who had put it there … Sighing resignedly, I squatted down to take off my shoes. I was struggling to keep my eyes open, and I couldn’t understand why the boots couldn’t come off by themselves.

I don’t have to take them off.

A sleepy glance fell on the newspapers scattered on the floor – which I had been collecting in a pile and had never been able to throw away. In the morning I had to clean up the mess … For some reason, I began to unlace my boot again.

Out of the darkness, finally, the outlines of objects began to emerge, scattered things – larger than newspapers and papers. I became wary. My intuition was not asleep, anxiety rang in my ears even through the veil of intoxication. I tried to get up, but only leaned on my knee.

“Where is it?”

A strange voice slashed across my exposed nerves. My heart instantly quickened its pace: something was wrong, right under my nose, and I couldn’t see it …

I raised my head sharply, still squatting, leaning my hands on the floor, expecting to see only the windows of the room and the doorway leading from the entrance hall, but in front of me was a black shadow – black, like a gaping void. My throat was seized by an invisible hand of dread, I could not move, my heart was pounding somewhere in my stomach.

I couldn’t even scream to drive away this terrible vision.

But was it a vision?

“Get the hell out of here,” I finally squeezed out.

I saw only a clot of darkness rising in front of me. It seemed incorporeal, but the impression is deceptive …

“Where is it?” he repeated.

I couldn’t tell if his voice was real – it seemed to resound in my head. The voice was strange – contradictorily natural, not fitting the frightening appearance. The shadow column’s yellow, burning eyes lit up.

My palms were sweating. He is a figment of imagination … I had just caught intoxication psychosis. Everything was unreal – as if I had found myself in a terrible dream.

I was very hopeful that I would wake up any minute now and that this monster would not be in front of me. I rose to my feet, fighting the dizziness.

“Tell me, where did you hide it?”

Now his voice was like thunder.

“What ‘it’? I don’t understand …”

Stepping on my own shoelace, I almost fell to the floor without finishing my sentence. My body refused to obey me.

“You don’t deserve it,” he said.

The cloak swayed in the dimness.

“Now get out of my apartment! I don’t believe in monsters – that means they don’t exist!”

“Don’t they?” He burst out laughing, grotesquely, like a theatrical villain, then interrupted himself and said, “For the last time I ask you: where is my violin?”

What? The violin?!

“What the hell kind of violin?!” I squealed, jumping to the side, almost knocking over the floor lamp again.

He narrowed his yellow eyes and began to approach slowly. It was as if he were floating in the air: I did not hear his smooth steps, the black figure glided along the floor. The shadow came close and leaned over me.

He was taller than me, over six feet tall, a black hand with long fingers reached for my throat and I swallowed convulsively. I couldn’t move – I hated myself for it, but there was nothing I could do.

Suddenly he pulled his hand away, and I pressed myself even harder against the wall, feverishly trying to figure out what to do to make this nightmare end. The guest looked at me silently, and his gaze confused my thoughts.

He said something about the violin. Damn it, let him take it – if that’s really the case, and he came for it, then I need to give the instrument to this monster. It’s high time to get rid of this horrible violin – it’s just right for him …

“Take it, I don’t need it …!” I blurted out. “Damn you, you and your violin!”

He looked at me, I thought I saw a crooked smile. I had played with the demons too much.

“Well then, give it to me,” he said and extended his hands with long fingers forward.

Only then did I realize that I didn’t have the violin. Baphomet had it. If I had known, I would have given it to him back then, in the alley … The picture finally came together: he was the one who attacked Met, he wanted to strangle me because he thought I had the violin. He thought Baphomet had bought it for me, the credit card was mine … It was all so simple!

“I’ll give it back to you – I don’t need it,” I said. “But I don’t have it now.”

“You don’t …?” he breathed out, and it seemed to me that this was the first human emotion he had shown.

He was pretending to be a demon, and at first I believed him – but he’s not a demon, he’s just a man.

Just a man who broke into my apartment and threatened me. On my birthday.

“You have one day. Tomorrow I’ll come and take it,” he said in a colorless voice – unexpectedly without a threat.

The black shadow dissolved, stirring the air. A moment later, it was only me who remained in the apartment.

14. Office

The artificial light from the ceiling lamps in the spacious hall was harsh on the eyes. Interns filled out forms on low square sofas opposite the reception desk, the design studio’s HR manager watching over them looked like a security guard. I winced from the buzzing headache of a hangover every time someone raised their voice to ask a stupid question.

“What’s the date today?”

“October twenty-third,” I muttered without turning around, instinctively clutching the violin case to my chest.

I had already managed to stop by the club. I was quietly making my way through the corridors to pick up Baphomet’s violin from the dressing room, and I felt no remorse at all. The bodies left after the party had not even woken up.

If they said it was my violin, then I could do whatever I wanted with it.

“Mr. Myer,” said the girl who approached me, smiling widely – as much as her expressionless face allowed, “Mrs. Thompson is expecting you.”

I got up from the sofa, violin case under my arm, and walked up the hall past the glass panels of the open-plan office in the direction the secretary had indicated. The office was stylish, sleek, without the sense of deathly corporate crampedness. As I passed the statue of a dancing faun, I couldn’t help but chuckle: it reminded me of someone.

“Victor, I’m glad you responded right away,” Mrs. Thompson said immediately after the greeting.

She pointed to a round leather chair opposite. I plopped down into it without hesitation.

“I have something that might interest you.”

At nine in the morning I was awakened by a phone call. After the terrible guest left, I lay down on my bed and instantly fell into a dreamless sleep. Mrs. Thompson said she had an offer for me, asked when I could come to her office to discuss the details … I was not thinking clearly, she took advantage of the moment, I agreed to come over in the afternoon.

I just needed to unwind.

The fourteenth floor of a thirty-five-story office building in Murray Hill looked like a set for a New York office sitcom, but at least it was better than a horror movie set. The dark shadows had receded into the light of day, and the violin on my lap vibrated as if it were alive.

There is nothing supernatural about the night visitor – he did not intend to take my soul or drink my blood, like the city vampire. This magician only wanted to take my violin. And the violin is not alive – it is just a violin.

“I would like to offer you a job.”

I looked up from my hands folded on top of the case, staring at Mrs. Thompson.

“A job?” I asked, confused.

“The vacancy for a digital modeling specialist is open. Work on a computer, in a comfortable office, projects – both from private customers and from large brands and corporations. The designer puts together details, he must be able to see the picture as a whole and impartially.”

I was speechless. She was offering me a job? Mrs. Thompson was offering me a job, a normal office job, a real damn job?

Wow.

“Are you sure?” I finally squeezed out. “You need someone with experience and a portfolio. I cannot do anything.”

“You have ability, Victor. And a fresh perspective,” Mrs. Thompson folded her hands under her chin, examining me carefully. “The rest can be learned.”

I hastened to object, “This will take time.”

“So, do you agree?”

She presented me with a fait accompli. She knows exactly what she’s doing … I shrugged.

“Why not?”

A satisfied smile appeared on Martha Thompson’s face.

If I survive the upcoming meeting with the monster, then there is interesting work ahead. I never thought the office was for me: a day according to the schedule, seagull managers, corporate style and ethics … What if everything is not that bad?

“That’s great. Now, Victor, let’s discuss the details.”

…It was the height of an autumn day. I walked down the stone steps of the entrance staircase overlooking busy Park Avenue, the vistas Mrs. Thompson had outlined a few minutes earlier seemed unreal, not part of my reality, not at all in keeping with the ordinary routine of a young musician drowning in chaos. I walked, clutching the violin to my chest, counting the square blocks of sidewalk, staring at the gray granite beneath my soles.

What will happen after I give him the violin?

If he wanted to kill me, he would have done it long ago. The black shadow knew where I lived and who I was, he was probably following me … But why was he sure that the owner of the violin was me? If he had killed me then, in the alley, how would he have known where the violin was?

When Mrs. Thompson asked about the violin, I felt wary as if being paranoid … She simply asked if I performed with the instrument at concerts, but I answered vaguely: that I did not play often, and that I had little interest in violins.

I walked slowly to the parking lot on the corner where I had left my Defender, weaving through the stream of passers-by, looking absently at my feet. A cool wind got under my turtleneck, and I shivered, clutching the case to my chest.

Suddenly someone pushed me in the left shoulder, I turned around. A girl floated past me, indifferently muttering an apology, without even turning her head.

I didn’t respond – but continued to stand, blocking the way for the other pedestrians, looking back at her.

For some reason my heart was pounding loudly in my throat, and I was blinking frequently, I couldn’t move, I was staring after her. I was ready to bet that she didn’t even notice that she had run into me, she didn’t notice me.

She walked up the stone steps to the entrance of the building I had just left, and I still couldn’t take my eyes off her. My fingers were clutching the violin, my palms were sweating.

She was dressed all in black – like me – with autumn shadows playing across her pale face. Her chestnut hair flowed over her shoulders, and her white hands clutched a folder and laptop tightly to her chest.

She walked into the building and the glass revolving doors closed behind her. I was about to run after her, but then I caught myself.

With some effort, I turned on my heels and walked away, stamping my steps. My thoughts were spinning in my head. Obviously, the stranger couldn’t be going to Mrs. Thompson’s … There are many offices in the business center.

What do I care where she went.

As I climbed into the car, I caught myself smiling a wide, idiot smile.

15. Survive the Dawn

“It’s gone!” Baphomet screamed into the phone. “It’s gone!”

I bit my lip.

“Met, calm down …”

“It’s been stolen!”

“Met, I—”

“Victor, it’s gone! What should we do now?! O my Queen, my Fractured Star!”

He continued to yell, the phone crackling and unable to handle the overtones.

“Baphomet, I have the violin.”

He stopped yelling immediately. After a long period of mutual silence, Met finally asked, “Why did you take it?”

I can’t tell him that I’m being threatened by a psychopath in a black cloak, can I?

“I need it, I’ll tell you everything later.”

I was already uneasy, I felt guilty, but there was no other way out. Otherwise, this monster would simply kill me.

“Have you finally decided?”

I didn’t immediately understand what he was talking about. Decided to try playing the violin …

I had to mumble meaningfully in response; it was hard to lie that I had decided to start learning to play the family heirloom. Life is more important than family heirlooms.

“Stop being hysterical, everything is alright,” I reassured him and said goodbye.

Having hung up, I looked at the clock – 7:30 PM. It will soon be dark.

The violin was lying on the bed, wrapped in black silk, and I took it out of its case to make sure it wouldn’t turn into a rabbit in a magician’s hat.

For some reason, I didn’t want to give it away anymore. Obviously, I didn’t want to give in to this shadow man with burning eyes.

I walked around the room in circles, having smoked half a pack of Richmond, but time dragged on so slowly … One half of me wanted to finally get rid of the violin, to end this nightmare, and the other half wanted to prevent the monster from appearing in my house, to delay the moment as long as possible.

Night unfolded over the city, the streetlamps were lit one after another outside the window. Their yellow balls seemed like huge eyes, staring at me. I closed the curtains, trying to escape from the obsessive associations, I sat in the dark.

I could clearly hear the hum of cars in the parking lot across the street, the sound of water running in the neighbors’ upstairs. I could distinguish many sounds invading the lonely space, but none of them resembled the thunderous rumbles in the strange voice.

Silly theatrical special effects.

It was past midnight when I looked at the clock. The bright screen of my phone illuminated the room, and eerie shadows crawled across the walls and ceiling.

But none of them were as black as his cloak.

Perhaps he had forgotten … I found myself hoping for his forgetfulness.

How many idiots are there he scares to death when paying a visit at night? I’m one such loser. He wanted this violin and no other. He wanted to steal it while I was out – but he was out of luck.

Someone scratched at the window and I jerked on the bed. Laying in wait and holding my breath, I listened to the rhythmic tapping of wings on the glass – it was just an ordinary bat, moth hunter.

My heart began to beat faster from every jarring sound, my hearing became sharper. I peered into the outlines of the furniture and scattered things. I still hadn’t cleaned up the mess made by the uninvited guest.

What the heck was that? He came to my home, threw things around … Where did I get so much junk? Black T-shirts, shirts, and jeans were still lying on the floor.

Only the books remained standing on their shelves untouched: the violinist could not afford to throw around monographs on the history of art and music theory.

I crossed my arms over my chest, grimacing at the darkness, leaning back slightly on the pillows.

I must not fall asleep, or this jackass will surprise me in my sleep, and I will be easy prey. I must fight sleep, I must—

When I decided to look at the clock again, it showed three thirty-eight minutes at night. Or morning, whichever one prefers.

I tossed the phone somewhere into the thrown back blanket. 4 AM – and this bastard still hadn’t deigned to come!

I was annoyed – and, snorting loudly, I turned on my side. Pulling my knees up to my stomach, I hugged myself by the shoulders.

The main thing is to survive the dawn.

16. Alone

I enjoyed my work. Erwin Frei, the head of the digital design team, explained the software tools to me in two days, and then was speechless and barely able to restrain himself from hitting me with a chair. I enjoyed critiquing the projects the layout designers had cooked up that week, without being embarrassed by my own vision – when Frei used them as an example while onboarding me.

It was all new, although not as easy as I had expected.

Frei advised me not to admit that I had no experience. From day one, I was considered an upstart, apparently stirring up an anthill overgrown with moss and mold. I expected that after yet another complaint about me, Mrs. Thompson would fire me before the end of my probation – but she not only approved of unconventional ideas, but also instructed the studio to be more active in helping me.

For some reason she relied on me, I was not only a fresh perspective, but also a catalyst for processes; they were reacting to me – albeit not always in a friendly manner.

So far, only Peter Riedel3 from the technical writing department has heeded Thompson’s recommendation – with whom we had managed to ridicule several documents with customer requirements. Frei still looked at me with suspicion, even though he liked my dark humor.

During these few days at my new job, I never once thought about the black shadow … He never came for the violin – and that could not but rejoice. What had happened began to seem like just a bad dream.

I could breathe easy again, and when I came home, I would only glance sideways at the violin case, lying alone on the nightstand. It didn’t bother me.

“Victor, tell me about your family: who are they, what do they do?”

Mrs. Thompson, under the pretext of having lunch together, intended to get feedback from me. How parents are connected with adaptation at work, I did not quite understand.

I didn’t answer right away.

“I grew up in an orphanage. In Austria, in Vienna. I know almost nothing about them.”

The woman threw up her hands and gasped, but said nothing, preparing to listen further.

“At the age of eleven I ran away from the orphanage, I was a vagabond. Then, when I was fifteen, my guardian took me in, he is an Englishman – that is why I have British citizenship. It turned out that I am the heir of Austrian bon ton.”

She definitely already knew some of this. For example, that I don’t even have a permanent residency in the States.

“And your guardian?”

“Sir Leigh4 is a historian and religious scholar, he lives in the London suburbs, writes books, still teaches … He is in good health, and we sometimes call each other. But, you must admit, I am already independent, I do not need a guardian.”

When Sir Leigh took me to his home and told me about my parents, the general information was enough for me – I didn’t even ask questions. It turned out he knew them personally, my mother was a philologist, my father an architect, they both studied music. They died in a car accident when I was a baby, there was a house left of them in Vienna.

“Of course,” Mrs. Thompson replied.

She nodded understandingly, and we didn’t return to this topic again.

In the evening, I came home exhausted but satisfied, I didn’t notice how the day flew by.

I pulled off my turtleneck and went to the bathroom mirror: the same boring mug, protruding collarbones and ribs, muscular relief without the fat layer of a six-foot Byronic hero. Thinness has always raised questions, as a child I was often force-fed … More often than not, the food came out right away.