~~~~~~~~~~~~
From time to time over the next several weeks, Manisha picked up her Stradivari and attempted to play—but something was missing. It sounded horrible.
The spell is broken, she thought sorrowfully. I have regained my soul, but was it worth the price?
She continued her studies with Devak and Mohana, but her mind was continually drawn back to her long, strange tryst with Il Maestro.
Her flute playing, at least, had improved immensely—perhaps a tiny bit of Paganini’s spell still lingered, she thought—but her heart was not in it.
As graduation day approached, she fretted over which piece she should perform at her recital. She was tired of Mohana’s vapid pentatonic progressions, and she pined over the missing seven tones of the scale. There must be some way to introduce the world to this wonderful, ancient musical style, she thought. She considered playing La Carmagnole, but decided that that bawdy tune would just not do.
At last she relented and decided to play Mohana’s wretched flute Raga after all—but she would bring her Stradivari for an encore, just in case. She thought, Best to stick to what you know, girl.
Graduation day came at last. The graduation ceremonies were held at the Kaimara, an ancient, open-air arena built by the Britisa a thousand years before. The octagonal Kaimara was originally a library built of stone, and had been extensively modified over the ages.
Manisha arrived early, carrying both her flute and her violin. Devak met her outside the arena. “Ah, my star pupil! Tell me, have you decided what to do after your graduation?”
She smiled coyly. “Why, you know, Master—I wish to become an archaeologist, working with you. But I have not given up on my music, just yet.”
He whispered to her from behind his hand. “You know, of course, that there’s a lot more money to be made in archaeology than music.”
She grinned.
He glanced at her violin case. “Will you play it today?”
She shrugged. “I do not know. It is a very difficult instrument, I have learned.”
As he continued to stare at her, she continued. “…and I promise I will turn it over to your new museum, after graduation. There, are you happy?”
“Good! Then, let us enter!”
They walked arm-in-arm through one of the eight arched entrances to the Kaimara. In the very center of the arena was an open-air pit with a wooden stage. Rising from the pit were concentric rings of stone seats, surmounted by a stone balustrade.
Devak and Manisha took their seats and watched the proceedings. Manisha was just one of several dozen graduates of the various colleges in Aksaphortha, and she waited patiently as the students paraded up to the stage and gave their recitations on philosophy, mathematics, drama, music, or archaeology.
There were several musical performances by students whom Manisha knew well. As she watched them perform, she felt a sense of pity. If they could only hear a sample of what I experienced with Il Maestro…
At last Manisha’s turn came. She took her beloved Stradivari out of its case, quietly checked the tuning, and tightened her bow. Then she tucked her flute under her other arm and marched up to the stage.
She gazed out at the expectant audience and suddenly felt overcome by fear and doubt. She thought, Can I really go through with this? She cast her gaze around the arena and paused. Sitting in an unoccupied seat, near the top, was Il Maestro. He sat motionless, gazing back at her with his long fingers knitted together.
Gathering her jumbled wits, Manisha announced, “I should like to play the Raga on the Fifth Tone, by my teacher, Malakina Mohana.”
Mohana beamed back at her.
Manisha carefully set down her violin and bow and raised the five-hole flute to her lips. She stole a quick glance at Paganini, who had not changed position. This is the easy part… she thought.
She launched into the Raga and lost herself for a time in the music. It’s not really as bad as it sounds… she thought cynically. From time to time she glanced up at Paganini again. Still, he had not moved.
She tackled the difficult middle movement. Difficult—until I learned the true foundations of harmony, she thought. Now, it is child’s play.
She glanced at Mohana, who was rocking back and forth in time to her music with her eyes closed.
That is a good sign. She likes it.
She finished up with a flourish and dropped her flute to her side. The audience stood and applauded—all except for Paganini, who still sat stone-faced and distracted, with his hand on his chin.
Mohana applauded the loudest. “Well done! You make me proud, child!”
I’m sure I do, Manisha thought. As the applause died, she hesitated. She glanced up at Paganini, who appeared impatient. He made a rolling motion with his hands, as if to say, I am waiting, Mia Bella.
Manisha was in turmoil. She still doubted her ability to play without Il Maestro’s manipulation—but he seemed to harbor no such doubts. She could see his growing impatience.
She finally decided. “I would like to play one more piece. It is dedicated to the greatest violinist who ever lived—Niccolò Paganini.”
She held up her violin. “And this is the greatest Stradivari ever built. It is called Le Messie.”
Il Maestro leaned back and folded his arms, still gazing at her.
Manisha picked up her bow and took her stance. Then she launched into the Andante from the First Caprice. As her bow danced up and down the strings, her fingers seemed to float through the intricate thirty-second note arpeggios. In less than two minutes, she ended the Andante with a flourish.
She immediately launched into the Second Caprice, a relatively easy work. She had time to steal a glance at Paganini. He was not choreographing her, but sitting and listening intently, with his eyes closed. Thrilled, she thought, I am playing this completely on my own, with no help from Il Maestro.
The Third Caprice began with a slow Sostenuto, all in parallel octaves. She thought, If anything can tear at this audience’s heartstrings, it is this slow, languorous piece.
She giggled as she played the fast section of the Fourth Caprice, which sounded like a hen clucking and prancing about. On and on she played, occasionally stealing glances at Paganini and the audience. They appeared to be utterly mesmerized by her performance.
That’s the genius of Paganini, she thought. He rips your heart out of your chest, and then dances a jig with it.
She played the Allegretto from the Ninth Caprice—one of her favorites, with its flute and horn imitations.
She reached the Thirteenth Caprice—another bodice-ripper, with its dreamy, descending parallel-third passages that tore at the heartstrings. Number fourteen followed with another short trumpet imitation.
The dramatic Seventeenth Caprice alternated between blazing-fast arpeggios and light, delicate double stops.
The Twentieth Caprice began with an Allegretto on a droning, open D-string harmony, and then launched into another long string of fireworks.
By the time Manisha reached the Posato of the Twenty-third Caprice, she felt her strength flagging. By now, she had been playing for over an hour, and her arms and legs felt as if they were on fire. Still, she played on. This will be a performance for the ages, she thought.
She paused to catch her breath before tackling the Twenty-fourth Caprice, and stole a glance at Paganini. He nodded slightly in approval, with just the hint of a smile.
That is high praise indeed, coming from Il Maestro, she thought. Here I go…
She played the simple theme of the Twenty-fourth Caprice and moved on to the first variation, and then the second, and the third.
The seventh variation had always reminded her of a hive of bees buzzing.
The extraordinary ninth variation was over in mere seconds, with its all left-handed pizzicato that at last gave her bowing hand a brief respite.
The ethereal tenth variation ended, and she caught her breath again. Utterly spent, she glanced at Paganini again and desperate
ly shook her head as if to say, I have nothing left to give.
For once, concern creased his ephemeral brow. He leaned forward and scowled at her, silently waving his hands to urge her on. She summoned all her flagging strength and began the eleventh variation and Finale. The pain in her arms and hands was excruciating. At last she reached the long final trill, and ended with a perfect A-major chord.
Manisha lifted her violin and bow above her head and looked at the audience, completely spent. Through her blurry vision, she saw them leap to their feet and applaud—including Paganini, but not Mohana.
Still unable to believe that she had actually accomplished such a feat, she stood wobbling, dazed, and unable to feel her fingers. She lost her grip on the Stradivari and fell to her knees. With a sickening crunch, the violin hit the stage and its ribs split, the neck folded up, and the top plate split in two.
The arena suddenly fell silent.
As her vision faded, Manisha felt as if she was looking down a tunnel. At the far end she saw Paganini, who applauded slowly. Clap… clap… clap…
Then Manisha fell forward on top of the ruined Stradivari and fainted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Several weeks later, Manisha ventured out into the streets of Aksaphortha for the first time since her performance. She was still disconsolate over the loss of her beloved Stradivari. If only I had been more careful, she thought over and over. I could have played just one Caprice perhaps, but no…
She had withdrawn her petition to work for Devak. After the loss of the Stradivari there was a subtle, constant tension between the two of them, even though he declared his forgiveness to her for having done such a foolish thing. She could hardly blame him for feeling that way—after all, she had promised to return the instrument safely to him.
She had also had a falling-out with Malakina Mohana. Her music teacher refused to speak to her after the performance, except to say, “Music of Saitana! I forbid you to perform it!”
Manisha thought, Mohana can take her pathetic five-tone scale and sit on it.
She wandered past a toy store and paused, then she backed up. She was astonished to see a display of toy violins in the window. They were a crude imitation of her instrument, made from a single board painted red, with four strings attached.
Hardly believing what she saw, she noticed a young boy emerge from the store, carrying one of the toy instruments. He glanced up at her and his eyes widened.
“Are you the stradivery lady? I saw you playing at the graduation. You were really good.”
The boy raised his toy stradivery to his shoulder and scraped at the strings with a stick. Then he looked up at her expectantly. “I’d give anything to play like you.”
Manisha looked down at the boy and wept. “Anything?”
Author’s Note
Le Messie was Antonio Stradivari’s masterpiece, arguably the finest instrument ever built by him. The master never sold the instrument during his lifetime, but kept it in his shop. After Stradivari’s death, his son sold Le Messie to Count Cozio de Salabue. It was purchased by the “Violin Hunter” Luigi Tarisio in 1827. Like Stradivari before him, Tarisio treasured the violin and never parted with it. After Tarisio’s death, the famous French violin dealer Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume acquired it. It eventually ended up on display in a glass case in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, England. There it sits to this day, the most perfect instrument ever made by the greatest violin maker of all time—and yet, it has never been played in public, in modern memory.
Le Messie
Paganini’s favorite violin, Il Cannone, is on display in Genoa, Italy. Il Cannone was built by Bartolomeo Giuseppe Antonio Guarneri “del Gesù” in 1743. It is slightly larger than a typical Stradivari, with a more powerful voice—which perfectly suited Il Maestro’s furious playing style. If you look closely, you can still see the wear marks where Paganini’s bow repeatedly struck the inner C-bouts as he was playing.
Il Cannone
Did you like this book? Please rate it or review it.
Then check out Kurt Kammeyer’s other publications here:
The Clan of the Stone series:
The Clan of the Stone
The Defender of God
The Empress of Edom
By Ailad’s Bootstraps (Short story)
The President Elect series:
Book One: Joseph Smith the Prophet
Book Two: Joseph Smith the Candidate
Book Three: General Joseph Smith
The Last Stradivari (Short story)
Bath-time Anomalies (Junk science at its best)
The Last Stradivari Page 7