Aydy's Fiddle - The Memory Thief

by Edward Curnutte

  “That horrible little Robbie Stuart! He had been harassing me since last year when I won the violin competition. Today he challenged me to a fight behind the school!”

  “What did you do? Did you fight him?”

  “Of course mother, I not only fought him, I beat him real good. He will never bother me again. However –”

  “However what?”

  “Before leaving, Robbie took my violin and smashed it to bits! He’s such a sore loser!”

  Restraining a smirk, Owen reached for his violin case and opened the lid. His mother recoiled back in her chair, raising a hand to her mouth.

  “My goodness, Owen, look what he did!”

  “Mother, the whole thing is completely shattered! I tried to explain what happened to Professor Hergicksen but he wouldn’t listen. He gave me a huge lecture about why I don’t respect him, and then he threw me out and told me never to come back!”

  “Now, now, my son. You needn’t be so upset. I will explain everything to your father as soon as he comes home. We’ll make sure to get this whole thing sorted out.”

  * * *

  When George Delmott returned home later that evening, he poured himself a stiff brandy. A long, lanky figure with a receding grey hairline and piercing blue eyes, he sat down and listened to the whole story from his wife, Clara. After she finished, there was an awkward silence in the room.

  “Don’t we pay Hergicksen enough for these lessons? He ought to understand what it’s like to be a boy and get into fights. Owen had the clear right to defend himself. Hergicksen could’ve considered that, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, dear. Of course.”

  “So, tomorrow morning that old dog is getting a visit from me. By the time I leave there, this whole situation will be sorted out. After I’m through with him, I’ll visit Robbie Stuart’s parents. That boy needs to be taught a lesson about picking fights and destroying other peoples’ property.”

  “What should we do about the violin?” asked Clara.

  George scowled at her. “Of course I’m going to make them buy him another one of the same quality!”

  “But George, dear, the Stuarts are not wealthy people!”

  “That’s not my concern and neither should it be yours. Life is tough. Their boy would do well to consider his actions beforehand! First, a violin. Next it’ll be pick-pocketing, petty theft, then bank robbery and Lord knows what else. I’m actually helping to save the boy!”

  Clara massaged her brow as if she had a headache.

  George sighed, sipped his brandy and leaned forward. “Clara, look, we’ve worked very hard to get where we are in life, and we’re far from finished. People are jealous of us. They’re jealous of our success and won’t hesitate to prevent us from reaching our goals. Robbie Stuart smashing Owen’s violin is a perfect example of that, don’t you see? In that boy’s childish mind he thought he could stop Owen from becoming successful as a musician. When Owen gets older, he’ll realize that people will use much more clever means to prevent him from doing great things in his life. This sort of behaviour has to be stopped now, and people must realize they can’t bully him – or us. We are strong people, Clara, and we need to show that strength. I can also assure you that by the turn of the century we’re going to own half this town and every major business in it. You can see the number of properties we’ve acquired already! These kinds of things only come to people who work hard, are not intimidated by others, and who possess a strong constitution.”

  “But George –”

  “Please, don’t interrupt me! Strength breeds strength. When my father was alive he knew the value of hard work and determination. Why do you think he willed the café and the better part of his estate to me? Use your head! He did it because he knew I had the business skills to make everything successful. Of course, Joseph is good at the day-to-day operations at the café, but when it comes to anything important, such as dealing with bankers, handling stocks, bonds and securities, my father knew I was the best qualified.”

  Clara sighed.

  “Now what is it?” asked George as he gulped down the last of his brandy.

  “Nothing. You know best, dear. Do as you must.”

  * * *

  Early the following morning Delmott was true to his word. He went straight to the professor’s home, pushed past the stunned maid who answered the door, and barged into the professor’s study. He found Professor Hergicksen gazing out the open window over the grounds, cigar smouldering away, as usual, between his fingers.

  “Oh Mr. Delmott, won’t you please come in and make yourself at home? I believe we might get a bit of rain today,” said the professor, back still turned.

  Delmott walked right up to the desk and stopped.

  “Hergicksen, you know why I’m here. What is this matter with my son? Why was he expelled from his lessons?”

  “I’m sure the boy explained everything to you, didn’t he?” said the professor, turning to face Delmott. “If he didn’t, perhaps I can fill in the blanks – or add a few more details.”

  “Details? Details? Details such as what?” said Delmott.

  “Well now Mr. Delmott, perhaps he mentioned to you that he deliberately – and with full knowledge and foresight – did wilfully commit the act of destroying one fine Sebastian Götz violin.”

  “How dare you!” the lawyer hissed.

  “Mr. Delmott, I dare say I witnessed the whole sorry spectacle myself with these very eyes. Come with me.”

  The two men walked outside under the slate-grey sky. After a brief search through the grass, the professor picked up some small fragments of the violin, including the soundpost. Presented with this evidence, George Delmott was speechless.

  “Hergie,” he said in a calmer tone, “there must be something we can do to set this right. My son wants to be a great violinist! He wants to be taught by the best!”

  “From what I saw, George, he doesn’t want to be a violinist at all. He is an angry young man, very angry,” replied the professor, matching Delmott’s conciliatory tone and placing the broken pieces in his hand. “I would strongly suggest you have a talk with the boy. Regardless, my mind is made up. With your son having such an attitude I can no longer accept him as a student. As a matter of fact, I’m not accepting any more new students at all. You know, at my age I should be slowing down, but sometimes that’s difficult to do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a busy day. I’ve got a train to catch this afternoon for my concert in Toronto tomorrow.”

  Through years of practice, training, and working with people of all types, Professor Hergicksen deemed himself to be an excellent judge of human character and thus could easily assess peoples’ motives and predict their actions. Regrettably though, he lacked the ability to foretell his own future – that by the time this day finished, his life would never again be the same.

  Chapter 3

  Professor Herbert Hergicksen always preferred to travel first class. By the time he arrived at the train station late that afternoon, the sky had become decidedly more menacing. As was always his practice, he arrived well ahead of his departure time. Normally the train would have been waiting and people already boarding, but not even his first class ticket could save him from the problem then confronting him – there was simply no train to take. People were milling about on the platform, leaning over one another to gaze down the tracks in the hopes of seeing a rising black plume of smoke in the distance. Still, nothing.

  At that moment, through a bullhorn, the station master announced that the train would not arrive for another three hours due to a mechanical problem. Angry shouts erupted from the crowd, but no amount of complaining could change their situation. Professor Hergicksen, having only a small overnight bag and his rare, beloved J.B. Vuillaume violin in its case, elbowed his way through the crowd to the station master’s office. He entrusted these items to the station master and trotted off, ever-present cigar in hand, to Delmott’s Café, located about a block away, to perhaps nibble on a sandwich
and sample some of the fine coffee he had heard about but had not had the pleasure of tasting.

  The sky was now beginning to darken considerably, even turning an ominous shade of green and black. Professor Hergicksen discarded his cigar and quickened his pace down the sidewalk, his black overcoat pushed up hard behind his legs by the freshening wind.

  The professor arrived at the café in the nick of time, entering just as a sharp crack of thunder struck in perfect unison with the small, clattering brass bell mounted on the door. Closing the door against the worsening weather, and with relief, he looked round and saw that the whole café, which consisted of maybe a dozen tables, a large central stove and a serving counter, was completely deserted.

  Glancing at the sign hanging in the door, he realized the café had just closed. He knew he ought to leave, but the rain was now driving down in blinding torrents. He stood there and looked around, wondering why the proprietors would leave the place unlocked. He resisted the urge to light another cigar.

  Just then, the door to the café burst open; somebody rushed in against the rain and weather and pushed the door shut, nearly knocking the good professor off his feet. A young girl, sopping wet, her dress soaked to her skin; she stood with her back and hands pressed up to the door, holding it firmly shut. She was drawing in huge gulps of air as if she’d been running for her life.

  Huff, huff, huff, “Good afternoon, huff Maestro!” said the girl, trying to catch her breath. She swallowed hard and continued. “Oh, please, I hope you won’t leave! It’s pouring rain outside and you’ll catch your death!”

  The professor burst out laughing. “Me? Catch my death?”

  The poor, fair-skinned girl didn’t appear to be much more than ten or eleven years old. She looked at him with large, ice-blue eyes highlighting her oval face, and her chestnut coloured hair hung wet and limp about her shoulders. Focusing squarely on him, she gulped and, again catching her breath, managed a smile.

  “Please, Maestro, won’t you have a seat? Let me make you a cup of our finest coffee.”

  “You work here? Well, all right, you may,” said the professor. He looked at the weather again and, sighing, hung his overcoat and hat on the coat rack. He took a chair at a table near the window, viewing the spectacle outside. “Don’t you think you should dry yourself off?”

  “Oh, it’s only water, Maestro! It’s nothing to worry about. In fact, my father says that water gives us life! He also says that with enough time, water dries off!”

  Not willing to dispute the undeniable validity of this fact, nor contradict the girl’s father, the professor nodded. “Well miss, you wouldn’t allow me to catch my death by venturing into this deluge!”

  “Yes, well Maestro you’re an old, wise man and I, well…I, yes, well of course you are old, but you’re far more wise than you are old – and very learned!” she said as a redness spread across her face.

  Professor Hergicksen sat there bemused at her blabbering and makeshift compliments. He chuckled. The girl wiped her feet and squeezed the water from her hair. Then, with drips marking a path across the wooden floor, she made her way past the big stove and around the counter to where the coffee percolator was located.

  “My name is Alexandra and my papa runs the café,” she said. “And everyone knows who you are, Maestro. My father took me to some of your concerts and I always had a dream that someday I would meet you in person and that you would share with me all your greatest experiences in the best concert halls around the globe and that maybe you’d tell me all the secrets of all the greatest concert violinists of all time!”

  “Well now, I –” said the professor. Another blue flash of lightning was soon followed by a great rumble of thunder.

  “Oh please Maestro, you must! My father told me there’s no such thing as a coincidence, that everything in the universe has a purpose! That means our meeting today was written in the stars!” she said as she boiled the water and ground up the coffee beans.

  “First, I should desire that you’d stop calling me Maestro,” he said as he looked at the waterfall of rain slide off the awning. “Such titles make me very uncomfortable. However, you may call me Professor Hergicksen.”

  “As you wish, Professor Hergicksen, but Maestro is really such an elegant title. I’ve read so many books about music and when I was a little girl I had all my dolls arranged in a symphony, the larger dolls playing the big bass instruments, the medium sized dolls in the brass section, and of course my favourite dolls, the small ones, would always play the violin. Don’t you think it’s great Maestro? Er, I’m so sorry, please I beg your pardon, Professor Hergicksen!” she said in one breath just as the coffee percolator finished its job.

  The professor rolled his eyes and sighed. “Well, since you seem so insistent on calling me Maestro, you may. You may also bring me some coffee.”

  “Oh thank you! Right away, Maestro! What do you take in your coffee?”

  “I take it black. That way nothing pollutes its true flavour. Milk and sugar are nothing more than noise,” he said resolutely. “You see, it’s the same with music. Too many distractions take away from the true flavour.”

  “Oh Maestro, I agree w-w-with you!” said the girl, shivering. She promptly poured two cups and sat with him at his table.

  “Do you drink coffee, miss? And just how old are you?” he said, squinting.

  “I’m t-t-welve years old,” she replied as she handed him his coffee with shaky hands. She then sipped her own coffee, the professor assuming she wanted it more for its heat value than its taste. She recoiled, turning her nose up at the noxious brew.

  “Young lady, really now…” He had already forgotten her name. “You’re freezing to death. I’ll not be party to the demise of a young woman!” He got up, retrieved his coat, and placed it round the girl’s shivering shoulders. “That should help.”

  Returning to his chair, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his cigar case and a small box of matchsticks. Lighting one of his cigars, he gently puffed on it and, as the end of the cigar began glowing red round the edges, curls of white smoke billowed into the café.

  The young waitress gazed up at him, placed a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, and coughed lightly.

  “Oh dear, how rude of me. This is a terrible habit of mine, but dare I say, it’s my only vice.” He quickly extinguished the cigar as if it were some cheap stogie.

  The girl leaned forward at the table with her fingers interlocked, looking at the great master, eyes fixed on him. The professor sensed she had something urgent to say.

  “Maestro, I can play the violin too! I only have a small children’s violin though, but I practice very hard. I even used to take lessons with Sister Madeline at school and I was doing really very well. Then one day she told me she’d rather teach my cousin Owen. It was absolutely the worst day of my life! Then Sister Madeline left and now Owen is taking lessons with you. Please Maestro, can I take lessons with you, too? I’d be a good student, I learn very quickly! Please? I’ve so dreamt of it, I so want it!”

  Professor Hergicksen leaned back in his chair. He studied the aspiring musician sitting across from him, all the recent events replaying in his mind: He had just expelled the girl’s cousin from his lessons. He had just told the boy’s father he wouldn’t take him back. Finally, he said he would not be accepting any more students. He sighed. He was a man of honour, a man of his word. He must be firm. He wondered how he could ever justify taking on another student, let alone a girl, let alone this female cousin of the boy he had just expelled.

  The girl sat across from him chewing on a strand of her hair, her eyes large and expectant.

  Professor Hergicksen sighed again and leaned forward. “Young lady, look. This is not easy for me to say. I’m an old man. I have done so much in my life and I cannot possibly do any more. I’m afraid to say I cannot accept you as my student.”

  The young girl searched his face, tears welling up in her eyes, her lower lip quivering. She bolted up from her c
hair, casting his coat from her shoulders and onto the floor. Sobbing, she tore across the café to the small door beyond the counter which led upstairs.

  The professor sat there dazed, hearing the sound of the girl’s footsteps running up the stairs, followed a moment later by the sound of falling objects from above and the heavy creak of an old bed.

  He rubbed his eyes, wiped his face and sighed. He put two coins on the table, collected his coat from the floor and hat from the hat rack and departed the café. The rain had lightened to a drizzle, and he trudged back to the train station along soggy streets.

  Throwing herself on the bed, Alexandra deliberately turned to the wall, her whole body heaving in great sobs, her tears soaking into the pillow. She avoided looking at the chaotic mess on the floor after sweeping off the orchestra of dolls neatly arranged on her hope chest.