Aydy's Fiddle - The Memory Thief

by Edward Curnutte

  “You can be sure of that!” Marcie said before going back out into the café, leaving Alexandra behind the counter to eat her sandwich.

  As Marcie served one table, from the next she heard Charlie calling towards the counter. “Play us something, Alex!”

  Marcie looked as Alexandra, still chewing, got up and walked over to where Charlie sat with his friends. The girl swallowed and cleared her throat. “Well, Mr. McKay,” she said, smiling. “I’d be happy to play for you, but – ”

  “I don’t know if this café serves music, Charlie!” said Marcie.

  “May I, Marcie, please?” said Alexandra. “Papa says it’s always important to please the customers!”

  Marcie winked at Alexandra. “Why not? Go ahead.”

  Charlie laughed and Alexandra scampered up the stairs.

  “Sit down, Marcie, for heaven’s sake!” said Charlie, motioning towards an empty chair. Seeing no harm in it, Marcie took a seat at Charlie’s table.

  After a few moments a beaming Alexandra returned and stood near the table. She positioned the instrument in the crook of her neck, her bow ready to strike the strings. “What would you like to hear, Mr. McKay?”

  Charlie turned his eyes to the ceiling for a moment and stroked his beard. “Well, you know, back in Nova Scotia they always played fast tunes. Can you play something fast?”

  The little girl with the big dreams smiled and played a rapid series of fast notes, notes as clear and crisp as a snowfall in January, followed by a lively Celtic tune. Marcie didn’t know the name of that tune, but nonetheless she was delighted to be part of Alexandra’s first real audience. Apparently the men did too, as they sat at the table and began to hoot and stomp their feet in rhythm. Marcie settled back in her chair and watched, impressed at the speed with which the fingers on the girl’s left hand could easily find their place on the fingerboard, hitting the right spot every time. Moreover, the girl wasn’t even looking at where her fingers were going. She played with a mischievous grin on her face, sometimes looking ahead, other times this way or that. More than once she played directly to her and Charlie.

  While Alexandra was playing, Marcie noticed Joseph enter the café from the back door. She nodded to Alexandra as if to say I’ll be right back. She rose from her chair and walked behind the counter. She stood with Joseph and watched Alexandra perform.

  “I was out back and heard violin music coming from the café and not from Alex’s bedroom window,” Joseph said in a voice just loud enough for Marcie to hear.

  “Your daughter is really getting good, Joseph,” she whispered. “Customers say so. They tell me every day. Then today, Charlie asked her to play a song.”

  Joseph furrowed his brow. “I don’t know that I want her playing for a bunch of ruffians.”

  “Why not? Look at them, Joseph! They’re happy. She’s happy. Everybody’s happy! You always say you like happy customers, don’t you?”

  Joseph paused. “Of course I do, Marcie. They pay the bills. All right, well I suppose there’s no harm in it – for now.”

  The two stood and watched Alexandra, with Marcie shifting her gaze between Charlie’s glowing face and Alexandra’s animated movements on the violin. Just as Marcie was leaving to rejoin Charlie at his table, another movement caught her attention. She glanced down and smiled, catching Joseph tapping his foot.

  When Alexandra struck the final note, the sound of clapping hands replaced the violin music.

  “Bravo, Alexandra!” Joseph said from behind the counter.

  When Charlie finished clapping, he leaned on the table with one elbow, stroking his beard. He stood up and bowed to the fresh-faced musician. Alexandra offered her usual laugh and curtsied. Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins, sifting through them in his hand.

  “This is for you, Marcie, but this one here, this is for Alex.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. McKay!” said Alexandra, face aglow. “I really didn’t expect anything! I’ll be sure to save it in my piggy bank.”

  * * *

  Alexandra never expected any tips. Any money she did receive she always stored safely in her piggy bank. “Save for a rainy day,” her father would always tell her.

  Whenever an opportunity to play arose, she treated each occasion as if she were giving a private concert. The Stuarts were one of her favourite audiences. Oftentimes she went there and played some new songs, and if she happened to be playing for them in their back garden, their dog Nelson would lay at her feet, pressed up to her leg. Robbie was insistent on playing the violin too, badgering his parents about taking lessons. “If you get into a fight, a violin is not going to protect you,” his father told him right in front of her. So, to her regret, little Robbie Stuart had to set aside any violin ambitions he had – at least for the time being.

  As the days turned into weeks, Alexandra learned many new songs and refined the old ones. She also enjoyed playing her violin in the park, sitting on a blanket under a tree overlooking the river.

  One Sunday afternoon in late July, she was sitting with Emma under the spreading branches of an old maple tree. Alexandra had just finished playing, and the two friends chatted and watched the ships pass by.

  “How old do you think this tree is, Emma?”

  “Well, I think it’s really, really old. Probably more than a hundred years old, maybe even a hundred and fifty.”

  “I think so too, because it’s so large and round and fat. Can you imagine all the things this old tree has seen? I mean, it’s probably seen every ship passing by ever since there were ships! Before that it saw Indians paddling up and downstream in their canoes, even the great chief Tecumseh himself. It probably saw the first Europeans arrive and watched as the British captured Detroit for a time. I wonder how it got here? I hardly think somebody planted it! Maybe it was part of the great forest, and because it was such a majestic and beautiful tree, the axeman took pity on it and spared its life.”

  “Or maybe the axeman didn’t like this kind of tree, so couldn’t be bothered with it,” said Emma. “Honestly, I never think about such things.”

  “So what do you think about?”

  “Well, I think about my homework, doing my chores, helping my mama cook. Things like that,” said Emma.

  “That’s all? But that’s so boring! I have chores too! I have a lot of them at the café, especially since it’s just Papa and me living there. I never let that stop me, though.”

  Alexandra sat a moment, looking up into the branches. “Do you see that yellow bird up there?”

  Emma looked up, scanning the branches before focusing her vision on something. “Yes, I see it.”

  “Did you know that Marcie calls me her little bird? It’s ‘vogelein’ in German or ‘petit oiseau’ in French. I like it when she calls me those names. Of all the creatures, a bird is the freest. It can fly anywhere and, since it carries its own instrument, it can sing anytime it wants. It is truly blessed. I would love to be a bird! Would you like to be a bird, Emma?”

  Emma sat motionless, eyes fixed and centered behind her thick glasses. “I should go home now,” she said. “My mama probably wants me to help her make dinner.”

  Alexandra smiled, and the two girls gathered their things and set off for home. As usual, they walked together until they passed the train station before parting ways.

  The train station was a modest size, yet there were always people coming or going or waiting. As they passed, they saw an old, dark-skinned woman in threadbare clothes sitting near the sidewalk. She held a cup in her hand with a few small coins in the bottom. She looked at up at the girls.

  “Help me!” she cried. “My son, my son! My poor son is sick and I must go to him in Toronto! Please!”

  Alexandra wondered what tragic situation had led this woman here. Though the odd person dropped a coin or two in the old lady’s cup, most people tended to pass by, or look in the other direction.

  Alexandra looked at the woman – then at Emma – then back to the woman.
“I don’t have any money with me, but if you want, I can play a song or two for you. Perhaps people will put money in your cup.”

  The woman looked up at Alexandra and, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded.

  “Alex!” Emma said. “You can’t do that! You don’t know who that is!”

  Alexandra dismissed her friend’s protests. She had seen other people on the street play for money, so maybe there was some value in that. It was worth a try. Alexandra placed her case on the ground near the woman and prepared to play. She lifted her violin to her shoulder, drew a large breath, and began. The ancient instrument resonated with a soulful, sorrowful melody, with drawn-out notes and lower, dark tones. She closed her eyes as she played, allowing her mind to wander, allowing the music to flow through her, to flow through her mind, her arms, her entire being. She felt quiet and at peace as she played. Emma stood silent. The poor old woman had long ago stopped wailing.

  Alexandra’s mind lifted, a new sense developing within her which she could not explain. With her eyes still closed, she could see the woman before her in an entirely different place and time.

  This woman was now much younger, probably only fifteen. She worked someplace under the scorching sun with many other people, picking white shreds of something from tall plants that grew in vast, open fields. All the workers were watched by a man on horseback equipped with a whip and pistol. Aggressive dogs with big teeth seemed ready to pounce on those who dared escape the man’s authority.

  “Two-hundred fifty pounds is what they want me to pick today and I know I ain’t nowhere near that and the day is wearin’ on and my back is killin’ me…”

  Alexandra continued to play, the soulful melody spreading throughout the environs. With her eyes still closed, she was barely aware that passersby were dropping coins into her open violin case.

  In a large home with white pillars, a young man, looking nervous, prepared to play his violin...

  The train whistle shrieked. Alexandra, jarred by the combination of the visions and the train whistle, opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on the old woman. She stood in numbed silence, not knowing what to make of what she had just seen, nor how to react to this woman who had had such a difficult life. She certainly didn’t want to say anything there and then, especially since a small circle of people had gathered around. They clapped when Alexandra finished playing, and some of them even approached and placed money into her open case, which contained an assortment of coins, and even some dollar bills. Emma stood by, mouth agape.

  “Ma’am, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what to say, really.” She looked down into her violin case. “Oh, here, please, this is for you,” Alexandra said to the woman. “I hope it will be enough for you to go to Toronto.”

  The old woman collected the money with her gnarled fingers and put it into her bag. She nodded at Alexandra and spoke to her in a strange accent. “Thank you ever so much! And what be your name, young lady?”

  “My name is Alexandra Delmott, but you can call me Alex.”

  “Well now, I reckon that’s a mighty fine name you have there Miss A.D., but Alex done sounds like a boy’s name to me. So, good luck Miss A.D. with your career on the fiddle.”

  Alexandra, still unsure of what to say, smiled and nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. Good luck to you, too.”

  Emma, mouth ajar and eyes wide, offered no further protest to her benevolent friend.

  Alexandra put her violin away and walked through the modest crowd with Emma until they reached the street.

  “A.D.? Really? That’s funny!” said Emma. “I’ve got to remember that. Hey how would you spell that so it sounds like how she said it? Maybe A-Y-D-Y? Well, I should really go home now. My mother’s going to be worried.”

  “Emma, a really strange thing happened while I was playing for that woman!” said Alexandra, ignoring her friend’s comments.

  “Yes, yes! People gave you a lot of tip money, I saw it!”

  “No, that’s not what I’m talking about!”

  “Alex, or should I call you Aydy? I really must go home now. I’m already late. Let’s meet on Wednesday?”

  “Yes, of course! We can visit Robbie,” said Alexandra after a brief pause. “Come to the café and we’ll go there together. Can you bring some of your mother’s strawberry preserves? We shouldn’t go there empty-handed. I have some things I can bring, too. I also want to tell you what I saw!”

  “Very well, tell me then. Now I have to go!”

  Emma hugged her and the two friends went their separate ways.

  As Alexandra began her own walk home, she heard a familiar voice.

  “Ah-hem, Miss Alexandra?” She turned round to find none other than the Maestro himself standing there. She instantly recognized him – not just as the old Maestro, but as the young violin player in her second vision.

  * * *

  Professor Hergicksen would never again forget her name. “Are you going home, Alexandra? May I accompany you?” The professor noticed Alexandra looking him up and down. The girl did not take long to give him the answer he sought.

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  The two began walking towards the café. “I just returned from London and was in the crowd. I heard your wonderful playing and saw what you did for that woman,” he said. “This really is what life is all about, you know, using your talent not just for yourself, but for the benefit of others. I wish there were more people like you in the world.”

  Alexandra blushed and offered him the first glimmer of a smile. This lasted only a moment before her expression returned to neutral.

  “I do wish to again offer you my most sincere apologies for not accepting you as my student. Mind you, I still cannot take you as my student, but perhaps you can accept me as yours. Even at my age, there are some things I can still learn. There might even be a few things I can share with you. For example, perhaps there are some classical pieces you’d like to play. I do have quite an extensive library.”

  Alexandra remained silent as they walked together, the professor wondering if this aspiring young musician would be convinced by the depth and sincerity of his proposal.

  “Well, I think that’s a very good idea, Maestro. All right, I agree,” she said. The old professor’s heart leapt for joy.

  Alexandra grinned, and a small, restrained laugh escaped in her voice. When they arrived at the café, the professor opened the door for his new musical colleague.

  “When shall we meet?” he asked as she stepped into the doorway.

  “I’m free Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Perhaps we could meet at 2:00?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll be busy at that time. However, I should be free at 5:00 p.m. Would that be all right?” asked Alexandra.

  “Yes, it would. Do you know where I live?”

  Alexandra offered a full smile to the professor as she disappeared into the closing doorway.

  “Everyone knows where you live, Maestro.”

  Chapter 8

  “George!” said Clara as she prepared dinner. “What brings you home early?”

  “Hello, dear,” he said, entering the kitchen from the back veranda and giving Clara a peck on the cheek. “I’ve decided I should get round to doing some painting in the guest house, and I wanted to buy the paint before the shop closed.”

  “We could’ve hired someone to do it!”

  “Nonsense! They’d never do the job as well as I can. Besides, it’s a simple job and I don’t mind doing it. Now that I have the paint, I can do it when I get some free time.”

  “All right, dear. You know best.”

  “Where’s Owen?” said George, sitting down.

  “He’s with his friends. I expect he’ll return shortly,” she said as she placed the ham in the oven.

  “He should really be practicing his violin, Clara. Why did you allow him to go out?”

  “George, dear, he had been practicing all morning, so I told him he could go.”

  “All right, then,” he said
. “Remember, the Premier’s Competition is coming up soon, so he’d better be ready. I hear there are going to be many good players there. I’ve put a lot of faith in Franko to get him ready.”

  When Owen returned and washed up for dinner, the three took their places at the table.

  “How’s the practice going on your violin, son?” asked George.

  “It’s going well, Father.”

  “That’s not what Franko tells me. He says it’s slow, difficult and laborious with you.”

  “I’m trying my best, really I am!” said Owen. “He gives me such difficult pieces to work on!”