Aydy's Fiddle - The Memory Thief

by Edward Curnutte

  “All right,” he replied, puzzled. “What was your vision about?”

  “You know, Papa, one of the good things about having these visions is that nobody can lie to me, not even Owen. Sometimes I might not understand everything I see, but what I see feels so real. So, let me begin: Owen was at home and he told his parents what happened at school that day. Of course he lied to them about most of it, and of course they believed him. Uncle George tried to explain to Owen that the violin really did have powers. Then Uncle George went upstairs and brought the violin down – case and all – and put it on the table. As soon as he opened the lid, he fell down on the floor. But he didn’t suffer an apoplexy attack, Papa. That’s what everyone thinks happened.”

  “Do you know what really happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it?”

  “Does Uncle George have a heart condition like Pépé did?”

  “Well, yes, he does. However, he takes medicine to control it.”

  “He had taken his evening pills before he tried playing the violin. These were new pills he had just been given,” Alexandra said.

  “Do you know where he got those pills from?”

  “No, there was nothing about that. If I played for Uncle George, maybe I could find out. Is it important?”

  “For us it’s not important. We can’t change anything anyway and besides, I can’t see any good time for you to play for your uncle. Two visions from him are enough.”

  “What about what Aunt Clara said? I mean, if Uncle George dies, we’ll never know what really happened, I mean, if it was the pills that caused it or the violin!”

  “True enough,” said Joseph. “No matter what caused it, we can’t do anything to help, so we need to let this matter rest and allow things to take their course.” Joseph could barely believe he had said those words and wondered if he was becoming cold and heartless like his brother. At the same time, with George laid up in hospital, he could allow himself to breathe easier over Alexandra’s safety. “You should get some sleep, Angel, it’s getting late. Put the book away for tonight.”

  “May I finish this part? Please, Papa? It’s not long,” she said, picking up the book and pointing out the passage with her finger.

  “All right,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. He stood up and walked towards the door. Before leaving the room, he turned back towards her, as always. For the first time, he was struck by how similar she looked to her mother by her facial expressions, hair, even her posture. He felt ashamed at why it had taken him so long to notice. He hesitated. He wanted to tell her of these similarities, yet feared doing so would bring up more questions about her mother. More than that, though, it made him miss his Helen even more.

  “Is everything all right, Papa?” said Alexandra.

  “Yes, Angel. Everything is all right,” he said, sighing. “Don’t stay up long. Goodnight.”

  Alexandra smiled up at him before returning to read the lively, glorious words painted across the pages of her book.

  * * *

  One evening in December, Owen was home when he heard someone knocking on the front door. He thought it must be a stranger because anyone they knew always called at the back door. Perhaps it was a doctor who’d come to deliver bad news about his father. Regardless, Owen opened the door a few inches to find Clive Brewster rubbing his hands in the cold.

  “Good evening, Owen,” said Brewster. “I would like to see your mother.”

  “I’m afraid she’s not home. She’s out with her group of ladies from the church. She’ll be back soon.” Owen stood gazing at the shivering man through the crack in the door.

  “May I come in and wait?” asked Brewster.

  Owen nodded and opened the door wide.

  “Thank you,” said Brewster, stepping in and removing his hat and overcoat. “I never did fancy the cold.” He walked into the parlour where he made himself comfortable in George’s favourite chair. “I must say that your mother is a very busy woman,” he said to Owen, who sat in the chair near him. “She never stops doing good for those less fortunate.”

  “Mr. Brewster, everyone says that. However, she just does it to look good in front of people. I don’t know that what she does even helps anyone, though. My father told me that people of weak character deserve to be poor. He says if people keep helping them, they will come to expect it all the time.”

  Brewster gazed at the boy. He leaned forward, lowered his head and rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose. After a few moments, he looked up. “I’m here today because I want to give your mother her weekly report about the law firm. However, I’m glad she’s not here because it gives us a chance to talk,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “We can talk about many things. For instance, what would you like to do in the future?”

  “The same as anyone,” said Owen, irritated at the question. “Get married and start a family.”

  “What about your profession?” asked Brewster. “Would you like to be a musician?”

  Owen felt an immediate jolt of adrenaline. Is Brewster going to be another one who compares me to my cousin? he thought. “No. I’m not talented enough to be a professional musician,” he said.

  “What would you like to do?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Owen, relieved that the conversation was turning away from music. “My parents want me to do something that will make them proud.”

  “You’re a young man with your whole future before you, Owen. Naturally it’s good that you want to please your parents, but whatever you do, you need a profession you enjoy and which can support your family.”

  “Of course,” said Owen, rolling his eyes.

  “Owen, when I was young I was in a similar position as you find yourself today, though mine was much worse. My father died of consumption when I was eleven. My mother had to raise four children, including me, all by herself. She did any work she could find, including cleaning houses, doing peoples’ laundry and minding their children. Despite all that, it still wasn’t enough. She had to accept charity from the good people at her church on many occasions or we’d have never survived.”

  Owen looked at this finely-dressed lawyer sitting in front of him. He could hardly imagine that Brewster and his family had once languished in poverty.

  “Our situation slowly changed and as I grew, my siblings and I took on a number of jobs to help our family.”

  “What kind of jobs did you do?” asked Owen.

  “I did many, ranging from cleaning cattle sheds to working in tobacco fields. I even worked on ships as a deck hand and fireman, and almost got myself killed when our ship ran aground going through the Pelee Passage.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “It was night, and we were steaming along in a paddle-wheeler, headed west, when the weather became very foggy – so much so that we could hardly see where we were going. It was my turn to be a fireman, so I was below deck shovelling coal into the boiler. That’s what I was doing when I felt the jolt and saw the floor split. Water immediately began gushing upwards from between the floorboards. We later determined that we’d probably hit some rocks near Pelee Island.”

  “What did you do?” asked Owen.

  “We tried bailing and pumping the water out, but it was just coming in too fast. Eventually the captain gave the order to abandon ship and I was asked to help the passengers into the lifeboats. While I was lowering a boat, the ship suddenly rolled onto its side and lurched downwards. People were panicking and I had to work quickly through a tangle of ropes while flotsam was bobbing everywhere. It was chaos. Soon the ship settled and disappeared under the surface. I had to swim to shore – thank goodness it wasn’t far – but I bloody near froze to death as it was early April. I still hate the cold to this day. After I reached shore, some people were still in the water, so I went back in again and again to pull them out and bring them ashore. Sadly, I couldn’t help them all.”

  Owen was surprised that Brewster was t
elling him these things. He wondered why the man had put his own life at risk by returning to the frigid waters of Lake Erie to rescue people – especially after his own safety had been secured.

  “After that experience, my mother forbade me to work on the ships, so I returned to Toronto. By then she had taken on steady work as a governess for a prominent lawyer’s children in Toronto. I met this lawyer and was immediately impressed and inspired by the way he could help people through their legal difficulties – and make a good, honest living in the process. We often had long conversations deep into the night, and he explained to me all about the virtues of honesty, integrity and accepting responsibility for our actions. I soon decided to be a lawyer as well, and he helped me enter law school. So you see, giving help to, and accepting help from people is nothing to be ashamed of,” said Brewster. “I enjoy what I do and have no regrets.”

  “Aren’t you the same kind of lawyer as my father?” asked Owen.

  “Not exactly. Your father and I use our professions to pursue different ambitions in life.”

  Owen wanted to question him about this when he heard the back door open.

  “Owen! I’m home, dear!” said Clara. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the parlour, Mum,” said Owen, sighing. “Mr. Brewster is here to see you.”

  * * *

  By mid-December the weather had become quite cold and a fresh blanket of snow now lay on the ground. Small snowflakes drifted down as Alexandra walked home from Emma’s house early one Saturday evening. She had been helping Emma, her sisters, and her mother bake cookies. Mrs. Brindle was very good at baking, and made sure to send Alexandra home with a basketful. “These are not to sell to your customers,” she’d said, “but you can share them with your father and Marcie.”

  The walk home from the Brindles was icy and brisk and the cold stung Alexandra’s face. By the time she entered the café, her cheeks burned with the cold. Despite her discomfort, she was pleased to see the café full of people and that Marcie had already started decorating the place for the holidays by hanging glass ornaments on various fixtures, draping tinsel around the windows and door, and even setting out a small Christmas tree in the window. “This is how my grandparents used to decorate,” she remembered Marcie saying.

  After warming herself at the big stove and having a bowl of Marcie’s soup, Alexandra began playing a merry assortment of tunes. She seldom used the corner Joseph had cleared for her to play on as a stage, preferring to stroll through the busy café and play to each customer at their tables.

  At one of the tables near the window sat a small group of strangers, two young men and a woman, maybe travellers who’d stopped by for a bite to eat while taking refuge against the cold. They looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. “Would you play a song for us, too?” asked one of the young men, the one with the closely cropped black hair. He was dressed in a dark suit, but with the neck of his shirt open as if he’d just removed his tie. He looked relaxed and comfortable.

  “What would you like to hear?”

  “We like the music you’ve been playing. Perhaps you could entertain us with more of that?”

  “I certainly can,” she said before placing her fiddle on her shoulder and playing a rendition of “Maid Behind the Bar.”

  The young strangers at the table all smiled, clapped their hands and stomped their feet in rhythm to her playing.

  Upon finishing, Alexandra curtsied politely, as always. Squinting her eyes and squeezing her face into a half-smile, she looked inquisitively at the group as if she were studying them. “You’re all musicians, aren’t you?”

  “Ah, yes we are!” said the fellow in the suit. “How’d you know that? We’re from across the river. We’ve heard all about you, Aydy, and we wanted to come hear you play!”

  “Thank you for coming by!” said Alexandra. “I’m so happy to meet you! What are your names?”

  “My name is Nick,” said the man in the suit. “This young lady is my sister Natalie and she plays the fiddle. This guy here, this is our cousin David. He plays every instrument known to man, and he’s also the intellectual one. Today he’s our violist.”

  David quickly added, “Some would call me the brains of the group, while Nicky here likes to think he’s our bassist, sometimes cellist, so we indulge him this little fantasy!” The four musicians laughed, including the bass player Nick. Alexandra wrinkled her nose.

  “Don’t listen to them Aydy, they’re always teasing me and making jokes because I play the bass! I’m actually pretty good at it and they know it!”

  Alexandra beamed at the lively bunch of musicians, taking their jokes as simple friendly banter.

  “It’s really so nice of you all to come here! Where are your instruments?”

  Natalie spoke up. “Our instruments are at the hotel. We’ve just come back from playing a wedding in Chatham and thought we’d stop by.”

  “A wedding! Oh how wonderful!” remarked Alexandra, who was already taking a liking to the strange young woman with the toothy smile. “I’ve never played my violin in an ensemble, but it’s my dream to do so. Would you mind if –” She was interrupted by Nick.

  “Do you mean if we would go back to our hotel and get our instruments so we can play together?” said Nick, winking.

  “Oh please, please do that! I’m sure my papa won’t mind. It’s his café.”

  “See?” said David. “I knew this was going to be fun!”

  After having explained the offer to her father and receiving his consent, Alexandra returned to the table with the news. The two young men got up and went out into the snowy, brisk evening to retrieve their instruments. When they returned, they set about getting ready and tuning up.

  “We’ll play some common folk tunes, Aydy. You probably know them already,” said Nick. “Just follow Natalie’s lead and you’ll do fine.”

  Alexandra was delighted to play with them and did exactly as Nick asked. She felt her dreams about orchestras, symphonies, ensembles and quartets were all starting to come true.

  She wondered if her pépé would be proud of her and her musical ambitions. She stretched her memory back as far as she could, to the gentle man who spoke to her in his soft voice while helping her tune her instrument, showing her where to place her awkward fingers on the strings, how to hold the bow and how to play the fast notes. She felt sorry she hadn’t done more to remember him, especially all the small details. However, her fondest memory was of her little duets with her pépé. They’d stand together in front of their modest audience and she’d look way up at him and he’d smile down at her as they played. The people would always clap when they finished, and he always took her hand and bowed to her. She loved all the memories of her pépé, but this one was her favourite. She felt a deep sense of loss at the fact that never again would they play another duet together.

  The rest of the evening was a pleasant mix of different melodies, and Alexandra was pleased her father decided to keep the café open longer so the group could continue. After the café closed that evening, the group continued playing well past midnight, until Joseph reminded everyone how late it was and they should quit for the night.

  Chapter 25

  When school was dismissed before the Christmas holidays, Alexandra set off to visit the professor for her last music lesson of the year. It had started snowing again by the time she left, and the icy cold stung her cheeks.

  Despite this, the walk to the professor’s house was quite pleasant – and absolutely silent, except for the crunching sound of her footsteps. The clean, white snow drifted down in large flakes in the late afternoon light, making it difficult to see anything more than a short distance ahead. It built up on everything – slender tree branches, park benches, hand railings. Alexandra thought that at least for a time, the world was a clean, pure place. She stood for a moment and listened to the silence, wondering how millions of drifting snowflakes could fall and land without making a single sound.

  After trackin
g through the deepening snow, she finally arrived at the professor’s home and knocked on the door.

  “Welcome, Alexandra!” said the professor, answering the door himself. “I’m pleased to see you, though I didn’t expect you’d come in this weather!”

  Alexandra stepped into the warmth of the professor’s home and closed the door, bringing winter’s freshness in with her.

  “I’m happy to come, Maestro! I was afraid the snow might stop me from attending our last session of the year. Heaven forbid I should miss this! We’ve had such a good year, and to finish it by missing a session would be perfectly dreadful. I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if I disappointed you on account of a silly little thing like the weather!”

  “You know, Alexandra, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t come. You could’ve cancelled our lesson by telephone. I think you’re really quite stubborn when it comes to music!”