the Violin Boy

     “Alright, alright, quiet down now.” an old man giggled, beaming at his grandchildren. “I’m going to tell you a story” he smiled, cracking open a leather-bound book. “What kind of story poppy?” a little girl said snuggling into a pile of blankets to face her grandfather. “A real one.” he responded. “A real one?” the little boy questioned. “Yes,” the man smiled. “None of that fairy godmother mumbo jumbo, ours takes place with a small boy, in an even smaller village…”

     “Tareq’s stomach pulled at him, a reminder that it was still there, and very much still waiting. He smoothed his hands atop his shirt, calming his stomach; this substitute would have to suffice for food. Tareq’s big blue eyes yearned. They yearned for many things, but most importantly food. Although he knew he should stop giving his mother this look, he couldn't help it; while she instructed him her very strict orders of business, they locked eyes in what seemed like forever. His eyes never faltered to give her the look; begging with them, and whether his mother did not notice, or stopped caring years ago, she never acted on this. “Go now” she said, motioning him out the door, while handing him a metal milking bucket, scraps of copper wire, and five long strand of what seemed to be thick hair, as tareq sped out of the house and headed towards a dark corner in the town centre where the budding sun still hadn't found it's way to yet. He then began assembling the scraps, pulling tight at the hairs and manoeuvring the wire to hold onto them while holding onto the ends of the bucket. Tareq knew exactly how tight the hair had to be, he then pulled out a shaved down, smoothed twig and spat on it, rubbing his dirtied fingers, spreading it along the twig.”

     “Then, with a mischievous smile, he ran out into the light of dawn and into the town square. What came out from the such a simple contraption when Tareq pulled the twig down and across the strings could only be described as magnificent- for with only some horse hairs, some copper wire, and a bucket, Tareq became “the Violin Boy”. Pure beauty, and sheer genius was all the noise the boy made, and yet his audience was whoever would pass on the dirt road through the market from dawn to dusk; such people had grown accustomed to such beauty played every day that they had subconsciously dismissed it as any other noise in the background. But he was in no place to complain, pay was pay nonetheless, and having spent countless weeks without food, incapable of paying for it; there was no way he was going back to that. So tareq arranged a bucket to collect anything a man could spare for him and his music- though it wasn't much- and played on. He thanked God every hour in prayer for the gift of life, he thanked each man or woman who tossed in a nickel that make his favourite sound as it hit the walls of the bucket, and he thanked nature for it's gifts. And yet, such a kind boy, such a shy boy, risked all he had for family, every day. In that village, performing of any tricks for money was not allowed, unless you had permit from General Kay’s court, where they'd take a certain portion of whatever you made, each day. Tareq wasn't sure what portion exactly, but with the amount he makes- being the only breadwinner- he had no room to share. And so it was illegal, but the villagers in the square protected him; they never spoke a word about the songs played in the streets, and lied for the little boy; in fact most of the shops in the square were all probably unpermitted, and illegal, but still, the “violin boy” was never spoken of unless all the shutters were closed. As the sun dimmed, tareq’s songs got slower, until the very last shop closed up At 8:00, he knew he should have been gone sooner, it was a ways away to get home, and everyone by law must be in their house at 8:00, and although the officers never go into the square during the day, because they’d rather drink and smoke near the distillery district, they still come eventually, they arrive at approximately 8:15 to lock up or fine anyone out past curfew. Tareq threw the change he had earned in his shoe, where no evidence would show, hiding the money collecting bucket under a wooden crate where he'd be back tomorrow, and began to run as fast as he could back home while dismantling his violin, where any suspicions could not be proven without this. At last, at exactly 8:13, he reached the front of his house; he knocked twice very quickly then four slow knocks, which his mother would know it's not a guard coming to inspect. She opened the door quickly, and pulled him in by the collar, then slammed the door. “What did I tell you!” she barked, but the boy already knew it, exactly: word for word, but he had learned long before not answer that kind of question. “I don't know why I ever trust you! How do I know you are ever going to come back? I don't!” His mother continued on worrying, but tareq seriously questioned if she would ever care if he didn't come home, or even notice. “Maybe…” she slowed down a bit, resting her arms on his shoulders, and looking into his eyes: “if you stuck you the plan, I could feel a little better!”. Tareq knew not to interrupt when his mother would go off like this, but sometimes he couldn't help it. “I'm sorry! But the music just takes me away! The weight of the world can disappear for awhile when I play!” “You can play, and you can forget your problems, but they will always be there when you come back! And the guards will be there!” She added with intent on reminding him of his place. “I’ll do better” he said soberly. “Damn right you will” she said through gritted teeth while slapping him with her sandal. “Go.” she said pointing to his blanket and straw pillows. This, by any other definition would be his room that he was being sent to. The divots on his hips and back fit like a puzzle piece of the cement ground that was his bed. He closed his eyes and waited on the morning, where he could join the music. The next morning the moonlight peeked through a crack in the mud walls beckoning him. He could tell by it's positioning it was about four in the morning. He’d have to be up in two hours or so anyway, so he decided to join his makeshift symphony early. If there was one thing his mother could not yell at him for, it was an early start and more money, so he pulled on his best pair of shredded brown trousers and ran out the door with his bucket and twig. The square was empty, and the silence was deafening, there could be officers anywhere around here, with knives and guns in all their glory beating down on him in seconds if they heard him. He knew all this, and his eight year old mind spun in circles contemplating, with the maturity of an 80 year old. But against his better judgement, he sided with the eight year old in him that whispered “do it.”. He spat on the shaved down bark, and gilded it across blond hairs that he had plucked from mr. Duval’s prize winning horses when he was five. His mother being who she was, slapped him of course, and then thought about how to put his mistake to use, and turned a couple of thieved horse hairs into a career of sorts. “

     “Music began to flow from his violin once more, and for a moment he was somewhere else- possibly on stage in front of thousands of people who adored him, instead of the butcher’s. With each note sunk deeper and deeper into his fantasy: he imagined himself with slicked back hair, with one of those tuxedos with a tail. In truth he didn’t quite know what western style was- he’d seen this once in a hollywood magazine an american brought with them in passing- but he knew the west is where the music was, and oh how he longed to be with the music. In an instant his dreams were dashed when a booming voice screamed “hey!”. He knew instantly the guards had caught him while doing early morning rounds. He could hear the sound of several steel-toed boots slapping towards him, about to turn the bend, so he fled as fast as he could. If only he could’ve taken his mother's advice to leave the music behind- especially now, when he decided against his better judgment, to take his violin with him. It was with that extra weight slowing him down, that eventually a large coarse hand caught the scruff of his shirt and threw him to the ground. “Thought you could away, eh?” a tall man known as “Xibalba” taunted. “No-” Tareq squeaked, hot tears brimming. “Robbing the general of his dues!” Xibalba said poking the boy with his boot. “I didn’t mean-” the boy started, but it was no use. “Shut up!” the man barked with a swift kick to Tareq’s stomach. “It’s scum like you that dirty our town,” he said with another kick, followed by an uproar of the other guard’s laughs, similar to those of hyenas. After that, Tareq blacked out when the Hyenas circled closer and took turns beating him, and whether it was his prayers that had saved him, or a moment of sheer luck, the screams of grown men signaled to the boy it was finally ok to open his eyes- but he didn’t want to. “It’s ok,” he heard a voice say. “I took care of them.” the voice said lovingly. “Please don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you.” Tareq felt a hand on his shoulder, and instinctively his eyes fluttered open with a flinch. “Shh,” said a tall pale man with silvery hair and a long nose. Tareq’s eyes widened, the man resembled a silver fox- the friendly kind though. “I heard you play in the square yesterday,” the man said, taking a seat on the floor next to Tareq. “I was hoping to find you here again this morning. Despite the rough start,” he said, glancing towards the six unconscious goliaths on the ground. “I’m glad I did.”. Tareq didn’t speak a word to the man, not even a thank you, though his mother had taught him better than that. For a moment he was tempted to point out the man’s suit would most certainly get ruined sitting on the dirt road, but something about the man gave off an air of not minding very much. So they sat with silence echoing in their ears for what felt like a lifetime before it was broken again. “You got a family?” asked the silver fox. Tareq gave a nod tiny enough to go unnoticed- though it seemed the fox noticed. “This is going to sound totally bizarre- but how would you like to help ‘em out?” the fox prefaced. “Come work for me” he smiled. Tareq perked up a bit a the word “work”. “It’s far from here- in America. But with some work, I think you could play with the bigtimes kid.” he said with a nudge to Tareq’s bloodied shoulder. “I know it’s a lot to think about- leaving your family behind, but we can send them some money every mon-” “i’ll do it.” Tareq interrupted quickly. For a moment, the fox was charmed by Tareq’s trustingness in strangers, what he didn’t know was that Tareq didn’t half care what happened to himself- whether the proposition was a scam, or a hoodwink, or the real deal- every inch of him was in pain, and he couldn’t live like this anymore. The fox promised to send cuts of what Tareq made to his mother and sister, and that was the last nail in the coffin in Tareq’s choice to leave: he knew the further he went, the better off he would be.”

     “Wow.” said the little boy with wide eyes and a big yawn. “Alright,” the old man giggled. “I’ll try to wrap this up. True to the fox’s word, the little boy went on to do great things- he played with the greats, he performed in front of thousands- he even got to wear a tuxedo with a tail!”. “Woah” breathed the children- who were already more than half asleep. “Goodnight my children” the grandfather said, standing to leave,  “wait poppy-” the little girl said, now with the leather storybook in her tiny hands. “The book is blank...” she said sitting up with eyes half open. “I know.” he beamed, turning off the lights and closing the door.