The lost violinist

Write a story that starts with two characters saying goodbye.

The Lost Violinist

I looked at him lying prostrate on the kitchen floor. His chin slightly bloodied from my punch. He turned his head to face me “Get out and goodbye – you will never amount to anything” he said through gritted teeth. “Goodbye you bastard, thanks for nothing!” I replied.

The shit that hit the fan and resulted in our “Goodbye” routine happened on the day of my 7^th eisteddfod. I had started competing when I was 10 years old and every year since I had played in the Golden Valley Musical eisteddfod and every year I had won. I had become a virtual violin virtuoso. I had won every country contest and had even been considered for the Sydney Conservatorium of Music. My father was my tutor. I loved the violin, I loved how it snuggled under my chin, secure, sensual and capturing my mood; it always felt like a long lost friend. Now I was almost 17 and I was entering the senior ranks. I had been practicing like crazy; this eisteddfod would be my finest hour, this will be the peak; this could see me going places. My violin was a beauty. No, it wasn’t a Stradivarius; it hadn’t even been made by any famous luthier; it had possibly been made near the Czech/Slovakian border by cottage industry workers.

I was 5 when my family immigrated to Australia; we came by assisted passage and my dad went to work on the Snowy Mountain Hydro scheme. My family settled in Tumut where displaced people from Eastern Europe were billeted.

Those early years were tough, really tough. My sister and I had to attend school and were teased, punched and jostled. We had little English but we soon became strong and tanned by the outdoor life and sunshine. We learned fast, we learned to run fast; we learned to learn fast. The hardest part was our dad, an inner rage, heaved and breathed inside him, often erupting into violence. There were beltings for mum and thrashings for me.

The only time we had any peace was when I was playing the violin. Dad would sit in a chair, leaning back with his eyes closed; in another world; transformed by the music, transformed by my uniquely talented play and transformed back to another world which my sister and I knew little about. Admittedly there were times when I would very occasionally hit a wrong note, maybe thinking about a girl at school; losing concentration for a nano second was enough. With a deep seated roar he would leap out of the chair and grab me before I could move, he was so fast. He was a big heavy man, working at drilling did that, his fists and biceps were like the rocks he drilled.

His muscles rippled on his chest, his face would turn red as he pulled his belt from his waist. He would swear “you idiot, you fucking idiot, that should have been a b flat”.

I would cringe as I felt the strap wrap around my legs, the leather strop lashing my skin, pain; fear; humiliation. At those times I hated my father. I didn’t get encouragement to do better; I was just chastised, ridiculed and abused if I made any mistakes. It wasn’t as though he was paying for my tuition. I never understood it! Why did he behave like this? Why did I have to go and rescue my mum and my sister from his frequent abuse?

His anger was palpable; it had a life of its own. It would rise like a serpent from the water, growing wilder, madder, and redder; almost like a fiery demon ready to envelope us, ingest us and then spit us out. “Bastard, you bloody bastard”.

But I was getting older, I was getting stronger, I was on the football team, even though I was taunted “pansy” for playing the violin. I was now strong enough to ‘knock the socks off anyone’ who gave me grief. This new confidence in myself seemed to enrage my father, leading to him snarling through clenched teeth “you will never amount to anything; you are a loser”. Somehow I overcame my rage to ‘knock his block off’. My mother was still there, vulnerable; she needed me to protect her. I was getting great grades at school, I was popular; I was achieving; I actually liked myself. My father hated that.

The day of the big eisteddfod was drawing near. I had been practicing; I tried to do it out of dad’s earshot. I couldn’t stomach those thrashings anymore.

The town hall was packed; everyone loved the eisteddfods because there was little or no other entertainment, in Tumut town. It was a very long day starting with the tiny tots and their ballet ensembles. Cute as mushrooms dressed in fairy floss they would flounce around the stage, looking like little plump pink butterflies. Of course there were long series of pianofortes, some excellent; some you would cringe down in your seat; hands over your ears, embarrassed for the poor contestant.

My turn came. The stage seemed huge, even though I had been performing on it for many years. My accompanist was seated at the piano; she was a lovely lady who had encouraged me to keep up my practice. She was wearing a soft pink jumper over a grey twill skirt. Her flat shoes made it easier to manage the pedals. I was wearing my best pants, a white shirt and a red bow tie.

I took my place beside her; she looked at me and nodded. I started to play; my violin was singing; almost impulsively striding to get to the next notes. I felt totally exhilarated; excited and thrilled that I was in this place where my peers would be judged and I would be judged on my performance. I was two thirds through Mozart’s Concerto No 5. I was up to the 3^rd movement, “going well” I thought to myself. Suddenly my mind went blank, empty! “My god” I thought what is happening to me”. I took some deep breaths and looked to the pianist, she gave me a slight nod and I went back to the last stop and started again. Off I went, my violin chords sailing through the chamber, exciting, thrilling; and energetic and so very powerful. Then…..I stopped again in the same place. “Shit” I muttered under my breath, what is happening here. The pianist looked at me and nodded again, the adjudicators were looking at me. I felt their eyes boring into me. Third time lucky I hoped as I once again started where I had left off. :

“Oh no, oh god no, not again”. I looked into the audience and saw my father sitting there, his face puce with rage, almost foaming at the mouth. His jaw was clenched tight; I could see the veins on his neck almost popping out of the vessels. I lowered my bow and violin and fled the stage. I did not stop running until I got home. I knew that I would be in for the flogging of my life. I slammed the door shut to my bedroom; he raced in screaming “you useless failure, you loser, you piece of shit, you will never amount to anything”. But I was ready this time I was not going to be beaten to a pulp again. He was thumping at the door, banging his elbows and fists furiously on the timber frame. Suddenly I opened the door; I took one punch, one punch only, right on the square of his chin. He dropped like a sack of spuds. Groaning and holding his chin, he staggered to get up; I kicked him in the ribs with all my might.

My mother and sister came racing in the front door, confronted by the heap collapsed on the floor. “Run” said my mum “run as fast as you can for as long as you can”. I grabbed my knapsack, stuffed in a few special things, some clothes, jumper, a bit of cash and my violin and bow and took off into the night.

That night I lay on a seat at the Tumut train station. Alert to any footsteps, any movement. It was a clear moonlit night, the crisp cool air felt so refreshing after the stale, obnoxious smell of fear that lingered in the air at my home. The train pulled in at 6am and I leapt on board. I curled up on the seat of the train and wondered what the hell I was going to do. I had never been out of Tumut. I had never been to the ‘big smoke’ as they called it down there. But I was fit, I was strong and I knew I had some brains. ‘Who knows what is going to confront me when I reach Sydney’.

I got to Sydney and took to the streets, sleeping on park benches until I finally got a job as a garage monkey. I filled petrol tanks, washed windscreens, filled the water reservoirs. I took night jobs at Greasy Joes washing dishes. The money was ok so I enrolled at night school and found a boarding house close to the technical college. My grades soared; I did well and then matriculated into university. I studied medicine and became a successful surgeon. I live in a beautiful house overlooking the harbour now; my violin is still in its case and sits in my study, leaning against the wall. It is my reminder; it gives me solace and calm however it stays completely silent. It has now been 50 years since that day at the eisteddfod in Tumut; 50 years since my violin sang, 50 years since my fingers plucked at the strings and my bow glided over the gut. My fingers now have other talents, other occupations where their deftness and dexterity is still required to stitch together human flesh and restore people to good health.

As a heart surgeon I know what it is to have a broken heart, but I also know how powerful, how strong and resilient our hearts must be in order to overcome the greatest odds and obstacles. Of course over my career as a surgeon, I have heard and seen many sad and traumatic goodbyes. None however have had the lasting effect of that goodbye in Tumut. I never spoke to my father again, I took care of my mother in her old age and my father certainly knew of my success but never acknowledged it.

One day; maybe one day I will pick up that violin and play music as it should be played, to provide joy to the ear and to the heart; not to malice and aggression. It is not the violin that is lost; it is the violinist who was lost.!