Years of imitation, of pretending to play a soundless violin. Years of watching Sissy, listening to her pry music out of that small wooden instrument, rounded like a lady’s hip, a perfect eight. It is time yet?
The violin they give me was hers first. It smells sharp, sticky and dusty with rosin. Mrs. Violin Teacher places it on my shoulder, turns my arm, adjusts my fingers so they grip the bow just so. Wrists aching, thumb sore and indented, I draw out my first note: an open A. It’s squeaky and thin and terrible. It’s amazing.
Practice, practice, practice, Mommy says. I press the violin into my shoulder as hard as I can. Sissy says I should be able to hold it without using my hands. I play long notes, E A D G, E A D G. Mommy counts for me, four beats each. Five times, five times, and then I am done. The violin goes back into the case, small and sticky and dusty with rosin. Slowly, we begin.
Crescendo
In Tianjin, it is harder to find a teacher who will come to our house and instruct, but she is found. Round glasses, curly pepper hair, Teacher flutters close as I play for her, lifting my elbow, pushing my forearm left and right. My stomach tightens, heat building behind my eyes. This is anger, I think.
Now I read the music, now I play the notes. Teacher tells me what to call them, writes it on the sheet music, yi er san si. This is what I know, a cacophony of notes, of 1 2 3 4 again and again. Sissy calls them differently, but this is what I know. 1 2 3 4, and the piece is done.
The next violin they gave me had been hers first as well. It’s the ¾ size, bigger and heavier; the strings are rusty everywhere and my fingers scrape against the rough patches, painful always. My jaw burns, my teeth clench. This is frustration, I think.
Mommy says, there are no new strings for you. Scrape, scrape, scrape, my fingers on the violin. Teacher shoves my elbow. I play louder and louder, bow pressed down, the horse hair kissing the wood. The school says, there is no orchestra for you. Sissy can play, having a three-year better claim on life. 1 2 3 4 again, yi er san si. I play louder and louder to drown out this world, full of things I cannot do, full of people I do not want to see, full of places I do not wish to be. This is desperation, I think.
Fortissimo
It’s mine. This violin, this one, this one is bought for me. The rough neck, the uncultured sound. All mine. This middle school, this orchestra where Sis never played. Mine, and only mine. Even though Sis is better, even though I do not know the names of any scales, of hardly any notes, too, even though my sound is shrieking and loud when all anyone wants is coy, elegant music, this place is mine. It’s a paltry comfort, the only kind I have.
My first solo, I play here. Mom comes to me after, says, you play better than I thought you could. It’s a paltry comfort, since lately she’s been thinking nothing of me at all. I cannot say it anymore, the words disobey. But this is what I know, and now what I know is king. I know how to play the music bold. I know how to play the music loud. There’s no need to tell me, I know I know I know.
The conductor picks me to sit at the front of the orchestra. This is where the best players sit, Sis says. She has always been the best, my sister. I sit in the front, and I play loud loud forte fortissimo and everyone applauds. I know this now, and it is mine. Mine.
Diminuendo
Your violin is built wrong, says Mrs. Violin Teacher, turning it over and over in her hands. The fingerboard is too low; you cannot play like this, you cannot play high notes. You cannot play. Nothing stays.
Chicago is new and overwhelming, sun and rain and snow and people all trying to outcompete each other. The middle school here does not have an orchestra; one more year Sis plays and I cannot. Only one. A paltry comfort.
So I work, work, work on other things, work while I wait, and I cannot hear anymore. I have no violin so the silence is complete and lasting, a paltry comfort. Working, I cannot think anymore. I cannot speak. I work until I am done. You’re a freak, Sis scoffs. All wrong, she’s right.
All work and no play, all silence and no sound. Why should I play anyway? No point, no passion, all music being just spider silk spun over a gaping black hole, no way to fill it, fill that emptiness. Nothing lasts here, no friendship or love. No knowledge is forever, no constant, only nothing again and again. This is what I know, that nothing stays.
You’ve changed, Mom says, and I liked you better before, she doesn’t say. But I know, I know. Nothing stays.
Piano
Quiet. The basement is quiet. I play here, and no one listens. I play for the spiders and the dust and the dead wasp in the corner. This violin is not mine, another replacement, another second best. It had been Sis’s, hers for so long, until another was bought, better, more expensive. It does not make music for me the way it sang for her. It turns its nose at me. It disobeys.
We play for nothing, the rejects, the irregulars. We sing weedy tunes into the expansive silence, a muffling emptiness that swallows our sound and spits it out like garbage. Her violin, not mine, never mine, trembles, weak. Quiet. It’s quiet in the basement. A paltry comfort.
Helen Hu is a high school senior who has been published by Teen Ink and Balloons Lit. Magazine. She enjoys origami, crochet, and other activities.
