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Manisha awoke the next morning and opened her bleary eyes. She was shivering. She noticed that she was staring straight up at the blue sky. Shocked, she suddenly realized that she was lying on her back in a clearing, with her precious Stradivari resting on her stomach and the neck of the instrument nestled between her breasts. She filled her lungs and sat up.
Her body was bruised and sore, and her bare feet were lacerated. What happened to me last night? she thought, while rubbing her throbbing temples. She looked around nervously, and spied her dress hanging from a tree-branch.
She had a vague recollection of following Il Maestro out into the street, but then… nothing. She thought, This must end—tonight.
She quickly dressed and crept barefoot back to her loft with her Stradivari, trying to avoid the stares of the townspeople.
When Il Maestro appeared that night, she confronted him. “What did you do to me last night? You humiliated me!”
He leered at her. “Al contrario, you honor-ed us weeth-a your presence, Mia Bella. You are now-a wan of us.”
“One of us? What do you mean?”
He chuckled softly. “Non hai capito? You still do not-a understand. You gave-a me your soul, in exchange-a for a few miserevole lessons on ze violino. You sold-a yourself for a pittance!” He spat the words out.
She stared at him, still disbelieving. “No… I control my destiny, not you,” she stammered. But she already knew in her heart that it was a lie.
He laughed fiendishly at her. He suddenly raised his bow and played a horrible, screeching arpeggio. Manisha’s heart nearly leapt out of her breast, and her head felt as if it would split. She tried covering her ears to block the sound, to no avail. “Stop it! You are killing me!” she screamed.
Paganini laughed horribly. “You are all-a ready as good as-a dead, donna nubile! Hai capito? You weell now-a join Antonia, and Mathilda, and Agnese, and Belinda, whom you-a danc-ed weeth last night!” He leaned forward. “And don’t-a tell me you deed not enjoy eet!”
She covered her face and sobbed. “What will you do with me?”
He shrugged. “You weel-a leeve out your-a days. When you die, I will have-a claim on your spirito.”
Strangely, she felt relieved. That doesn’t sound so bad…
He sniffed, and glanced at her violin. Rubbing his chin, he leaned over it and said, “Strano… I haf-a known many a great violinista, and zeir strumenti—Alard, Sarasate, Ole Bull… but I haf nevair seen zees Stradivari bee-fore. Tell me, Mia Bella, who own-ed eet, and-a what ees eets-a name?”
She sat up and looked at him. Matter-of-factly, she shrugged and said, “Why… no one has ever owned it. This is Stradivari’s masterpiece, The Messiah.”
Paganini suddenly let out a blood-curdling screech and jumped to his feet. “No! It can-a not be!” He pointed at the violin and snarled. “You must-a destroy it!”
Baffled, she said, “But… why?”
“Eet ees ze unspeakable name! I am-a powerless against eet!”
Surprised and puzzled, she said, “What? You mean, The Messiah?”
Il Maestro shrieked again, and slowly began to dissolve before Manisha’s eyes. His body faded into transparency; then with a horrible, final wail he was gone.
Manisha lifted Le Messie out of its case and lightly touched the scroll to her lips. As she hugged it she whispered, “No one owns us, my precious—not now, or ever.”
She looked carefully around the room; then, convinced that she was alone at last, she said, “Hmph… well, good riddance—although, he did teach me well…”
The Last Stradivari Page 6
