Chapter 4
The train eventually arrived in Windsor and Professor Hergicksen eventually played his concert in Toronto the following day, but it was the worst performance of his professional career. Billed as the top soloist of the 19th century in all of Canada, he proved to be a big let-down to the audience. The newspapers were merciless in their criticism. “Past his Prime” read one. “Lacklustre” read yet another and, the most stinging of all, “An Amateur Performance.” Absent were the crisp accents, bright pizzicatos and towering arpeggios which once adorned his playing.
Professor Hergicksen, the virtuoso who stood on stage in his fine tuxedo, had to endure the sound of dwindling applause and muted silence. In the aftermath, he knew exactly why it was so and no one, save he, could explain the reason for his disastrous exhibition.
* * *
The following day ushered in a new spring freshness. Scattered rays of morning sunshine spread through the windows of Delmott’s Café – and also into the upstairs bedroom, into the face of the girl who’d cried herself to sleep the previous night.
“Alexandra! Wake up!” said her father from the café downstairs. “Breakfast will be ready soon!”
The girl moaned and obliged. She got up and changed from her rumpled clothes to something more suitable for a Saturday morning – a light blue dress with short sleeves. She arranged her hair in a bun and went down the stairs. She could already smell the pancakes cooking; her father made them every Saturday. He stopped what he was doing and greeted her at the bottom of the stairs.
“Good morning, Angel. You refused dinner and spent all evening in your room. You didn’t even say goodnight. Are you ill?”
“No, Papa, I’m not ill. I just saw all my hopes and dreams wash away with the rain.”
“What do you mean?” Joseph furrowed his brow as he scooped the pancakes onto her plate. He brought their breakfast to one of the tables by the window.
“Not there, please Papa. That table is now forever cursed and I cannot bring myself to sit there ever again,” she said with renewed energy.
Her father cocked his head to the side, swept his black hair straight back, and squinted.
“Papa, I must tell you that the Maestro came here yesterday.”
“Hergicksen? Really? I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
“Yes. This is where we sat when – and I asked him – and he said he wasn’t taking any more students.”
Still offering her a puzzled look, Joseph moved their breakfast to the next table. Alexandra, whose appetite had always been hearty, now picked at her food with her fork.
“I wish you wouldn’t let that upset you so. That man’s too big for his britches anyway.”
She ignored the remark and talked into her plate, only looking up briefly to see his face. “Papa, I’ve always wanted to be a musician. You know I love music so much. I can even remember playing some songs with Pépé when I was little. I really miss him.”
“So do I. He loved you and loved playing the violin with you. He called you his little protégé.”
Alexandra looked up and sighed. “Papa, I know things are hard now, but I’m sure I could still find time to learn and study when we’re not busy or when there are no customers in the café. I just need a good teacher.”
“I wish I knew somebody,” he said. “Anyway, finish your breakfast before it gets cold.”
He sat across from her eating as slowly as she. Alexandra knew her father well enough to know he was deep in thought about some matter, yet she dared not ask him; he always had so much on his mind and the business of the café was always so pressing. Since her mother left, her father had to fill the role of both parents while also minding the family business – the latter of which he did mostly by himself, often with Alexandra, and usually with hired help.
He cleared his throat. “Please, hurry up and eat.”
Joseph excused himself and, leaving Alexandra at the table, disappeared up the stairs. She could hear him walking around in the spare room. He seldom went there and often told her not to play there because it was a storehouse full of many breakable antiques that had belonged to her grandparents.
After a few moments he returned with an old, oblong wooden box which he placed on the counter. Alexandra rose from her chair.
“What is it, Papa?”
“Alexandra, I’ve been keeping this safely stored for many years. Honestly, I’ve really been afraid to even touch it myself because…” he paused, running his fingers over the edges of the box, “because it was my father’s – your Pépé’s. It was his dearest possession.”
“Can we open it, please, Papa?”
“Yes, of course. Let’s do it together.”
The wooden box may have been a sandy colour at one time, but now its wood had darkened by the passage of time. It even smelled old. It had clearly been built by hands long ago and designed so as to protect its valuable contents. Joseph used a small bottle opener and pried up at the lid. At first it resisted, then it creaked a bit, and finally it relented and Joseph pulled it free.
Alexandra would never forget what she saw inside. “Oh Papa, Papa! Could it really be?” Gazing into the box, she immediately knew what it was by its size, shape and contour. “May I?” she asked. Her father nodded. Alexandra smiled and reached inside the box, lifting out an old, worn, leather-covered violin case. She placed it down on the countertop. Embossed on the lid, just above a small carrying handle, were the initials D.C.D.
“This was your pépé’s violin, Alexandra, and now it is yours.”
“Oh Papa! This is the greatest present I could ever receive!” She threw her arms around his neck, covering his cheek with kisses. “Thank you, thank you, oh a million times thank you!”
“I wanted to give this to you a long time ago, but you were too little. A small child has arms too tiny for a violin of this size, and so you’d have never been able to play it – until now. Go ahead, Angel. Open the case.”
Alexandra turned to her father and smiled. She sniffled and, with trembling, curious fingers, opened the clasp which held the case closed. She eased the lid upright, and there inside she beheld all the grandeur of all the greatest symphonies of the world pouring out all their magic, all of history’s greatest composers, all the masters, conductors, soloists – all of them, and all of them speaking to her; all of them playing only for her.
Through this great musical cacophony, she could hear the quiet, solitary voice of her long-departed grandfather whispering to her.
“Play.”
Chapter 5
By the time Delmott’s Café opened for business that day, Alexandra had examined every part of her pépé’s violin. She compared it, side by side, to her child’s violin, and it was indeed much larger. To her dismay, two of the strings were broken as if someone had overtightened them. Regardless, she knew that strings were frequently replaced and she could always get more. As for the instrument itself, not only did she inspect every grain of the chestnut coloured wood, she also saw the imprints of her pépé’s fingers on the ebony fingerboard, revealing several of the more commonly played spots. She noticed a small nick, or maybe a notch, on the fingerboard as well, about halfway between the scroll and body of the violin. She looked at the tuning pegs, examined the scroll, even held it up to look at the thickness of the two remaining strings as they crossed over the bridge. She plucked each one lightly with her index finger; listening to the different tone each gave. She decided they were out of tune as well, and feared tightening them lest they too should break.
She allowed her mind to wander freely. What songs did he play on this instrument? What was the first song he played? What was his last? What was his favourite? The only person who might be able to help would be her father, so she made up her mind to ask. However, the questions needed to be asked at the right moment – a moment when he could sit, talk, and they would not be interrupted.
* * *
Joseph indeed was a very busy man, especially on Saturdays wh
en the waitress, Marcie, had her day off. Now that summer was here, he was relieved that Alexandra could help him with the customers. He was pleased she worked so willingly and never complained, doing as best as any twelve-year-old could. Despite that, he didn’t want his daughter growing up in a restaurant environment, and he certainly didn’t want her to be a waitress for the rest of her life. If you're going to be a career waitress, this is exactly how it all starts, he thought. The prospect terrified him.
“Oh Alex! Can we have some more coffee?” asked Charlie McKay. A burly, bearded man who frequented the café daily with his friends, he looked too large for the flimsy bentwood chair upon which he sat. Joseph was dreading the day it would collapse, sending the man crashing to the floor.
“Here you go, Mr. McKay!” Alexandra poured him and his friends another cup.
“You’re in an extra good mood today,” he said, winking. “Why so happy?”
“My papa gave me a present!”
“Oh? What’d he give you? New clothes? New shoes? Or perhaps it’s a secret?”
“Why don’t you show him?” said Joseph from behind the counter.
Alexandra turned to Charlie McKay and smiled. “I’ll show you sometime, I promise! I’ve got quite a bit of work to do on it before I show it to anybody!” she said as she turned away to serve another customer, leaving the man rubbing his beard.
Towards closing time, business had slowed down and only two customers remained in the café. Joseph decided it would be a good time to do the bookkeeping, so he sat at his usual table by the window, sipping on his coffee and writing. He liked that table because it gave him a good vantage point from which he could see the whole enterprise, as well as what was happening outside on the street.
Alexandra pulled out the chair opposite him, sweeping her dress behind her legs as she sat down. With her elbows on the table she leaned forward, her chin resting on interlocked fingers. “Papa, tell me more about Pépé. What kind of a man was he?”
Joseph could feel the corners of his mouth rising into a smile. “Well first of all, your pépé was a very hard-working, decent man. You know, he taught me so many important lessons, and somehow he did it while running the farm and this café. He enjoyed tinkering with things too, and he always had some kind of project on the go. He hated doing nothing in the winter, so he took a big chance and put his savings into starting this café. It really suited him. People liked him.”
“When did he start playing the violin? Who taught him?”
Joseph was pleased his answers seemed to be sparking a flurry of questions in her young mind. He thought a bit first before offering a reply. “Well, I can’t honestly answer those questions. He had been playing it as long as I can remember and I really think he taught himself how to do it. Oftentimes he would entertain customers in the café – and he really enjoyed playing those little concerts with you. You and him, you made quite a team.”
“Oh Papa, do you think I could teach myself like he did? Do you know any of the songs he played?” She sat across from him, eyes twinkling, a new eagerness rising in her voice.
“Well, he played so many, you know, but I can’t remember the names of them all. He played fast and slow ones, happy and sad ones, and he played them all on that same fiddle. He loved it almost as much as he loved his family. Sometimes it really got on your mémé’s nerves, but she never complained about it, not even once. ‘People could have worse habits,’ she’d sometimes tell me. It’s a pity I didn’t take after him and play the fiddle too.”
“Do you know where he got his fiddle from?”
“Well, I don’t really know the answer to that either. He said he bought it from a pedlar who was passing through, but I never did know if he was serious or joking. One thing’s for sure though – he bought it secondhand, judging by how old it looks.”
“Oh it would be so wonderful to play it like him! Wouldn’t it be grand?”
“I’m sure it would, Angel. Anyway, I think you’ve done enough for today. Why don’t you go visit a friend, perhaps Emma? Some fresh air will do you good.”
“Thank you, Papa, but I’d really rather not. I would love to sit here and play Pépé’s violin!”
“Hmm, well it’s rather difficult with only two strings, don’t you think? I’ll tell you what, while you’re away I’ll try to get you some strings. You can tell Emma all about your violin.”
Alexandra sat a moment, looking out into the sunny street. “Papa, instead of visiting Emma, would you mind if I took the violin and paid a visit to Robbie? He got beat up in a fight with Owen and perhaps a visit might do him some good. I can see Emma another time.”
Joseph rolled his eyes. “Owen again, huh? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“May I, though?”
Joseph studied her face. He knew his daughter. She was a trustworthy person who worked hard, was good at school, and who always took excellent care of her things. “All right. Please give my regards to the Stuarts and wish Robbie well. Oh, and one more thing: Please come home before dark!”
“Yes of course, Papa!” she said with laughter in her voice before standing up.
Alexandra hadn’t much reason to laugh in the past while, but whenever she did, it was sincere, honest and contagious. It was also uniquely her own.
She carefully packed the violin in its case and set out for the Stuarts’ place about two miles distant. Great oaks, elms and massive, 40-foot-tall Jesuit pear trees lined the road along the great Detroit River leading up to Stuart’s lane. She remembered the nuns at school telling her that the trees were planted by Jesuit priests some one hundred and fifty or more years prior, a living reminder of the area’s French heritage.
Another common sight along the river were the ferries that took passengers back and forth between Windsor and Detroit. If she were lucky enough, she could even see the great steamships which plied the river with their happy passengers. She faintly remembered going to the river with her mother, and they would sit and watch the steamships, wondering where all those passengers had come from and where they were going.
When Alexandra was about halfway down the Stuart’s lane, Nelson, their Rottweiler spotted her. He came bouncing across the field to greet her. Had she been a stranger, Alexandra knew this type of reception would have been very unpleasant. As it was, she was nearly knocked off her feet by the charging, playful beast, but managed to keep him at bay. She stroked his rough coat, and he pranced at her side, proudly escorting her the remaining distance to the house.
The Stuart home had been made from rough-hewn logs nearly one hundred years before. It was a storey and a half tall with a veranda spanning the front. Two windows stood on either side of the front door. Inside was a modest parlour beyond which was the large country kitchen. Behind the house was a small flower garden and sitting area. The farm itself spread out and across the back and sides of the house, and a large, dilapidated barn sat some distance behind. A small woodlot and meadow occupied the edge of the property through which a pleasant, meandering stream flowed.
With the dog at her side, Alexandra marched up the steps and rapped smartly on the door. A few moments later, it swung open and there Robbie stood, eyes wide and mouth open.
“Alexandra!”
“Oh Robbie, I’m glad to see you’re all right! I’ve come to pay you a little visit and to show you my new present!”
“What is it? What have you got there with you?” he said.
Alexandra stepped in the front door and into the parlour. “Oh it’s a very special present. My father gave it to me today and I want to show it to you!”
Unfortunately, she would have to wait. Robbie’s parents soon joined them and ushered Alexandra to the kitchen where Mrs. Stuart not only served fresh lemonade, pastries and candy, but plied her with endless questions about her life. Alexandra knew the Stuarts enjoyed it whenever she visited, but she hated all the attention they lavished on her, wishing she could visit Robbie without their intrusion.
At long last, M
r. Stuart excused himself and left while Mrs. Stuart set about collecting their dishes and tidying up. Robbie and Alexandra went into the parlour where the cased violin sat on a chair next to the sofa.
“Open it now, please!” said Robbie. “I want to see it!”
Alexandra sat on the sofa, assuming the posture of a proper young Victorian girl. She placed the violin case on her lap and eased the lid open. A wide-eyed Robbie sat next to her. There they both beheld the finely made instrument – clean and well-kept and, with the exception of the two broken strings, looking like it had just been played the previous day.
“Wow!" whispered the boy. “It’s magic!”
“Shh! I know!” whispered Alexandra in return, glancing towards the kitchen in the hopes Mrs. Stuart had not overhead. She looked again at the violin. She remembered her father saying that everybody views things in different ways. Perhaps some people could look at a violin and see nothing special at all, while to others the magic would be clear as day. Alexandra hoped the magic she had seen when she first opened the case would carry over when she started playing this violin, and wondered if Robbie, or others, would be able to see that magic the same way she did.
Aydy's Fiddle - The Memory Thief Page 3
