Ever since Zara was a young girl, she had believed in the idea of magic. Not the glass slipper and rabbit out of a-hat kind, but ordinary magic. Acts of kindness, meetings arranged by destiny and whatnot. Despite whatever happened, she had prized herself on maintaining that worldview- a shimmering veil before her eyes. The streets of New York City however were the farthest thing from magic she had ever encountered. Whether it was the rats on the subway or the frigid snowstorm that was brewing off the coast, the Big Apple threatened to rip that veil off in one go. Or at the very least, poke some holes in it.
Zara slumped into a park bench and put her face in her hands. She couldn’t believe she had lost her chance at her dream. The words from the maestro kept ringing in her ears. Those impossible words had somehow ended her prospective career in seconds.
“My dear,” he had enunciated in his crisp accent, his voice booming through the empty theatre, “your instrument seems to be tuned incorrectly.” It was over after that. The panel of judges didn’t even bother to hear beyond the opening note.
Zara ran her hand down her face, brushing away the few tears that had spilled. She looked over at her violin case and pulled out her instrument. If there was one thing about New York she loved, it was that a red-faced woman could pull out a violin at any time in a park and not one person would spare her a wayward glance. She positioned the instrument and her bow, feeling instantly better with its familiar weight on her collarbone, and played. One single note. The incorrectly tuned opening. The sound rang out rich, powerful, and most peculiarly, perfectly tuned. Now that was magic.
“What the-“ she tried the note again. Perfectly tuned.
And thus she played- her bow cruising over the strings, producing the piece she had spent sleepless nights practicing for the audition. The one the panel hadn’t bothered to listen to. All that for the cooing pigeons of Central Park. As she played the last note, she made a decision. No more music. She had fallen into the allure of a glamorous life, but it wasn't sustainable. She had bills, she had rent, and she had to get back to a full-time job. And as a believer in ordinary magic, she took the events of that morning as a sign.
And so, Zara ripped off the veil.
She’d turned back to her violin case, ready to retire the old instrument forever, but she found that while she’d been playing, someone had tossed a crumpled dollar note into it. Zara looked around confused, but the one who’d tossed it was obviously long gone.
“Thanks,” she muttered under her breath, spoken out into the world for whoever was meant to receive it.
Fifteen minutes later, she found herself at a shop window. It was a tiny thing, her usual haunt. Baroque was a local store run by retired New York Symphony cellist- Celia and her wife Diane. Diane was a writer; she'd published a series of children's books back in the day that still inhabited the bookshelves of most parents in the country. Celia had occupied the apartment just below her. The day Diane heard her play, she fell in love instantly. Theirs was the sort of love story that escaped cynicism and made Zara believe again. And God knows she needed some of that right now.
The little brass bell that hung above the door tinkled when she entered. The ones unfamiliar with the store would probably think it was a mess, but those who knew it and loved it knew the store was a labyrinth by design. Part music store, part second-hand bookstore, it was a love letter from a wife to wife.
“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Diane said from across the cash counter once Zara was done recounting what had happened that morning.
“Oh darling, it’s not the best,” Celia countered, “but it was a singular audition, you can’t hang up your instrument because of it. Failure is a part of art. Failure is what makes art thrive.”
“I don’t think I can afford it,” Zara said, “the only money I’m getting from it is this.” She placed the crumpled dollar bill on the counter and explained its origins to the pair. She moved to drop it into the tip jar, but Celia stopped her.
"It's bad luck," she said.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Zara said, chuckling.
“Trust me, musicians have their superstitions. You should buy something with it.”
“Oh sure, what can I get here for a crinkled dollar?”
Diane pretended to think about it and then pulled out a ratty page from under the desk. “One of the boxes of vintage classics from a recent estate sale had this in it," she flattened it out on the desk. "It's probably worth even less than a dollar though…" she trailed off.
It was sheet music. Probably an original piece, for Zara couldn’t recognize the notes. “I will take it,” she said, mostly to get out of the conversation. “And I would like to know the price for my violin”
“Absolutely not. You have to play the piece first,” Celia smiled.
Zara narrowed her eyes at her, then agreed begrudgingly. Sometimes she could’ve sworn the two women were more than what they appeared.
She couldn't bear to look at it. It had been two weeks since she had botched her audition. Two weeks since she'd bought that dreaded piece of music from Baroque. It seemed to be tied forever with the memory of that day- the stench of her failure emanating from its pores, written in tidy, black brushstroke. Zara was going through a grieving period for the vision she had of herself- dressed in impeccable black, nodding politely for the conductor of the New York Symphony. A grieving period for the little girl who had sacrificed important moments of her childhood to get where she was today, and- perhaps most importantly- grieving for the way she had fallen out of love with music.
Which was why, she surprised herself that day, reaching for her violin just moments after she was deliberating about using the sheet music as a coaster for her coffee.
Music flowed out of her like tears. The introduction was played at a haunting andante. Soft and eerie, reminiscent of an empty house on a moor. She heard the echoes of the song like whispers of spirits, until the intro ended in an abrupt crescendo, suddenly hopeful, bright, and enchanting. The piece got more challenging from that moment- complex movements, a vibrato unlike anything she had ever played. A story told in minors and majors. A life encompassed in music notes. The climax started off almost harsh- grating notes layered upon an imaginary percussion. Till the violin solo- the same eerie sound as the introduction, but with something more. While the introduction sounded like exactly that, the end boasted the addition of hope. A full circle moment. Until it ended. Suddenly. Jarringly. The last note hanging off the page, ready to fall.
Zara, breathless from the beauty of it, turned the page frantically, seized by the fear she may have thrown out the rest. But there seemed to be no sign of another page.
The music was simply incomplete.
The sunlight had faded by the time she tried every permutation she could think of. No matter what she did, the piece ended on that same jarring note. Her phone dinged in the darkness of her apartment with a reply from Celia.
No name, sorry.
And then a follow-up.
Old, abandoned estate from the '30s was cleared out to gentrify. That's all Di and I know. Sending you the address if it helps.
Zara sent back a quick thank you text and pulled up the address on her computer. The first headline was an advertisement about the estate sale. The mansion belonged to an heiress in the '30s, it had been passed down to a son who never had children and so was abandoned for a good number of years until now. But much to her disappointment, the advertisement did not provide any contact information other than that of the estate sale company.
With the help of Celia and Diane’s contacts, Zara tracked down the storage facility where the company kept everything left behind from their sales. She was rummaging through a cardboard box with Blackbird Manor scribbled across. Trinkets rattled inside, from powder boxes to broken china. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, only that some internal force had made her look.
She found it in the fourth box.
Her heart thudded in her chest. In her hand was a wax-sealed envelope- paper yellowed with time. Written on it, in the same tidy brushstroke, were the words “A letter for whoever finds it”. She wanted to rip it open right there, in that store room that smelled of dust, but she knew- just as she knew when she had played the music for the first time- that she and the composer were bound together by some invisible string of fate. That whatever was in that letter was between her and them.
The envelope lay discarded, the seal broken beside the paper that had altered her. The letter was written in the same script as the music.
To,
The Finder,
The music came to me in a dream. If you are reading this letter I hope it came to you in an equally magical way. I know what will become of the estate once I am gone, I do not care for it. They will tear it apart and sell the pieces to the highest bidder, but the music, that is the only legacy I care about.
Music has built a shelter over me, my love for it exceeds the love I have for anything else in the world. The piece I have written is an ode. I leave it to you to decide what you wish to dedicate it to, for love in all its forms is a beautiful thing and to be an ode to any of them would be an honor. The music belonged to you the minute you found it, but if you needed it in writing, I suppose this is it. It is yours, now until the day it or you crumble into ashes and join the earth.
I suppose this is also a confession. The piece I call “The Blackbird’s song” will be my last. My hands have turned traitorous and so this letter may very well be the last thing I write. I wish my body provides me with some mercy after all these years, just enough to let me finish the piece; but if it doesn’t, please grieve the lost music when you grieve for me.
However, all lost things find their way into hands that need them. And all lost love finds a home.
As a musician, hands and homes are unanimous to me. In losing one, I have lost them both. And so I dream, across time and space, across decades and across oceans, I dream about you, Dear Finder, wherever you are. And I dream about the music. Always about the music.
I dream it brings love back to you.
With hope,
The Blackbird.
Muskaan Shah
Guidelines for the competition : https://www.fanatixxpublication.com/write-o-mania-2023
Kommentare