#fridayflash – With Strings Attached

Posted by Helen on May 12, 2011 in Flash Fiction | 24 comments

With Strings Attached

by

Helen A. Howell

Still holding the handle that stuck out from the brown paper parcel, Mikel let himself into his flat, walked into the lounge and placed it down on the table. He cut the string that held the paper in place. It fell away to reveal an old battered violin case. His hands trembled as he flipped open the catches and lifted the lid.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered as he stared at the antique Stradivarius, “and it’s now mine.”

He lifted it out and slid it onto his shoulder, resting his chin on the edge. It felt right, as though it was meant to be his. He reached for the bow and stroked it across the strings with the lightest of touches. The violin sang sweetly. He closed his eyes as he felt the music run through him, become part of him. It was as though this perfect instrument had been waiting for him, only him.

How long had he been playing? Mikel blinked as he looked at the clock. “Three hours. Impossible.” I only picked it up a few seconds ago. How could I have lost three hours? He placed the violin back in its case and wandered into the kitchen to fix himself something to eat.

He thought of the distant relative, so kind in his will. The old man lived like a hermit with only his elderly housekeeper for company and he died leaving everything to Mikel. There was very little of worth, but Mikel found the violin buried in the attic, inside a trunk sealed with a padlock. When he managed to break open the trunk, he could not believe his eyes. He asked the old girl about it,but she just shrugged.

“He locked that thing up years ago, with the strict instructions it was never to be touched. As if I would want to touch it anyways.”

“I wonder why,” said Mikel.

“I don’t know. All I knows is that he kept saying it must remain locked up.”

“Did he play?”

“Oh yes, sir. He was very accomplished. But that’s before he became a recluse.That would be about the time that….” She didn’t finished the sentence. Instead she just stared at him.

“About the time what?”

“Pardon sir?”

“You were just about to tell me something about the old man.”

“Was I, sir? Well, whatever it was, it’s gone from my head now.” She turned around and strolled towards the door. “I’ll be leaving these keys then, ‘spect you’ll be selling the place now.”

She placed the keys on a ledge by the window and, opening the front door, stepped outside. Mikel stood and watched her go. His only thought now was to get the violin back to his flat.

He slept fitfully that night as he dreamt about the violin. It called to him over and over again, a voice discernible among the notes.‘Play me, you know you want to’.

Mikel awoke, damp with sweat, heart beating hard in his chest. He reached out and flicked on the bedside lamp and glanced at the clock, 4 am.Tossing off the covers he sat up. Then he noticed the violin and bow resting on the chair against the wall. I don’t remember putting it there. He walked over to it and picked up the instrument. The moment he touched it, the urge to play was too great to resist. Mikel picked up the bow and began to play, fingers moving deftly on the strings as he allowed the music to consume him, become him. When he finally lowered the bow, a spent force, he slumped back onto the bed. The clock read 10 am.

He woke again early that evening. The violin was no where to be seen. Perhaps it was a dream. He got up and wrapped his dressing gown around him before heading towards the kitchen. The answering machine light flashed on his phone and he pressed the button to listen to the message. Work wanted to know where he was. How could I have slept all day? he thought, as he made a cup of tea and carried it into the lounge. There on the table lay the violin, just where he remembered leaving it. “It was a dream. It had to be.”

He took a sip of his tea, put down the mug and picked up the instrument. The desire to play was overwhelming as his free hand hovered over the magnificent antique. A voice in his head tried to warn him, remind him that this had once been locked away. But his strength to resist was weak, and once again he took hold of the bow as the violin spoke to him in words only he could comprehend.

~ ~ ~

The Policeman banged on the door with his fist, then waited and banged again. He turned to the caretaker of the building.

“Open it, will you?”

“He’s not going to like it. He’s a very private person you know.”

“Just do it.” The caretaker inserted the key, the door opened. “I won’t be needing you. You can go,” commanded the Policeman.

“Suit yourself.”

There was a faint smell in the hall. As he approached the lounge it became stronger.The body sitting by the table was withered, almost mummified in appearance. A violin rested in its lap. The Policeman approached and stared at the dead man, then at the violin.

“An antique Stradivarius.”

He knew he shouldn’t touch it. It was evidence. But when would he get the chance again, to hold one like this? He hesitated before picking it up. It felt as though this perfect instrument had been waiting for him, only him….

©2011 Helen A. Howell

Words: 997