TF (musical instrument)
He was an old man now, was Viktor, far older than he’d ever thought he’d be. But while he wasn’t the Lothario he’d been in his prime, he still had an eye for the ladies.
Which was what Bernard was counting on.
“I don’t teach anymore,’’ Viktor said grumpily. “I’m 90 years old. There’s plenty of other cellists out there who want to teach.”
“Not cellists like you, Viktor,” Bernard assured him.
Viktor wasn’t buying it. “It happens all the time. Someone tells me there’s some young player I should hear. I listen, and they all turn out the same. Technical skills a hundred, yes, but emotion - feeling the music, understanding the music - absolute zero.”
“I know, Viktor - I was your manager for how many years? But that’s why I think you should hear this woman. She gets it. Plus,” Bernard winked, “she’s very easy on the eye.”
Viktor was silent a second. “Well, I’ve always trusted your ears, Bernard. I might see her - what harm could it do? But I’m telling you now, I’ll probably say no.”
*
He didn’t say no.
Viktor shuffled to his chair while Bernard spoke to the young woman. He’d been right - she was very, very pretty, fresh-faced, olive skin, brown eyes and a winning smile.
“I’m sure I don’t have to introduce Viktor Saboli to you, Ms Esparza, but Viktor, this is Marisa.”
“It’s an honour to meet you, Ms Esparza,” she said shyly from behind her cello. “I grew up on your recordings, particularly the Haydn concertos with the ECO.”
Well, she had taste, anyway - those were his own favourites too. “Thank you, Ms Esparza. Perhaps you will play something for me?”
“Certainly. What would you like to hear?”
He might as well put her to the test. “Do you know the Bach cello suites?”
“Of course!”
“The second one, please.”
Marisa drew her bow.
By the end of the first movement, a tear had fallen from Viktor’s eye.
He sat through the second suite, then asked for the fifth. Then the opening of the Elgar concerto. The Debussy sonata.
Bernard caught his eye with a smirk that said, didn’t I tell you?
Damn him, he was right. Then again, he usually was.
Marisa finished and looked at him.
“I think I could you fit you in,” Viktor said gruffly. “Be here next Tuesday at four.”
*
By the end of the fourth lesson, they were addressing each other as Viktor and Marisa.
By the end of the sixth, they were duetting.
Viktor had bought his cello as a young man. It was a hundred years old then, and it wasn’t cheap.
Marisa was the first person he’d ever let play it.
She was, in fact, the first person he’d ever let touch it.
*
Viktor found himself looking forward to the lessons more and more eagerly. By three he was seated in the front room, ostensibly reading - well, as much reading as a 91-year-old man could do - but really listening for her footsteps on the pavement outside, her tap on the door.
They’d play. Sometimes he would listen to her and make criticisms - helpful ones, he hoped. Other times he would play piano and they’d work through a piece. But the times he looked forward to the most were when they played cello together.
She even surprised him. “Do you know Marin Marais?” she asked.
“The baroque composer? Not well, no. That kind of music, it wasn’t fashionable when I was young.”
“I love his music. His viol music is just wonderful.”
“I’m too old to listen to new music.”
“This music is older than you!”
“I’m too old to listen to new old music, then.”
They’d laughed, but the next week she’d brought him a few CDs of viol music from the French baroque.
The next week he asked her to find him some scores of the works. And suddenly they were both learning.
The lessons grew longer and longer. Marisa started dropping in earlier. They would chat, then practice. Afterwards they’d drink tea. She would bring cakes and he’d nibble on one or two.
A few times she made dinner for him. He’d objected, saying he’d been cooking for himself for more than 70 years, but she brushed him aside. Dinner had been good, too.
*
“Viktor! Viktor!”
She was banging on the door. He hadn’t been expecting her. It was Thursday.
“Marisa?”
“Maestro! Look at this!” And she thrust a piece of paper in his face.
A job offer. Join the cello section in a top orchestra. Across the country.
“Well, well. They’re beginning to pay attention to you,” he said with a smile as he handed the paper back. “And Harwood is doing great things with that orchestra, too. Here’s my advice to you - reject the offer.’’
All the joy drained from Marisa’s face. “Viktor - I don’t understand. Reject it …?”
“It’s a trap. Join the cello section, with seven or eight other cellists. It’s steady work. Safe work. You’re better than that.”
“But …”
“Take up the offer, and you might be happy. But always, always in your head you’ll be asking yourself, could I have made it as a soloist?”
He expected her to thank him. Instead her face set in a grim expression, one he’d never seen before.
“This wouldn’t have anything with me having to move for the job, would it?”
“What?”
“If I join the orchestra, I’d have to move. No more lessons. No more Tuesday afternoons with Marisa.”
“That’s not - no, of course - I’d miss you - but - I want only the best for you.”
“Of course you do. What else would the great Viktor Saboli settle for? But it’s not your life. It’s mine.” And she got up and walked out.
*
He was afraid he’d lost her for good.
But next Tuesday at 3pm, she was at the door with a smile on her face.
They never spoke of it again.
She got better and better. After their first year, Bernard arranged top management for her. A lovely church with wonderful acoustics was booked for her first solo concert. At the end, among the cheers, Viktor shuffled on stage with flowers for her.
And when she turned up on the next Tuesday, he congratulated her.
“But,” he said, “there are no more lessons.”
“Maestro? Have I …did I do something wrong?”
Viktor laughed. “No. You don’t understand. There are no more lessons because I can’t teach you anything else. You know it all. You’re a better player than me. But Marisa, don’t ever lose your heart - it’s what ties you to the music. Feel, feel, this is above all else.
“Here, I want you to have this.”
Marisa gasped. “Your cello? I can’t take that!”
“Pish posh. I’m 92 next week. What else am I going to do with it? Take her. Use her. Love her like I’ve loved her.”
“I still can’t take her.”
“Call it a loan, then. Bernard will draw up an agreement between us.”
“Well … alright.” She gave the biggest grin he’d ever seen. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”
Viktor sat in his usual chair. “It really has been a love affair between my cello and me, you know. I was with her longer than any of my wives. Every concert, we were together.”
“I know.”
“You know, I always knew how it felt to be the player, but what I’ve always wanted to know is, how did it feel to be played? Those nights when everything was right, when I didn’t even think, I just let the music flow from me to the instrument, I always wondered - how much of that was me, and how much was the cello?”
Marisa smiled and took his hand.
“Maestro, I’ve been wondering what to get you for your birthday, and I think I know now. My second concert is in a fortnight, and I want you to be there.”
“Of course.”
“No, I want you to be there.”
*
She’d given him the bottle. He held it up to the light, watching the speckles swirl in the thick liquid.
“What is it?” he said cautiously.
“It’s called an imprinting potion, maestro,” Marisa told him. “It allows you to merge with an object for a few hours.”
“An object. Such as … a cello?”
“That’s it exactly.”
“And you yourself have used such a potion?”
“Many times, Viktor. Many times.” And she smiled as she remembered the things she’d been.
He still only half-believed her. Still … he was more than 90 years old, and he hadn’t got to here without taking a few chances.
Or many chances, come to that.
He drank the potion. “Now what do I do?”
“Lay your hands on the object and will yourself to be part of it.”
“Lay your hands on it, eh?”
He smiled at his old cello.
“Well, old friend, it seems we will be becoming even closer than we have in the past.”
He laid his hand lovingly on its neck.
And vanished.
*
The cello was gorgeous. A rich deep yet light colour, like the best scotch whiskey. And its sound! Each time she played it, she marvelled anew.
Tonight, though … tonight it produced the music of the spheres.
She and her accompanist had played the Debussy sonata, then a friend walked on to play the Ravel sonata for violin and cello with her. The audience sat in silence, drinking the music in.
And Marisa felt like nothing more than a vehicle for the sounds, sounds that rippled out of the instrument like a fast-moving river.
The encore was Bach’s second cello suite.
Bernard was the first backstage.
“That,” he said, “was incredible. I’ve been in this business four decades, and I’ve never heard playing like it. I’ve got two record company executives arguing over which one’s going to sign you just outside this door.”
“Thanks,” Marisa smiled. “But I really owe it all to my teacher.”
“Yes, it was sad that Viktor couldn’t be here.”
“Oh, I’m sure he was … in spirit.”
And she touched the cello’s body.