Anne Rice - Violin

I lifted the violin. I lifted it to my chin and I started to play.

Once again, this time to delve, this time to know, this time to heave my soul upwards to discover if a real world received it. I heard the music, tr~ie to my innermost harmless desires, I heard it rise with loving faith. In a blur the real world was as the real world should be in a blur-kiosk, people gathered, a small car come to a halt.

I played. I didn't care. My hands grew warmer from the playing, poor Stefan, poor Stefan. I breathed steam into the cold. I played and played. Wise grief seeks no vengeance from life itself.

Suddenly my fingers stiffened. I was too cold, really, really cold.

"Come inside, madam," said the man beside me. Others came. A young woman with her hair drawn back. "Come inside, come inside," they said.

"But where? Where are we? I want my bed, my house, I'd wake up if only I knew how to get back to my bed and my house."

Nausea. This world was darkening in an ordinary way, I was going numb from the cold, I was slipping from consciousness.

"The violin, please, the violin, don't take it," I said. I couldn't feel my hands, but I could see it, see its priceless wood. I could see lights before me, dancing like lights might do in rain, only there was no rain.

"Yes, yes, darling. Let us help you. You hold it. We hold you. You are safe now."

An old man stood before me, beckoning, directing those around me. A venerable old man, such a European old man with white hair and beard, such a strange European visage, as if from the deep deep past of Vienna, before terrible wars.

"Let me hold the violin in my arms," I said.

"You have the precious instrument, darling," said the woman to me. "Call the doctor at once. Pick her up. Gently, be careftil with her! Sweetheart, we have you.

The woman guided me through the revolving doors. A shock of warmth and light.

Nausea. I'll die, but I won't wake up.

"Where are we? What is this day? My hands, I need warmth for them, warm water."

"We have you, child, all right, we do, we'll help you.

"My name is Triana Becker. New Orleans. Call there. Call the lawyer of my family, Grady Dubosson. Get help for me. Triana Becker."

"We will, my dear one," said the old gray-haired man. "We will do it for you.

You rest now. Carry her. Let her hold the violin. Do not harm her."

"Yes . . "I said, expecting then that all the light of life would sud denly go out, that this was in fact death itself, come in a tangle of fantasy and impossible hopes and filthy miracles.

But death did not come. And they were tender and gentle.

"We have you, dear."

"Yes, but who are you?"

Chapter 15

The royal suite. Vast, white and gold, walls paneled in a taupe brocade. Beige plaster circles above. Such soothing beauty The inevitable scrollwork in whipped cream along the ceilings, a great cartouche in each corner. The bed itself was modern in size and firmness. I saw galloping gold filigree above. I was heaped with white down counterpanes-a suite fit for the Princess of Wales, or a millionaire madwoman.

I lay in half-sleep, the too eThausted thin sleep, a net of anxiety preventing a luxurious descent, an irritable sleep in which each voice is sharp and rubs the pores of the skin.

The warmth was modern and delicious. Double casement windows kept out the Vienna cold, windows dressed in sumptuous finery. Open the window, and then open the window. Heat droned from concealed or inconspicuous fixtures, filling up the spacious volume of the room.

"Madame Becker, Count Sokolosky, he wants you to be his guest here."

"I gave you my name." Did my lips move? I looked to the side, at a double sconce of gold with two candlelight bulbs burning brightly against the plaster, baubles hanging from the shining brass. "There's no need for the gentleman's kindness." I tried to make my words clear. "Please, if you will, call the man I told you about-my lawyer, Grady Duhosson."

"Madame Becker, we have made these calls. Funds are on the way to you. Mr.

Dubosson is coming for you. And your sisters send you their love. They are greatly relieved to discover that you are safe here."

How long has it been? I smiled. There came into my mind a lovely scene from an old film of Dickens's A Christmas Carol, Alastair Sim, the British actor, a dancing Scrooge on Christmas morn having awakened a changed man. "I don't know how long I've been among the spirits." Happy, happy ending.

There was a white desk, a chair of midnight blue silk and wood, a soaring plant, the thin sheers parted to let in gray light.

"But the Count begs you to be his guest. The Count heard you play the Stradivarius."

I opened my eyes wide.

The violin!

It was beside me, lying on the bed. I had my hand over the strings and the bow. It was dark brown and shiny against the white linen, nestled in the pillow near me.

"Yes, it is there, madam," said the woman in perfect English made all the more rich by her Austrian accent. "It is by your side."

"I am so sorry to be so much trouble."

"You are no trouble, madam. The Count has looked at the violin, not touched it, you understand. He would not do that without your permission." Softer, the Austrian accent really, than German, more fluid. "The Count is a collector of such instruments.

He begs that you be his guest. Madam, it would be an honor to him. Will you take some supper now?"

Stefan was in the corner.

Pale, hunched, faded, as if the color had bled out of him, staring at me, a figure obscured by mist.

I gasped. I sat up, clutching the violin to me.

"Don't fade, Stefan, don't become one of them!" I said.

His face, flill of sadness and defeat, didn't change. The image seemed meager, wavering. He lay against the wall, his cheek to the damask panel, ankies crossed on the parquet, resting in mist and shadow.

"Stefan! Don't let it happen to you. Don't go."

I looked to right and left for the lost dead, the dreary shades, the mindless souls.

The tall woman looked over her shoulder. "You are speaking to me, Madame Becker?"

"No. Just to a phantom," I said. Why not be done with it? Why not say it? I had probably registered myself with these kind Austrians as one of the highest rank of the mad. Why not? "I don't speak to anyone, unless, that is, unless you see a man there in the corner.

She looked for him and couldn't find him. She turned back to me. She smiled.

Consumed in courtesy, she was uncomfortable and not knowing what to do for me.

"It's only the cold, the trials, the journey," I said. "Don't worry the Count, my host, with all this. My lawyer's coming?"

"Everything is to be done for you," said the woman. "I am Frau Weber. This is our concierge, Herr Melniker."

She pointed to the right. She was a handsome woman, nobly tall, her black hair drawn back into a bun from her young face. Herr Melniker was a young man with ice blue eyes who looked an'tiously at me.

"Madam," he said.

Frau Weber tried to delay him with a dip of her head and a rise of her hand, but he pressed on.

"Madam, do you know how you came to be here?"

"I have a passport,” I said. "My lawyer will bring it to me."

"Yes, madam. But how did you get into Austria?"

"I don't know."

I looked at Stefan, pale, leaden with despair, his face bleached, only his eyes inflamed as he looked back at me.

"Frau Becker, do you remember perhaps anything that you . The man stopped.

"Perhaps she must take supper now," said Frau Weber, "some soup perhaps. We have excellent soup for you, and some wine. Would you like some wine?"

She broke off. They both stood fixed. Stefan looked only at me.

A thumping noise drew closer and closer. A man with a limp and a cane. I knew the sound. I rather liked it, the thump, the shuffling step, the thump.