Trans. Lina Llerena
Foreign Languages Department
California State University
Nicole stares reverently at the instrument, as she draws its contour with her index finger.
"Take it!" Alexis ordered. "It's yours."
"I'm astonished. When you said you were going to give me
a special present, I thought you meant jewelry, or a trip. . .
. But this! I can't accept it. It's exceptional."
"Just like you. Accept it."
"Did it belong to your family?"
"For your own sake, don't ask me that. I only ask that you
keep it."
"If I accept it, I will feel compelled to become a virtuoso,
and right now I'd rather make love."
"A double compliment for me. Any suggestions?"
"Let's do it to Beethoven's 10th!"
"But it's unfinished, dear . . . ."
"Precisely, Alexis."
Alexis didn't know whether to feel offended by her request, or whether to please her. His will, weak and irrational, rose like a feather. He searched frantically for some music around the messy studio, finally picking any old album. Then he drew closer to Nicole and began undressing her. Aroused, Nicole searches each and every note, realizing its sound, as if trying to bleed emotions from her own soul to later craft them into music:
An emotional, climactic variation of the basic theme follows the slow first Adagio. The purity of each sound harmonizes with the urgency of her desire. Nicole lets out a Fortissimo to the beat of the fourth movement.
"It's fortunate Beethoven can't hear us," Nicole whispers
in her lover's ear. (He was unforgettable. He used to get quickly
enraptured under the spell of sounds; music moved him to the verge
of tears. His bow used to rub against the violin strings, ever
so slightly. And yet this subtle caress was enough to trigger
the metamorphosis: his bright eyes then flickered like electric
sparks, which instilled in him a new life.
Niccolo Paganini was in love with his violin. His compositions were actually passionate love letters written with musical notes. Some people could not understand why he found such joy in that violin, but the truth is that when musician and violin performed together, people would become rapt in their music. The aroused Paganini used to caress his instrument, which in turn moaned tenderly in response to his strokes. No longer was it a violin: "it's a flute, the immaculate trill of a masterly canary."
The vast majority of Niccolo's work consists of pieces for violin. He was in love with the instrument the way one would love a living thing ever since he was a child: "Rather than just play it, I want to live with it and make it speak." He managed to establish with the instrument a special rapport that inspired even the most sublime of souls and the humblest of men. Such pain, such misery contained in those four strings! What a man, what a violin!
The instrument is an integral part of the story, as it will provide
the accompaniment. In order to understand it we will take a few
pages ornate with metaphors and images just to make it more enigmatic
and will reconstruct the instances where the violin is not separate
from the performer, but is rather a continuation of the musician's
persona.)
A bird's song breaks the heavy silence with its first note, and Nicole jumps out of bed and goes to the window. "If I could only grasp the essence of sonority." And the shameless sunlight weaves itself into the burning metaphor of her hair.
Attempting to express her innermost feelings, she studies the
score. "I'm so naive. What made me think that Alexis would
change? He hasn't been here in three days. And each time he seems
more withdrawn, more consumed by his own thoughts. He hasn't picked
me up at the Conservatory, nor has he asked about the violin.
What if he stole it?"
Nicole strums the instrument. "A harmonious body that contains
a world of promise."
"Nicole!"
She hears him, but doesn't answer. She takes the bow out of its
case and rubs it against the small rosin bag. Alexis' voice echoes
in the entire house.
"Where are you?" he said, as he opened the door all
of a sudden, bursting into the studio.
Nicole, half-naked, is waiting for him. Alexis approached her
sluggishly, and gently placed a flower between her breasts.
"I need you so much, I'd do anything for you."
"I thought you weren't coming."
"Well, here I am now."
Nicole's hands burn with desire. Alexis, now their willing prisoner,
quivers in anticipation. Music, two bodies consumed by unbridled
passion, and a violin: (You won't be able to embrace my essence
until you master the style.) Alexis intensified the tone. (The
fascination levels you will practice will depend largely on your
ability to transition from forte to piano, and also on the appropriate
use of the intermezzi. Tighten the strings.) Alexis moaned. (Turn
this peg adds the violin adjust the tension. Now with your right
hand take one end of the bow, and let it glide . . . . Music,
violin, and Nicole are interfused. From one of the strings flows
a myriad of tonalities. Chord perfection, resonance, perpetual
motion, the symphony in E . . . . Alexis detached himself from
Nicole's body; the resonance is a bit muffled, yet intoxicatingly
sweet. The vibrations dwindle gradually and eventually stop; all
sounds die with them.
(Niccolo was already used to the uncontrollable fervor and other hassles that accompanied his fame and notoriety. The Vienna newspapers wrote: "This violin god has managed to arouse the Viennese to a level of sensory perception never before reached by any other artist."
As his fame spread through Europe, rumors about his diabolical powers followed him wherever he went. "I am a gifted performer, that's all," he used to tell his admirers. An eyewitness affirmed he saw Paganini with respect to Rossini's "MATILDE" play each score almost instantly after the author finished composing them, without even allowing the ink to dry.
Yet the legend of his "pact with the devil" according to which the devil led his hand when he performed fascinated audiences, and Niccolo found it amusing to knit a web of variations of it, as a parody of orchestra accompaniments; performing passages of sixteenths, plucking one and bowing the other, so clearly and precisely that not even the slightest variation went unnoticed. And his relentless, long-fingered hands seemed to hover, then linger over the instrument.
One day, Paganini announced he intended to offer a novel piece entitled "Love Scene," and showed up at the theater with a violin that had only two strings.
"One string will convey the young woman's emotions, while
the other must be the voice of a passionate man," he explained
to the audience. "Thus I have established a sentimental dialogue
in which the most passionate words are followed by fits of jealousy."
The performance was a success.
After the performance, the audience could utter but a single name:
Paganini.)
Nicole. That was the only name that occupied Alexis' thoughts.
Driven by passion and uncontrollable desire, he poured the last
drop of liquor into the glass and added two ice cubes. The noise
reached Nicole like an F sharp. Alexis approached the stage where
she was rehearsing and snatched the sheet music away from her.
"Mozart or Beethoven?"
"Please give it back to me, I'm not finished studying yet."
"Is the concert tomorrow?"
"In a week. But I need to go over the Andante. I'm not comfortable
with it yet."
"No. Paganini or me."
Nicole ignores him. She takes the instrument and rests her chin
on it. She tunes the bow with carefree strokes. Alexis climbed
up to the stage and furiously snatched the Stradivarius away from
her, letting it fall to the floor. Nicole throws herself upon
the falling violin, trying to protect it with her body, and Alexis
pounces upon Nicole. In the midst of the commotion, the battered
violin and the almost immediate, ravenous convulsions of the two
bodies in an endless encounter, plagued by caresses of different
intensities and followed by brief interludes.
Infinite pleasure intervals loom in Nicole's will. Her artistry wavers from sensuality to intelligence, from her love for music to the stirring of her senses, from Alexis to Paganini. It wavers in step, in syncopated time, slipping, falling, and amid the joy of consummation, the rubbing, the withdrawal, the melody strumming the air. In the end, the reckoning: A chord, three ascending notes, and the eloquence of the bodies throbbing, quivering to the rhythm of an unbearable Arpeggio.
Alexis surrendered the sheet music to Nicole. Nicole caresses
the violin, which moans a soft, whiny, twangy song.
Alexis felt like he was desecrating a holy place. There were tools, benches, and wood everywhere; dirty jars with only residues left of the varnish Stradivarius used on his masterpieces, anointing them with love and genius.
The silence seemed infinite.
"Antonio Stradivarius continued crafting his magnificent
violins even after the age of ninety. Already blind, he used his
hands to draw forth from the wood the appropriate shape for the
instrument
. . . one of these violins belonged to Niccolo Paganini."
Alexis felt transported to Geneva, Parma, Milano in only seconds
. . . .
(Niccolo lost all his belongings in one night, thanks to his uncontrollable
passion for gambling.
"I have nothing left but the violin. All on black.")
Alexis heard the wine gurgling down his throat. His lack of patience
was consuming him. I want to know more about Paganini. He drew
closer to a glass cabinet. You had told me very little about this
violinist, Nicole . . . .
(The roulette . . . , red wins. Niccolo, softly stroking his lost
treasure, picked the strings tenderly, and with trembling hands
surrendered it to the winner.
"You can't pay with that, my friend. Not even if it had golden
strings."
"It's a Stradivarius. My Stradivarius. Never appraise its
weight in gold. I'll give it back to you after the concert."
"No way! Since it is so valuable, give it to me now."
Amid his confusion, Alexis stumbled upon a half-opened instrument
case. A curvature made of maple tree was barely visible. So you're
a violin. He derived a morbid pleasure from invading the instrument's
privacy.
(Niccolo's eyes ignited like red-hot coals. One of the gamblers, also a devoted fan of Paganini's, said to him:
"Come to my house; I have a violin you can borrow. Let's go, time is running out!"
Paganini looked closely at the violin. It was in a glass cabinet;
abandoned, covered with dust, with a broken string.
"Let me see it!"
Niccolo's keen eye then noticed a very small detail: The openings,
shaped like a letter F, were vertical and more pronounced. And
only an expert would have perceived the slight flattening of the
lateral "Cs".
"It's not a bad instrument," said the owner, "although
the tone is rough. As you can see, it's a little bit big. Let
me dust it off."
"Do you have a candle? Hold it up so the light goes into
the opening . . . this one, on the side."
"Do you see something peculiar?" "Initials written in brown ink . . . let's see, I.H.S., dated 1743. I knew it! This violin is the one Garnerius crafted while in prison. Quickly, get me a string!"
"Let's go! The carriage is waiting! He barely has enough time to change clothes.)
It's not everyday that a violinist can rest her chin on a Stradivarius. Alexis put his arm around one of the instrument's voluptuous "C's." You have a woman's figure. He then caressed the openings. Long and curvy. He thought of Nicole. How would you like to be in a beautiful musician's arms? Suddenly, he thought he heard a tone clear and crisp like a bell's toll. Does she love music, you ask? Yes, yes, music is her passion. The air was filled with a soft rumor, a series of overlapping tonalities. It's impossible to chat with a god. Come with me. Nicole is worth the risk.
Whistling and carefree, he walked out with the Stradivarius under
his arm. His footsteps now followed a different beat.
(Paganini stepped up to the stage. Slowly, solemnly, he took the rosin bag out of his pocket, and slid the bow across it a few times. He then grasped the bow and began playing. The first movement, Moderato. He wanted to test the violin.)
Nicole waits behind the scenes while the orchestra is tuning. The theater manager approaches her and whispers something in her ear. Nicole's face is overcome with sadness.
"It's hard to give up the Stradivarius, sir. The concert
. . . ."
"I understand completely, signorina."
"Couldn't I keep it for a few more hours? My public is waiting."
The theater manager thought it over.
"Go, signorina."
("If this instrument has ears, it will hear me and its voice
will respond to my needs.")
Tense, just like the violin strings, Nicole enters the salon. The Stradivarius' wood is cold. She rests the instrument under her chin and holds it there to warm it up. She slides the fine bow strands across the rosin bag. She tightens the lowest string and assertively crosses the bow over the strings. She plays a few scales. The furious bowing draws impressive Staccato figures. She translates darkness into sublime overtones. A stridence escaped from the resonance box: (Swifter bowing will make your notes more brilliant.) Nicole is mesmerized; the result transcends imagination. The vibrant voice continues:
(You have truly embraced Paganini.)
The audience was frenzied.
Nicole shuts her eyes for a short break. (Close the performance with a few capricci.) Even though the technique is simple, she wants her performance to be unforgettable. She knows Alexis is waiting for her after the concert, reason enough to make the last movement a Prestissimo.
The clamoring gradually increases, eventually blending into the
music stream . . .
.
"I was right to think that the four violin strings would
eventually come between us."
"I didn't believe until today that music could break lovers
apart. Thanks to music I was able to set my feelings free."
"Do you think I understood that language?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"I don't regret it, Nicole. The violin was just there. Please
don't think it was reckless of me to bring it to you; your image
was torturing me: 'Nicole will be so surp