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Saturday, July 19, 2014

The Roads around #Ravello 8. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                   I unpacked my violin, rosining the bow with extra care, and found a position directly in front of the tower window but in a blessed shadow out of the incredibly hot sun.
                  As I raised the violin to my chin and stuck my bow into the air in the exact gesture of Paganini, the mad violinist of Italy, my back rounded, my cheek caressing the chin-rest, a carbiniere came running, shouting, ”Basta, basta, musica non grata est! Musica non grata est!” But as he reached my side the incredible sound of the grand piano from the open door of the music salon of the San Cataldo Cloister intoned the first chords of the immortal second movement of Beethoven’s Spring Sonata. My friend had kept his promise, of course, and the sonorous chords now doubly enhanced by the immeasurable echo in the valley flooded the square and I placed my bow on the strings and softly played the answering tones of the voice of the violin. The carabiniere stopped as if he had been stabbed, and crossing his arms at his breast like the great solo ballet dancer Erik Bruhn at the Royal Theatre in Copenhagen, he sank to the to the ground in a swoon.
                      Up in the tower the curtain twitched in one corner. The piano theme filled the courtyard with as many notes as a barrel full of sardines and
each and every peasant or lord stopped in their tracks to hear the completion of the announcement of the first theme.
            The curtain twitched again.
            My compatriot played the introductory melody to its logical conclusion and then started the rolling sixteenth notes which are the accompaniment to the violin’s pronouncement of the first theme. For a moment there was peace in the square.
            The curtain in Helen’s room fell into place again. Then I raised my bow yet again to the strings, but this time not to accompany or to answer but to sing, acclaim, yes, proclaim the theme as my own, the irrefutable proof of my love.
             The curtain in the tower shot to the ceiling. Standing behind the window I could see as I still concentrated on the melody, the sweat streaming into my eyes, my fingers almost bleeding from the strain of the melody, I could see the contours of...
                          Let me express in proper form my...
                          Let me pronounce in distinct fashion...
                          Let me confess...   (to be continued...)

Order my book: "Pieces: A Life in Eight Movements and a Prelude" (WiDo Publishing) from your favorite bookseller.

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