The Russian violinist - Short Story

Literary Review, Fall, 2003 by Ellen Visson

I was thus hardly surprised when my wife announced her plans to adopt the violinist. Her plans for once suited my own. Despite my wife's self-proclaimed insight, she seemed incapable of discerning what was visible even to our cafe neighbor--that burly woman there, now opening the switchblade of her eyes at me over her bottle of wine. She herself had been scrutinizing the violinist, elbow on table and head in hand. She was also in the competition.

Moon River flowed towards its inevitable end, to merge with the gentle sloshing of the lake. Destiny, according to the unsung lyrics, was calling it in style. Someday. At the rainbow's end, it was time for the musicians' break. Walking towards the hotel, the duet skirted our table. My wife beckoned them by raising one finger. They came immediately. The violinist spoke some English. Her Russian voice liked like her other instrument of seduction. The guitarist had a congenial though blackened smile, and spoke no English. He immediately lit a cigarette and excused himself. In an instant, only smoke remained where he had stood.

The violinist stayed, awash in the smoke and very straight. She let the bow hang vertically before her, wrist bent. The violin leaned across her large breasts like a contented child just finished nursing. Her red-apple cheeks were raised, making her green eyes merry. Her smile was professional.

We did not ask her to sit down. My wife complimented her on her talent, to which I acquiesced. Information was elicited. My wife discovered that the violinist was a recent graduate of the Saint Petersburg music conservatory, where she had been nearly paralyzed. During a performance she had been thrown off the podium when her chair pierced a floorboard. One piano had already fallen through the rotting stage. There was no money to repair anything in Russia, she lamented. The head of the conservatory appropriated all funds. She had lain in the hospital three weeks, unable to move below the neck. Her mother had prayed, she noted. Her mother was a doctor who now took care of children. Daycare paid something; being a doctor didn't.

My wife had been observing those green eyes with her melting hazel ones. I closed my own to listen to the melodic voice. It was as lively as her eyes despite the doleful stories it carried. When I opened mine, I could see that my wife had made up her mind. The violinist soon rejoined her guitarist for the staff meal provided by the hotel. My wife turned to me. I began to protest even before she spoke, knowing that this was the best way to insure my real preference. I was, of course, happily overruled.

I must explain that I had no designs on what was once so quaintly called "the virtue" of the violinist. I merely wished to relieve the tedium of our contentment by the indulgence of a vicarious fascination. There was also a tinge of revenge mixed in: the strays with which my wife surrounded herself interfered with her duties towards me. It's also true that my wife possessed more money than I. But my personal fortune had been earned by me and me alone. I had inherited nothing. Besides, I was the man. In our generation, that still meant something.