The Russian violinist - Short Story

Literary Review, Fall, 2003 by Ellen Visson

It's been agreed between my wife and me that she's to announce the violinist's good fortune to her during their break.

The guitarist begins an introduction new to their repertoire. With no warning the violinist's voice lifts, swelling across the notes of the guitar. I recognize a phonetic rendition of Love Me Tender. Even Elvis' tremolo is imitated, though it's apparent that the girl has no comprehension of the words. Outside the wind insists, worrying the willow branches. Their narrow whips are naked, the leaves dispersed into the lake whose waves are breaking over a seawall. The lake is now as violent as the North Sea. My wife relaxes. I can see she's allowing the whiskey and the song's mood to wash across her.

I meditate upon my wife's sympatheia as that lilting voice flutters through the room. I note our waiter of the other day. His shoulders are leaning against a pillar, his hips thrust forward. He sneers as Love Me Tender wavers in the air. The violinist ignores him. The two women are riveted. The girl has a sweet voice but believes it better than it is. Perhaps she envisions herself a pop star, soon to be occupying lasers on a stage. Youth harbors such convictions, confusing desire with destiny. During All My Dreams Fulfilled the violinist glances at us. It's a glance as sharp and lean as any stiletto blade but it skims off the contentment of my wife's mood. But I have noted its hunger, the depths of which even I'm incapable of sounding.

My wife turns to me. "Do you think I don't know?" she asks.

"Know what?"

The two women are listening. They lean forward. My wife merely closes her eyes and leans back to listen to the song.

Ellen Visson (Montreux, Switzerland) has been writing fiction for twenty-five years but only recently began submitting. Articles and humor have appeared in Das Beste, The Journal of Irreproducible Results, and International Living.