#bori writes

"Maybe. It's awfully strange for you to ask me personal questions." William slouched back from his chair, taking a break from the paper in front of him.

Without much grace, Guila flipped to her side on the couch. Sitting was for workers; she was an artist. "It's not personal if it's about the business."

"You still call it the 'business'? It's an awful euphemism. I came into this 'business' thinking we were all musicians, not men and women in stiff collars. Look at me!" He waved accusingly at his messy desk.

"Work is play, play is work. And you have an awful habit of asking me questions too." Her light hair shaking with her silent laughter, Guila took another breath of smoke. "You get what you deserve, William."

"Are you talking about my habits or my work?"

"Shhh, you talk too much. I only asked because I was considering getting one myself." Bored by her position, she sat upright again. "A protégé, I mean."

Wearily, William scratched his head before he picked up his pen. "Well, it's not a bad idea. You're almost fifty now, and you've been smoking for almost a century."

With a sigh, Guila extinguished her light on the ashtray. "Don't remind me. It is rude reminding a woman of her age and life."

"Right. Sorry."

"And don't apologize if you don't mean it."

"Alright."

"... And you're wrong."

William briefly looked away from his desk, expectantly.

"I've been smoking for two centuries."

---

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Bonner." The violinist gave a chuckle more fitting for a younger woman.

The younger, but more tired-looking violinist patted his sweaty, receding forehead with a handkerchief before giving her a curt bow. "No formalities, if you please, Signorina Mendatori. I think we've known each other long enough to skip that nonsense."

Guila whispered, not with much warmth, "Let's drop the signorina, then. I find it degrading."

"Yes, yes," Bonner coughed out timidly, "You've come to see a student of mine, yes? His- his name-"

"First," she said, glancing at the yellowed marble gates, "I must see the concert hall myself. Presentation is important. You forget my style, Bonner."

"Of course, of course, right away, I wouldn't know you as someone who would waste their time after coming all this way to New York, presentation, presentation!" Talking to himself in a mantra, Bonner's nervous steps echoed and lingered in the corners of the marble floor. The yellow film over the marble came from both age and acid rain. Guila did not expect anything less from one of New York's relic house of music.

They reached an old wooden door at the end of the hall, its lackluster design and small size hiding a large and modern concert hall behind it. The clicks from Guila's heels stopped abruptly after entering through the door.

"Ah, so your prize student is hidden here? I must say I'm already a little impressed. Marbled floors and soundproof concert halls. Ever a man of taste." Guila said the last sentence quickly, as if sorry she ever had to say it.

"Yes, ah, he should be in the break room. He's from Quebec City, a young boy I met back when I taught at schools-"

"I thought you retired?"

"Yes, but as I will soon prove to you, he has exceptional skill. I think this will be worth your time-"

"I've sworn off young boys claiming to be prodigies a long time ago, Bonner." Guila laughed as she took a cigarette from her purse. "Especially if they're French."

"No, but you'll see," By habit, Bonner took out his lighter and assisted the senior violinist. "Or more ah, you'll hear." While putting away the lighter, he took out his handkerchief again and wiped away the sweat forming in the ridges of his face. Quickly, he sent a message on his watch. Soon after, the two seniors heard a door creaking behind a panel.

A bespectacled boy holding a dark brown violin walked next to his teacher. "Yes, Mr. Bonner?" His voice was young. Guila could not place him older than fifteen.

"Introduce yourself, Enric. This is Sign- Guila Mendatori. You might have heard of her. She wants to hear you play."

The boy nodded; there was no curiosity or surprise to be found on him. Guila wondered if his glasses hid his thoughts, or if he was just really thoughtless.

"My name is Enric Lécuyer. I've been playing since I was seven years old. I am seventeen now."

Guila's first instinct was to laugh, excuse herself to the bathroom and somehow "lose her way" back to Sicily. The boy was far too young to handle any of the business. Even if he was as talented as Bonner gave him credit for, youth did not mix well with work. Even if the business was child's play.

But perhaps failing him in front of his face would get the boy to react. His look of stone was indecipherable; Guila loved a challenge.

"Yes... Play me something, Lécuyer. Something you like."

Enric nodded and placed the violin under his neck, as if assembling machinery. The music soon flowed, a Paginini Caprice, and his fingers followed unspoken instruction. Every note was calculated and expected. As soon as he was finished, the boy put his violin aside like a wind-up toy settling after the turns of its gear ended.

As if waking from a nap, Guila opened her eyes slowly, not remembering when she closed them. It was quite a conundrum. The piece was pretty, but she could not tell how much of his performance was his own talent and how much the result of sheer repetition.

Such was the problem of oft-played pieces. Her ears were too used to the composition. However, there could be another way to assess this situation.

"... How long have you been using that violin?" Her eyes wandered to Enric's neck rash. The pale red mark was a burn wound against the boy's palid skin.

"About three weeks, ma'am."

"Drop the ma'am. Do you have another violin you use?"

The boy thought briefly before he answered, "I have a three-quarter violin."

"Bring that one and play again. Play a piece I choose."

A shrill voice suddenly exclaimed, "F-For God's sake, Guila! If you're going to reject him, say so now! He's holding one of my own violins, and you know I only use the very best-"

Guila snapped, "I'm not done appraising him, Bonner. And as I said..." She turned to face the item in question. "Presentation is important. Do as I said, Lécuyer."

Enric hesitated for a moment before he went back into the break room. He returned with a light orange violin that gently reflected the ivory spotlights of the hall. "What piece do you want me to play?"

With a tap of her fingers, Guila scattered the ashes of her half-burnt cigarette on the linoleum floor. "I'm sure you've heard of 'The Last Rose of Summer'. I am sick of capricci. Play that for me."

When the boy heard the title, an air of apprehension settled around him. It was a notoriously difficult piece, and Guila could not help but smile. At last, he seemed to be cracking under pressure. With a turn of his wrist a holograph of the sheet music appeared before him.

Despite his nerves, the moment he placed the violin under his chin, Guila noticed his shoulders relaxed, just enough for the boy's sweater to crease slightly. The boy played gently first, his strokes becoming more sure and clear as the piece went on. Even his handwork was quicker, his pale hands dancing like ghosts on the fingerboard.

The piece was soon entering its second half, and as Enric rested for a second, Guila raised her hand. "Enough!"

He flinched, ever so slightly.

"Bonner, a moment please," The senior violinist's eyes sent a cold chill to her junior and he went outside without another word.

Guila, her eyes still shining coldly, turned to Enric and looked at him eye-to-eye. He was still.

Suddenly, a smile bloomed on her face and at that, the boy seemed surprised, or so far as Guila could tell from how his eyes widened for a fraction of a second.

"You play well, Enric Lécuyer. You surprised me, the second playing anyway." She blew a ring of smoke to his face. "Don't think I'm saying that because I'm nice or because I pity you. From just the first playing I would have told you I could have just told a computer to play Caprice 24 than come to New York for that."

Enric nodded, keeping his eyes level. He spoke quietly. "... Why did you tell me to play the second time?"

"Ah, that's the question isn't it?" Laughing, she took out another cigarette. "I wanted to see if you felt anything. That's the job of a musician. Feeling," she almost breathed out as she lit the cigarette, "then sharing that feeling with other people. A wordless exchange of ideas, or something poetic like that."

"I play the violin." He pushed his glasses up. "Am I not technically a musician?"

"You can play by the book all you want, boy, but books are always around. What use are you if all you play is something that anybody can get from a piece of paper?"

Enric looked down in thought before he looked aside, his eyebrows narrowed just enough to make a slight crease. "I see."

"... Amazing. I compare you to a computer and piece of paper and you do nothing but look like you lost your house keys." With a dramatic sigh and puff of smoke, Guila leaned back and sank into one of the chairs scattered around the hall. "I guess any student of Bonner has to be a doormat."

A pause lingered uncomfortably afterwards and Enric found himself cleaning the dust out of his violin.

Guila flicked her cigarette before asking in a bored tone, "Enric. What do you want most in life?"

---

"You look happy," William greeted as the Classical Violin entered the office.

A shroud of smoke entered with Guila. "I should be. I finally got myself a protégé."

"Really? They even passed your 'what do you want in your life' existential question? They must be a piece of work."

A laugh rang from the counter under the office cabinets. Guila was restocking her cache of tobacco. "He's not much. Canadian. Boring."

"Ouch. I have friends in Canada, you know."

"You're different. I am almost certain you are boring because you were born boring." She propped herself into the couch into her favorite position as she let her hair loose. She lied there, and William assumed she had fallen asleep.

Suddenly she spoke in a murmur. "Family. He said he wanted family."

---

It was early morning but Enric could see from his window that New York was wide awake already. It was at these moments he thought of home; the way the sun lingered in the horizon, tucked in a veil of fog, reminded him of how the cold nights gave away to humid days in Quebec City.

It had been almost eight years since he was in the business. He turned and eyed a leather-wrapped violin case. Mendatori's very own. It was among the other violins he owned, all lined on the shelf.

A loud guffaw reverberated in the concert hall. What an unexpected answer. Guila internally blessed the room for its superior acoustics before she faced the boy in front of her. "You have a sweet heart, Lécuyer. Use it when you play; do you expect to move the hearts of the audience if you don't use one yourself?"

He picked out the case and opened it. The violin was a fine, deep amber color, the varnish faded along spots of the body. It was unspeakably old.

"... I'm not sure what you mean." Enric rubbed the red mark on his neck.

"I'm telling you it's okay to feel, Lécuyer. Today I learned that the world still contains surprises for this old hag. You might be able to surprise yourself."

Gingerly, Enric held the violin in his hand. He could not say if he felt anything. It was heavy from the use and age it bore, and the maple fingeboard seemed to wait for any to dare touch it. Carefully wrapping his hands around the neck, he felt the tension of the strings under his touch.

Finishing her last cigarette, she took out a card from her purse and laid it on the table next to the boy's violin case. The card was white with a few simple designs in black. On the middle card was a 'C'.

"You have potential. The card has an address on it; the office will know you were invited by me. Come alone. But I warn you," Guila prepared herself for her next remark with a giggle. "Only come if you feel like it."

Yet, the tension did nothing to ease his ambivalence. He put the old violin away before he saw a familiar white case. The case was covered with what were properly bumper stickers and temporary tattoos. He could not help but smile; it was the masterpiece of Lorra, made slowly during the short three years she lived after giving him the violin.

He opened the case. Its orange aura never faded as the varnish contained more potent and artificial components than the works made by old masters. By all standards it was inferior to the other violins; he did not agree with nepotism but the violin was still his very own.

"Oh," Guila let out as she was leaving, "And bring your three-quarter violin. Don't bring the trash Bonner picks out for you."

"It's not a professional model. I don't think it would reflect my playing accu-"

"Sssh." Guila opened the door and saw Bonner waiting restlessly right outside.

"So- is he to your liking- signorina-"

"He has some skill but nothing to look at! He may play pretty, look pretty but nothing to look at!" As she loudly exclaimed, she turned briefly to the boy and winked. As if on cue, Enric took the card and tucked it in his pocket.

"Ah- but surely Guila-" whimpered Bonner. With a toss of her head and a flick of her fingers, the senior violinist left the marbled floors.

Enric suddenly realized it was Saturday. Technically the business was closed but everyone came anyway. He wondered why; most of the members were young and had a rather lax work ethic. Perhaps something other than work pulled them together.

He pulled out the mail and text server and saw it was Noel's turn to buy lunch. He could tell from their correspondence, as the last text sent from Noel was a rather triumphant declaration that it was Enric's turn.

As carefully as he inspected the ancient violin, he composed a short message.

[i'll pay for lunch today.]

... Was that too short? Enric on the occasion thought his terse responses to Noel's rather colorful messages were disproportionate.

He wrote slowly and methodically.

[i'll pay for lunch today. i am well this morning.]

There was a pause before he sent the response. An odd sensation stirred in him. Inexplicably, the mystery of Saturday seemed less of a mystery to him now.

He looked out the window once more. The sun was no longer drifting along the horizon. It was bright, forecasting one last summer noon.