Chapter Eight #5
This one barely ended with a kiss, though. So I must have done something wrong.
I lie on my couch, hoping the ancient beams on the ceiling enlighten me.
It might not be about you —the thought crosses my mind. She’s going through a lot.
Tonight, I learned about Daisy’s dreams, and while we have a deep connection, her plans clash with the future I imagined for us.
Sharing all that with me probably made her realize there is no point in us getting more intimate. She must be afraid there are too many feelings involved now, and sex wouldn’t be just sex—and she would rather hold back than let the good memories hurt her later.
It’s too late, though. At least for me.
I’ll be miserable when she leaves.
Fuck, I’m miserable already.
I rub my face, breathing hard. I remind myself I have three more days. But how can I possibly convince her to stay? She’s set on her project, and at least this project makes sense.
You don’t convince her to stay , I tell myself harshly. You let her chase her happiness.
Fuck. I sit up, pressing my temples.
My eyes roam around the tiny room—more a humble studio apartment than a hotel suite like Luigi’s elegant loft. He’s all the way up, above the hotel rooms, with a canal view and easy access to the terrace, while I’m close to the kitchen and have a single window facing an alley.
I’ve never dared complain about my servant quarters.
Isn’t it a dream to travel zero minutes to work?
I’m the only staff member apart from Luigi who lives in the building.
This was a grand house back in the day, the palazzo of the wealthy Marchesi family.
It’s an honor to be here, keeping things running, safe and sheltered, especially when I remember I had nothing when I arrived.
A sudden restlessness propels me to stand up and pace, examining every part of the room like someone who’s visiting for the first time.
I look at the watercolors I hung on the walls—which I bought to support a street artist and to admire my favorite landmarks of Venice as if I had small magical windows all over the room.
I’ve never felt trapped by these walls because I know all those sights are a short walk away.
When I look at them now, though, I feel unhappy…
suffocated …because I can’t picture myself enjoying any of those places if Daisy is not by my side.
The space is too tight. The bed too small. The room too empty. The city too crowded.
Suddenly, nothing makes sense when I’m alone. Can I stay here without Daisy? Without Luigi? Just living for the hotel and nothing more?
The air feels thick and hard to breathe as I run my fingers across the dusty books on my shelf—nonfiction about hospitality, history books, travel guides, Umberto Eco novels, Casanova’s autobiography… I don’t want to reread any of these, so I crouch and take something from the cabinet below.
A violin case.
I bring it to the couch, my heart racing as I run my fingers over the dusty surface. I haven’t opened it for three years. The day I moved in, I stuffed it into that cabinet and never looked back.
I flip the latches open with trembling fingers, and my heart rises to my throat when I lay eyes on the instrument nestled inside the case, as lustrous, beautiful, and arrogant as I remember.
God, I’ve missed it… My violin. It’s like looking at a part of my soul I hid away.
I carefully lift it out of the case and lay it on my lap, swallowing the knot in my throat. My whole body pulsates with excitement and something else that leaves a hole in the bottom of my stomach. Something not entirely pleasant.
I take a deep breath, willing to face it. Daisy did it. I can too.
I run my fingers along the instrument, slowly and softly, as if it’s an old lover I’m getting reacquainted with. It’s so smooth, so familiar… I bring it closer and put it where it belongs—on my collarbone, supported by my shoulder and my left hand.
It feels lighter than I remember. I have a different build now, so it takes me a moment to adjust it until the position feels comfortable and natural. The smell of aged wood and varnish sends me right back in time, and I breathe in to find my balance.
I spend a moment tuning the violin. Then I pretend the bow is in my right hand and let the fingers of my left hand test the strings.
Muscle memory kicks in, and suddenly I’m playing a Vivaldi sequence with no sound.
I move the imaginary bow back and forth and realize I could be actually playing the piece.
I still remember it! The realization makes me smile.
I try other excerpts, still not daring to play for real, just testing the movement of my fingers on the strings. My heart accelerates every time I conclude I still remember. Vivaldi, Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Corelli, Strauss, Tchaikovsky… It’s all in my head. And in my hands.
I’m about to take the bow from the case, but I hesitate. It’s late, and someone could hear me. I don’t want Luigi to conclude anything…
That’s not the real reason I don’t go ahead, though. I’ll be truthful with myself from now on , I decide. So I take a deep breath while hugging the violin and whisper, “I’ve missed you. So, so much… But I’m not ready to play you tonight.”
I lay it carefully in the case. Then I reach for my laptop on the table and sit back on the couch. I log in to the YouTube channel I abandoned years ago and click on my most watched video.
A younger Lorenzo—thinner, paler, clean-shaven, with longer hair and tired eyes—stands in front of the camera in his grandma’s living room, suited up, with the violin in position.
Then he starts playing. Bach. A sequence that gets increasingly more complicated.
It’s only him, but it sounds like a whole ensemble.
He’s extremely skilled, extremely fast. Flawless.
His fingertips fly across the fingerboard, and the sound gets richer and more intense by the second.
His eyes are closed, and he moves with the melody because he feels it in the depths of his soul.
He’s in some sort of trance, as if his body knows what to do.
I only realize I’m crying when tears start dripping onto the keyboard. For a moment, I wasn’t the Lorenzo on this side of the screen. The one who is never going to feel that way again.
I scroll through the comments—hundreds of them.
There is a stream of compliments, kind words, amazement, and heart-eye emojis.
There’s people saying I made them cry. People looking forward to my next videos and saying I inspire them.
Strangers telling me I should never, ever stop playing.
Strangers asking why I disappeared and hoping I’m well…
I scroll up to watch the rest, feeling unsteady.
Sobs ripple my chest, and by the end of the video, my eyes are too clouded to follow the movements of the musician I once was. The silence that fills the room when he’s done sends another shot of pain through me.
I can’t exist in the silence anymore.
I hold the violin against my chest and let it all out. We can be silent together tonight as I learn to breathe again. But I won’t shove it back in that cabinet for three more years. Or three months. Maybe not even three days.
I dry my eyes and take the laptop again. After an hour of research, I come to a few conclusions.
Venice has no open positions for violinists currently—and perhaps not for several months—and I’m not taking my chances in LA. My only option is the philharmonic orchestra in Milano.
I read the job ad several times and go through the audition repertoire. It’s an easy one. Or at least old me would have mastered it.
I’m so hyped suddenly, so energized by the possibility of joining an orchestra again that I apply for it on a whim.
Then I sit back and consider what I’ve done. Milano… What about Venice? The hotel? Daisy?
Holy shit, Lorenzo, what are you doing?
“I’m following my dream,” I say out loud because the silence in the room needs to hear it.
I haven’t gotten the job yet. And considering how rusty I am, I’ll probably fail the audition. But it’s a start. It’s an excuse to practice.
And it’s me dealing with the past to shape my future.
If Daisy can do it, I can too.