40
Max stood up and walked over to the railing, gazing down at the illuminated statue of Tartini. I sat down on the floor next to the violin case and jerked my chin toward it.
“Why don”t you play for me? But real music, the kind you used to play. Not those songs from the restaurant.”
“Good idea,” he said, putting his keys and phone aside and bending down to pull out the instrument. “I think I need that more than anything tonight.”
Max took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He raised the bow above his head, in an exaggerated bow to a nonexistent audience, and let the first notes burst forth like a soft lament.
“It’s said that some of the best musicians in history made a pact with the Devil to reach the top,” he said in a whisper, beginning to play the first chords of a soft melody. “And the story of Maestro Tartini, right here in this square, is not an exception.
The music became faster and more impatient, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
“One night, the Devil appeared to Tartini in a dream. He offered him world fame in exchange for his soul.”
I approached the railing and looked down. A small group of passersby had stopped at the entrance to the hotel and were glancing around, trying to guess where the music was coming from.
“Tartini wasn’t sure. Would he really become the most famous musician in the world if he sold his soul? After some hesitation, he agreed, and the Devil played this same sonata for him,” Max continued, swaying like a reed as the notes flowed like a waterfall. “When the maestro woke up, he wrote down the melody as he remembered it, but he was never able to reproduce it exactly, to imitate the virtuoso technique of the Fallen Angel accurately. And when he realized his inferiority, he wanted to break his violin in two out of pure rage.”
Max whirled around the terrace in a trance, pulled by his instrument, his fingers moving at superhuman speed, guided by a superior force.
“The Devil”s Trill, he called it,” he continued without opening his eyes. “The springboard that launched Tartini to fame, but at what price?”
A dissonant note broke the cool, damp night breeze, and Max”s eyes snapped open.
“A price he will continue to pay for the rest of eternity in hell,” he finally said and let the violin hang at his side. “The Devil never forgets our weaknesses, and we will all be accountable to him when the time comes.”
A round of applause resounded from the square, and I pulled him to me without being able to wait a second longer, kissing him greedily.
He took me by the waist and laid me down on one of the cushioned loungers with extreme gentleness. His kisses flooded everything, and in my ears, only his shortness of breath and my heartbeat resounded.
He undressed me with the same reverence he had unsheathed his violin, and his hands ran over my waist and hips as if they were the strings of his instrument. Our bodies met on their own, united in the oldest symphony of all.
With each caress, with each onslaught, the memory of Pedro became more and more blurred, like a watercolor fading in the rain. For an instant, my world was limited to this terrace under the stars and to the blond, tangled hair of a musician condemned to pay forever the mistakes of his past.
A past that, for one night, ceased to exist.
All our past mistakes vanished in the mist, carried far away by the cargo ships anchored in the port, ready to set sail.
For one night...
“Don”t go back to Spain yet,” he murmured a little later as we were about to fall asleep.
I exhaled, looking at the constellations in the dark sky.
“I have no choice,” I replied in a whisper.
“Please stay. You know you don”t like your life there. Stay here for good... stay with me.”
He rested his head on my lap, and I remembered the empty promises Pedro always made at moments like those, always just before falling asleep. Then, with the dawn, his words would fade away as if he had never uttered them.
Max”s breathing slowed until he fell into the arms of Morpheus. I stayed awake, pondering his impulsive request.
His phone, discarded next to the lounger, suddenly glowed with a greenish glow. A four-letter name flashed across the screen, and temptation was stronger than decency when I read the word Lana on it.
Don”t do it, I told myself. If it”s something bad, it will hurt. And if it”s not, but he finds out you snooped, he”ll never forgive you.
But curiosity got the better of me.
I reached out slowly to pick up the phone, careful not to wake Max. I still remembered his ridiculous password: 1234.
I unlocked the cell phone with trembling fingers and used my phone to translate the message, which ended in a long row of multicolored hearts.
‘Kdaj pride? nazaj? Rada te imam. Lana.’
I checked the translation several times, and my heart twisted in pain. The message was simple and clear. I would have been able to understand it without a translator. I read it once more and then returned the phone to the floor, suppressing a howl of anger. Just a couple of words, but enough to expose a lie.
‘When are you coming back? I love you. Lana.’