Chapter Ten #3
I unpack my violin and sit on the lone chair facing the audience. I used to be surrounded by an ensemble, so it’s unsettling being the only person on stage—especially with a single individual in the audience.
I should try to get into the same mindset as when I was busking alone with my violin in the streets of Venice. I was playing for myself, and if people got to hear me and enjoy it, good for them and for my pocket, but that wasn’t my goal.
I take the sheet music with the excerpts I need to practice and put it on the stand. I then hold the bow and stare at the instrument on my lap, trying to feel how connected we still are.
Not at all if you don’t play me , the violin says. I position it on my collarbone and take a deep breath. With my eyes closed, I brush its neck and start to feel the silent communication between us—the harmony that exists before any note is played.
I let the bow hover over the strings, eyes on the score, focusing my mind. A shiver courses through me, carrying a blend of nervous energy and the thrill of finding myself on stage again, even though the auditorium is almost empty.
I’m starting with Mozart. “Violin Concerto No. 3,” first movement.
Drawing the bow across the strings, I conjure forth the first notes…
then stop, my heart racing uncontrollably.
I look at Daisy, who smiles at me encouragingly.
The sound of my violin echoes in my ears, and I swallow the knot in my throat. I’m doing this.
I take another deep breath and try again.
Notes fill the air, and the pit in my stomach slowly closes as I realize I do remember.
I am actually playing my violin. My lips curve, and excitement takes over before I’m thrown into the trance that used to be my safe space.
Soon my fingers are dancing upon the fingerboard, remembering the sequence without me having to make any mental effort.
I’ve always found it fascinating how the knowledge of playing music seems to be registered in an entirely different part of my being. Sometimes, the more I think about my movements, the worse I sound. It flows a lot better when I just let myself go, trusting that my fingers know exactly what to do.
As the melody dances through the air, I close my eyes, my body swaying with the music. The notes resonate in every fiber of my being, communicating with the deepest parts of me.
Oh, how I’ve missed this…
I’m so glad to be reunited with my lifelong companion, the one who helped me get through every single emotion I’ve ever experienced. I acknowledge that my one true love isn’t Venice or Daisy—it’s the violin.
But is it wrong to want all three?
At this very moment, I have them all, and I feel complete, happier than I’ve felt in a very long time. Possibly the happiest I’ve ever been.
I dare look at Daisy in the first row. Her eyes are shining with amazement. Or is it tears?
Nah. This is not the best I can do. I can touch Daisy much deeper. This is only a fraction of my skills. Of the violinist I can be.
I flip the page and breathe before Bach’s “Partita for Solo Violin No. 1 in B Minor, BWV 1002.” It’s not in the audition repertoire, but it was always on my list.
The first movement is slow and melancholic.
I look at Daisy’s eyes this time. I want to play for her.
I want the music coming out of my violin to tell my story.
The story of how a lost man found Venice and left his old self behind, then found love in Venice and reconnected with all that makes him who he is.
I manage to keep a clean sound for most of it, but the bow slips at times, and I force myself to concentrate.
I can’t make such mistakes on Thursday. I make sure to press the strings with the right part of my fingers, but my skin is soft for lack of practice.
Therefore, it aches a little, and the discomfort takes away my focus.
I try again, always breathing and keeping calm.
I finish the fragment, and although my wish is to play it again and again to perfect my performance, I move on.
I flip the pages, hearing the excerpts in my head.
I played them over and over again during my time in the orchestra, so I should be able to sit in the audition room and deliver those pieces to the proper standards.
I figure I need to try something difficult to get rid of my rustiness.
Something I mastered when I was in my prime.
I skip over the intermediate movements of Bach’s Partita and land on the “Double (Presto)”—the movement I was playing in the video I watched last night. It’s fast-paced and extra challenging, and I’m ready to test the speed in my hands.
I start off well. I’m feeling it so much that I even stand up. Daisy is biting her thumb, eyes wide while watching me in awe. Pleasure and adrenaline run through my veins, and I show off, moving my body like a rock star feeling his guitar.
But then I miss a note. And another. I continue, but the bow slips, and I press a string wrongly, and now I’m out of tune, flustered, trying to get back and keep the speed.
I overthink, then my mind goes blank, and I give up.
I put the violin aside, huffing. Hot tears spring in my eyes, and I bring my hands to my head in frustration.
I’m not the same musician I once was. Of course not. What was I thinking?
I take deep breaths, but my thoughts attack me, my fear engulfs me, and I feel empty, worthless, just like I felt in my darkest times. It’s all coming back, attempting to drown me…
Daisy climbs up to the stage and puts her arms around me. I gladly accept the hug.
And then I break down.
It’s ugly and embarrassing, and I hate myself for it.
I feel weak and stupid. I’m a boy again struggling with his body and his immaturity, hating the world for things that are no one’s fault and things that are his fault.
I press Daisy tighter and shed tears on her shoulder like I’ve done with my grandma more than once.
Like I’ve done with Luigi. And as she caresses my back, shushes me lovingly, and combs my hair with her fingers, I start to feel better.
The self-loathing vanishes, and I remember how blessed I am.
I have Nonna, Luigi, and Daisy, and though they might leave me, though each has their own life, they are not only with me in memories that make me stronger—they are also one call away.
Daisy is here right now , and I’m so, so happy for that.
She is kissing my head, stroking my face, and looking at me as if she doesn’t see a broken thing, but something beautiful.
“You are so good, Lorenzo. Do you hear me?” She takes my face in both hands and gives me an intense look. “I’m so impressed by your skills, your bravery…”
I don’t have to tell her that I used to play that movement with my eyes closed, in a perfect tempo. I don’t need to show her that video. If she cared to watch, it would be because she wants to know everything about me. Not because she expects the perfection I’ve always tried to achieve.
“What if I can’t do this, though?” I say out loud. Was it a delusional dream to think I could get a spot on an orchestra at this point in my life?
“You don’t need to be the best violinist in the world, Lorenzo. You just have to be good enough to pass the test at hand.” She caresses my face, and I close my eyes, letting her voice relax my agitated nerves. “Can you do that?”
I send my eyelids up slowly and stare into her brown eyes, now deep and dark against the night sky. Am I good enough to pass the audition?
My instinct is to say no. I was never good enough in my view.
I’ve changed, however, haven’t I? I didn’t become more skilled over time—quite the opposite.
But if I break the mental barriers and throw away all the heavy baggage—what I should have done back then instead of throwing out the violin —I’ll be lighter.
And when you’re lighter, you can do so much more.
“Yes,” I say, smiling at Daisy. “I can do it.”
“That’s the spirit.” She grins back, fixing my hair, which became a little rebellious with my agitation.
“I’m so glad you’re here…”
Daisy kisses my cheek, and then we stand with our arms around each other, looking at the stunning view through the glass wall. It’s like we’re floating on the lagoon, the land invisible under us.
“I used to say this to calm my dad.” She looks at me, eyes glowing.
Her slightly smudged makeup tells me she did cry while hearing me play—and maybe as I was crying too.
“You don’t have to be the best chef in the world, Dad,” she quotes herself, offering a sad smile.
“He got very frustrated whenever he failed a dish—even if it was a tiny detail. Even if it was still good, just not up to his standards.” I am the one gently brushing her hair away from her face now.
“People in our business, yours too, I guess, we constantly focus on achieving perfection,” she goes on.
“But all we’re truly expected to do is get through the day.
Doing that is a victory.” She cups my cheek in her small hand, my trimmed beard prickling her palm. “Every new day is the reward.”
I kiss her, and the stage swallows us in its acoustic silence.
I think about her words as I perform a sonata on her lips.
She’s right. When we stop focusing on being perfect, when we do something with our hearts, that’s when we create—or reproduce—a masterpiece. No one does that when they’re stressed.
And right now, on this shadowy stage, I’m stress-free, but the only masterpiece I want to focus on is the woman embracing every imperfect piece of me.
* * *
“Wow,” Daisy says when we reach the top of the bell tower and stand by one of the observation windows to appreciate the view.
I’ve already told her that the San Giorgio basilica was designed by Palladio and finished in 1576, that the bell was built in the 1700s, and that we are 63 meters—or 206 feet—above the ground.
Here, Venice unveils its timeless grandeur in a breathtaking panorama that stretches as far as the eye can see.
Palazzo Ducale and the Campanile in San Marco stand out across the canal, warmly illuminated against a dark sky speckled with stars.
Daisy lays her head on my shoulder and hugs me by the waist as the night breeze plays with our hair.
We are the only people here, and I wish I could close the place down so no one else would show up.
“This is the most beautiful view ever.” She inhales the fresh air of the lagoon, and I copy her. The distant zooming of motors from the boats crossing the canal compose the peaceful symphony of my favorite Italian city. I could travel the world, and I bet I wouldn’t find another place I loved more.
Do I really have to go to Milano? Damn Venice for not having open positions…
At the moment , a voice in my head reminds me. Maybe in a few months there will be. Could I not wait? Maybe play in a restaurant or something in the meantime—until the ultimate dream comes true?
I picture myself performing in Teatro La Fenice and get goose bumps. Daisy made me believe I can do anything. Just being with her, I remind myself to be a better man.
“I’m not going to the audition,” I decide, and she looks at me, frowning.
“Why not? You have to. You can do it.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that. I just…” I turn to her, my fingers diving through her beautiful golden brown hair, tilting her head slightly back and supporting it on my palm so she can look up at me. “I want to spend every final minute of your trip with you.”
She blinks and mouths something, but says nothing for a beat. Then… “You can’t let this opportunity go.”
“I can’t let you go,” I argue, a bit too intensely. Daisy blinks again, wets her lips, and I lose my last bit of self-control.
I ferociously seek her mouth and claim it with ardent desire. She grips my shoulders, responding to the kiss with the same eagerness, and then her arms are locked around my neck, and she’s pressed against the brick wall.
My tongue enters her mouth with a warm welcome. She bites my bottom lip with so much force, there is a metallic taste of blood in our kiss, but neither of us cares.
My hands run over her silhouette, feeling the velvety fabric tightly wrapped around her body, the perfect curves driving me insane.
When I reach her thighs, I sneak a hand beneath the dress and feel her skin.
I seek the edge of her panties—but they are small, and when I find the flimsy lacy piece tucked in her butt, my lust rises a few levels.
Dio santo. My cock presses my pants, and consequently, it presses her front, since our bodies are in full contact.
She sighs, pleased, and Jesus, I want to have her right here .
I stop kissing her to look at her eyes. Desire is written in them. With a light brush of my lips on her flushed cheek, I give us both a second to deal with our labored breathing.
“We need to stop,” she says in an unsteady voice and glances at the elevator. “What if someone comes up?”
“Not to mention we’re in a church,” I say with amusement, drawing circles on her inner thigh with my fingertips. She doesn’t stop me.
“We’re not in a church,” Daisy mocks my language, sounding breathy.
“It’s holy ground anyway. We should continue this elsewhere. My room, maybe?” I give her my best seductive smile.
She laughs. “Who said I want to go to your room?” Her index finger runs teasingly over my collarbones.
“You’re a trickster, Daisy Hogan,” I say in her ear, making sure my breath tickles her.
“Excuse me?” She raises an eyebrow.
“You’ve never needed lessons,” I say. “You’re the best seducer I’ve ever met.”
A sly smirk stretches her lips, and she holds my face so my ear is very close to her mouth. “You’re just the best teacher there is.”
I turn my head to capture her lips, but she dodges me, laughing. Damn, this woman is going to drive me to the edge. My fingers tangle in her hair, and I grip it in my fist, desperate to release the tension building in me.
As I give her quick kisses around the lips, my hand sneaks into her cleavage.
No bra again… My cock celebrates. I pinch her nipple, and she moans loudly.
Her hands seek my neck for stability, and just when I’m ready to dive into her breasts, she feels my hardness over my pants, and I hold my breath. Madonna santa!
“You’re going to kill me, Daisy,” I warn her, pressing her body against mine with urgency. Her hand is trapped between our groins, and I throb against her palm. “This is torture…”
I keep breathing, seeing nothing but stars.
“We’re not going to your room,” she mutters, punishing me for some reason, and oh, it’s a delicious punishment…
“No?” I try, incoherent, unable to form a single thought with my numb neurons.
“No,” she whispers in my mouth. “We’re going to mine.”