To Make A Violinist Sing (Part 1)

A/N: First three pages of a short story for creative writing workshop. Your feedback is welcome

Hannah sprinted across the road, flipping the bird at a speeding yellow taxi. The taxi honked loudly, screeching to a halt in front of her, and its driver shouted at her in some inane guttural language. Inconsiderate jerk. In New York City pedestrians always had the right of way. The strap of her violin case slipped off her shoulder as she reached the opposite side of the road, and she stopped for a moment to readjust it, swearing beneath her breath, clenching and unclenching her left hand to warm it up. She was first chair, and her performance was meant to begin in ten minutes. She still needed to tune her instrument.

She shouldered the strap once more, and turned to climb the steps. Before she could gather any momentum, she felt a yank at her arm. She spun around and found herself face to face with a man she had never seen before.

“Let me go!” she said, meeting her assailant’s eyes. “I don’t have time for whatever it is you’re selling.”

“Just give me a kiss and I’ll let you go,” the man said. She considered slapping him in the face, but the man looked as strong as a gorilla. She would have screamed, but that would just cause a scene and she didn’t have time for the commotion. Besides, getting her arm broken was the last thing she needed before the performance tonight.

“Do you promise? One kiss and you let me go.”

“Agreed,” the man said. “One kiss on the lips.”

She raised her head to his and kissed the creeper lightly. He loosened his grip, and she yanked her arm free, hurrying away up the stairs and past the splashing water fountain, into the polite shuffle of a more cultured crowd. She navigated urgently through the mass of people, apologizing repeatedly as she went, and arrived at the stage with less than five minutes to spare.

“Where have you been, Hannah?” the conductor said, waving his baton around. “You should have been here half an hour ago.”

“Sorry, Tom, I got held up.” She almost knocked her chair over as she sat, and removed her violin from its case. She glanced at her watch. Three minutes remaining.

“Mark,” she said, “play me a G please.” Mark ran his bow across his own violin string, and she plucked hers, adjusting her tuning pin until their notes matched. She ran her bow across the string to verify that it was in tune. She tuned the remaining strings while watching her second-hand tick. Thirty seconds to go.

“D-minor scale, Mark.” She played the scale up and then down listening to both her own and Mark’s violin over all four strings.

“You’re set, Hannah.”

“Thanks, Mark.” She breathed a sigh of relief. Ten seconds.

The director of the philarmonic stood up and walked to the microphone at the front of the stage. He cleared his throat, and spoke with a rich voice.

“Welcome, to the New York Philarmonic Orchestra. The first piece we will be playing for you tonight is Shostakovic’s Fifth Symphony in D-minor. This magnificent piece was first…”

Hannah zoned out, breathing in and out evenly and deliberately as she ran her fingers up and down the violin’s neck. Her fingers felt nimble, and she felt relaxed. She was ready to blow some minds.

---

The end of the first movement approached and the piccolo soloist climaxed. Hannah rested her bow on the high E-string and she began her own solo. Her left hand shook with emotion as she slowly crescendoed to a sorrowful note that she held; the piano and french horn carried the movement to its conclusion.

The audience began to cough politely, and she arranged the sheets for the second movement.

She raised her violin to her chin and the conductor lifted his baton over his head. He began to count out the time. One. Two. Three, and the door swung open. Seven uniformed policemen burst into the room. A bout of nervous whispering swept across the hall as they made a beeline toward the stage.

A tall black officer walked up to the conductor and muttered something inaudible. Tom looked uneasy for a few seconds. He ran his finger over his goatee, clearly on edge.

Hannah watched curiously as Tom muttered a short reply. Much to her horror he pointed directly at her.

The black officer walked over to her, and she gulped.

“Hannah Peterson,” the officer said, “You’re under arrest.”

“For what?” Hannah said. “Look, there has obviously been some kind of mistake.”

“Aiding and abetting. No mistake, Miss Peterson.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Officer-”

“People are staring, Miss. Let’s go down to the station.”

“Can you at least let me finish this performance?” Hannah said.

“That was not a request,” the policeman said. “You are coming with us. Now.”