To Make a Violinist Sing (Full Short Story)

To Make a Violinist Sing

Hannah ran. Her hair stang her eyes as she grasped her violin. She glanced at her watch. The second hand ticked. She ran faster, her stilettos digging into her heels. She checked her watch again.

A yellow taxi honked, screeched to a sudden halt. Hannah jumped backwards, flipping the bird at the driver. He waved his fists, rolled his window down, cursed her. Hannah kicked his bumper with a heel. She scowled, darted across the street. Pedestrians always had the right of way in New York.

She reached the opposite side of the road. Cursed under her breath. Clenched and unclenched her cold left hand. Its watch read eight minutes. She pressed onwards. Ignored the pain in her feet.

A shortcut through a little pedestrian path. Putrid stench. Trickling sewer water snaked over cobblestones. Hannah faltered, stricken by a wave of nausea. She slowed her gait.

She covered her nose with her silk scarf. Breathed hard through her mouth. Hopped over a puddle. Glanced at her watch. Under seven minutes. She quickened her gait.

The underground parking loomed ahead. Lincoln Center emerged behind the building to her left. Narrow stone columns behind dingy brown brick. Water splashed in the distance, audible between loud car horns.

A tug at her arm. The adrenaline in her veins intensified. She was yanked, jerked backwards, the hair on her neck prickling. She swung around.

A stranger.

His grip was iron, his eyes narrow, cold, calm. He had short stubble, high cheekbones. Wore a dress-suit, a silk blue tie, golden cufflinks. His golden wedding band dug into her wrist. Her pulse throbbed madly.

She opened her mouth to scream.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said acidly. A pocketed hand drove a gun barrel into her side.

She whimpered.

“Let me go!”

“Miss, do you want to survive this ordeal?”

Hannah nodded, swallowing, heart pounding in her throat.

“Verbalize that for me.”

“Y-yes-” Hannah said. “Yes, don’t kill me.”

“Good, then listen to me carefully.”

“I’m listening,” Hannah said.

“I need something from you.”

“My wallet -”

The stranger cut her off. “I need you to kiss me.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. Her head was pounding, imploding. She tried in vain to rip her arm free.

“I don’t want to hurt you, so don’t make me!”

“Let me go!” Hannah said.

“A kiss first. On the lips.”

Disgust surged through her as she tilted her head upwards. She kissed the stranger and he released her arm.

Hannah started running again. Peppermint breath on her lips tasted of violation. The pain in her heart lingered, a dull faint throb. A distant clock tower bell told her she was late.

She slipped into the back entrance of Lincoln Center.

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

“Sorry, Tom, I got held up.” She stumbled into her chair; uncased her violin. She glanced at her watch. Three minutes late.

“We’ll deal with this later.”

---

Hannah signaled she was ready. Recoiled from the conductor’s glare.

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

“Welcome, to the New York Philarmonic Orchestra. Tonight we play Shostakovic’s Fifth Symphony in D-minor. This magnificent piece was first…”

Hannah zoned out, breathed in and then out. Ran her fingers up and down the violin’s neck. Her fingers felt unexpectedly nimble. Looking down to the wide-eyed audience below, she smiled. She forgot about her encounter with the stranger.

---

Hannah danced her fingers over the strings. Crescendoed to a sorrowful, powerful note. Held the note. The piano and woodwind carried the movement to its conclusion.

The audience coughed politely.

She raised her violin to her chin. The start of the second movement.

One. Two. Three, and the door swung open. Seven uniformed policemen burst into the room. Nervous whispering swept across the crowd. The cops stormed toward the stage.

A tall black officer strode over to Hannah. He brandished his handcuffs. Spun them around his index finger. His eyes were narrow, cold, calm.

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

---

Hannah composed herself, gathered what remained of her dignity. She interlocked her fingers, resting them on the interrogation table. The handcuffs constricted her wrists less in this position.

The door swung open, and the black cop walked in. He carried a glass of water, closed the door behind him.

“Sorry about the delay, Ms Peterson.”

“Finally. Now tell me what I am doing here.”

Before he could reply, the door opened again. A scrawny man entered, his eyes buried in a file. His balding grey hair was immaculately combed. Stubble lined his gaunt cheeks. He closed the file, placed it on the table. Surveilling the room, his eyes settled on Hannah’s wrists.

“Handcuffs?” he asked, addressing the black policeman.

“Standard protocol in these circumstances, Captain Dalton.”

“We are not barbarians, Officer Wilson. Uncuff her.”

Wilson obliged, scowling. Captain Dalton sat down across from Hannah.

“Thank you, Officer. Now please leave us.”

“I’d like to stay, Captain.”

Captain Dalton adjusted his glasses, glanced at his iPhone. “Duly noted. Close the door on your way out, please.”

Wilson left, frustration in his eyes. Hannah took a sip of water, watched the captain cautiously. Her hands were shaking again. Dalton’s dismissal of Wilson unnerved her.

“Miss Peterson, you know why you are here?”

“N-no, Sir.” She couldn’t steady her voice.

He slid the closed file across the table. “Conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism.”

She opened it.

---

A photograph caught her eye. A wave of nausea, surge of adrenaline, shortness of breath. She stared into the police file. The man who assaulted her earlier stared back. He donned an army uniform, held a machine gun.

“You recognize him?” Dalton asked.

Hannah tried to respond but her head pounded. She managed a nod. A swallow. Another sip of water.

“I know you recognize him, Hannah,” Dalton said. “How would you like to tell me where he is?”

“I don’t know.” Hannah couldn’t think straight. Why did Dalton think she would know?

“Hannah, Hannah, Hannah… You are in way over your head.” Dalton folded his arms, leaned back.

“Shut up, Sir.”

“What did you say?”“I said, shut up.”

“Did I strike a nerve, Hannah?”

“Are you insane, Dalton? You are insane!” she stood up, no longer nervous. No longer in control. “Listen very carefully. I have no idea who or where that creep is. Oh, and I want a lawyer.”

Dalton remained seated, lifted his iPhone off the table. “Honestly,” he said, “I am astounded by your acting skills, Hannah.”

“It’s the truth.”

He waved his iPhone. “We have a video of you kissing him.”

The puzzle pieces began to fit together in her mind. She laughed hoarsely. She sounded crazy, but she was too tired to care.

“Captain Dalton, you think you are smart. You’re not.”

“Is this a confession, Hannah?”

“That man in the picture forced me to kiss him.”

Dalton shifted in his chair. Seemed vulnerable for the first time. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that, Hannah?”

“Its the truth,” Hannah said. “He had a gun in my side.”

“Let’s see about that,” Dalton said. He hit play on his iPhone. Shifted his glasses to the edge of his nose.

---

“I’m very sorry Ms. Peterson.”

“So am I, Officer Wilson,” Hannah said. “I need to make a phone call.”

Hannah exited the police station. She dialed when she was a block away. Three rings and he answered.

“Did they bite?” the voice said.

“Package is in place,” Hannah said. “Whenever you’re ready.”“Good work.”

A huge explosion rang through the air. The earth vibrated like an earthquake. Fire and smoke grew out of the police station.

Hannah removed her violin from its case. She began to play a solo. The solo from the second movement of Shostakovich’s Fifth symphony.