Beauty flowed out of the wood, cascading like the majestic rainfall over the dry land. Not a flaw in its rhythmic cadence, perfect as the rainbow of a pure day. The beauty imbued itself into the crowd, suffusing their thoughts with peace and easing their pains. Zarin could never know the depths of those hidden secrets, or the sting of their ages-old scars, but at least his music could comfort them for a time.

The last echoes of the bard’s final cadence played through the room, and after a few moments of reflective silence, the room exploded into applause. Zarin swung the viola under his arm, the vibrations still playing softly against folds of his pin-striped suit. The musician left the stage, the tails of his coat following him obediently on the way out.

Zarin sighed as he came to backstage room designated for him. These people . . . they needed something like this every once and awhile. Sure, the jazz infused itself well enough with the rest of the mingling and the alcohol, but when he took the stage, everyone in the entire bar always quieted. Of course, it hadn’t always been like that, but Zarin shook his head to prevent it from remembering those times.

Absent-mindedly, he plucked the strings and whistled a tune to himself as he loosened and packed the bow away. Almost immediately, Zarin realized what he was doing and stopped, just stood still for a moment. That melody, what was it? It was hauntingly familiar. The bard shrugged and finished packing his instrument.

Bard. That was a self-styled term. Zarin didn’t particularly look the part of a bard, at least not the medieval type, but that didn’t bother him that much. The melody that he had been whistling earlier came unbidden to his lips, and the musician left the bar without even realizing it was the same tune he carried before.

Zarin exited the establishment, his thoughts wandering with his feet, the man not even paying attention to his steps. They carried him past dark alleys, half-conscious drunks, and slovenly whores, but all the while the melody pervaded his lips, giving him an air of imperviousness, as if even the dirty city air couldn’t touch one strand of his seemingly-expensive suit. The case of the viola bobbed in Zarin’s hand, as if in amusement with the tune.

The tune transported Zarin to the train, where he found a seat, still whistling, and the melody still had not left his lips when the train stopped on the outskirts of the city, its open doors inviting him to the street on which his house lived. Unheeded steps beating out the pace of the nameless song brought him from the bus to his house, and through the door to find an equally inviting hovel. Or at least, inviting for a musician.

Zarin stepped over the myriad music sheets that lay in disarray, deposited the viola case in the only remaining bare spot of floor, and proceeded to the kitchen. The tune finally left his lips as entered, his thoughts fixating solely on the food, an eager smile crossing his face. The smile soon faded to frown when, his hand on the refrigerator door handle, he once again saw the note he had taped there a few days ago.

Funds to mom

Zarin sighed and opened the refrigerator, as always his good mood ruined by the reminder. His hands carefully surveyed the selection of meats, fruits, and vegetables, but the musician merely shook his head, realizing that his appetite had vanished with his contentment. He finally selected a Deer Park at the back, closed the refrigerator and walked back outside his house, this time not even bothering to step over the music sheets. Zarin hopped in his car, unconsciously checking the gas level as he turned the keys. Of course, they read near full—the bard hated to drive his car in the city.

The red Camry passed hundreds of houses that looked exactly like the one in which Zarin lived, but the musician paid no notice. Instead, the classical station was tuned in on his radio, and he was humming to the Telemann Viola Concerto, at least part of his cheery mood revived by the music.

Near the end of the fourth movement, the Camry rolled around in a huge circular parking lot, and as Zarin came more back to reality, he once again noted the bleak absence of any other building near this place. He parked his car, locked it, finished whistling the last few bars of Telemann, and walked up to the entrance of the massive building, the letters “Heigher’s Correctional Institute” plastered in steel where all could see.

“Room 42,” the woman at the checkout counter smiled to Zarin, and he nodded his thanks. Perhaps, if met under different circumstances, Zarin would have offered her at least a wink. But as it was, he just kept his pace, focusing his gaze in front of him, now all music forgotten in the depths of his frown.

Zarin collected himself in front of the door marked “Room 42: Elizabeth Saraway.” He smoothed his suit down with the flow of the stripes, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

To the musician’s eyes, the room was even more chaotic than his own.

No litter lined the linoleum floor, and everything on the shelves was stacked neatly, down to the position of each untouched book and each uncared-for flower vase. Even the arrangement of the tissue box with the TV guide, both gathering heavy layers of dust, showed meticulous arrangement. Yet the very air seemed to be stifled with . . . Zarin sniffed reflexively, trying to put a name to the heavy feeling that so weighed upon his shoulders every time he entered this room. But like always, the bard found himself incapable of naming the unseen stench.

A woman sat up in her bed at the far end of the room, looking with insane eyes toward the person who had just entered, no sign of recognition in those blue orbs. Her hands were huddled together, clutching at each other as if trying to steal something the other had. Zarin sighed at the mess of hair on her head, the characteristic trait of a drug addict, but he knew that this woman had never put anything so foul in her body.

“Mom, it’s me, Zarin,” the musician uttered calmly as he slowly put himself down on the bed next to her. The woman tried to shy away at first, then having second doubts, leaned a little closer, squinting her eyes as if to tell if he spoke the truth.

“I . . . I don’t . . . know any Zarin,” her raspy voice croaked out from the depths of her throat.

“Mom, it’s Zarin, you remember me, I’m your son. You want me to play some music for you?” The woman seemed about to protest, but Zarin began humming anyway, the third movement of the Telemann Concerto to which he had just been listening, the slow, somber movement.

Gradually the woman’s eyes glinted with recognition, and by the time Zarin, his own eyes moist now, finished the movement, she was huddled against her son’s chest.

“Zarin, my son, you shouldn’t be here, they might find you. They already found me, long ago, but I don’t want them to touch you!” Her raspy voice was soft, barely more than a vibration against Zarin’s chest, as if she was afraid of being overheard.

“They’re gone, mom, there’s no need to worry. The bad men can’t get you in here.” Zarin looked up to the ceiling to prevent his tears from falling on his mother’s head. “He’ll never get you again.”

Like all things he said, she most likely did not register what Zarin had just uttered, even if she had heard it. “They might come any moment now, you’re not safe.”

Zarin rubbed his mother’s back as she kept muttering, and soon gently pushed her back at an arm’s distance. “Mom, I can send you the money soon. Do you understand me?” Zarin spoke slowly, as if talking to an infant.

Elizabeth slowly nodded. “The money . . . money . . . maybe that will keep the bad man away. And his friends. Maybe they will leave me alone now.” Her eyes widened in sudden realization. “Their little horrors can’t reach me now!”

Zarin could not keep them in any longer, a tear or two finally making little rivulets down his cheek. “That’s right, mom, you’re safe now. They can’t touch you any longer.”

Elizabeth sat for a few moments, staring at nothing, her mouth moving in concert with her hands, each seeming to be groping at something the other had. It was all Zarin could do not to shake his head.

Suddenly she jerked her head toward the ceiling, and she stared fearfully at nothing, her mouth still moving soundlessly. In a few moments, the woman found her voice and seemed to be able to regain control of her hands, one of them pointing at the spot where her eyes were locked.

“They’re here! Quickly, kill them, Zarin, kill them, before they get us! Kill them!” The woman began screaming incomprehensibly, and her body shook in great pain. Zarin could only stare calmly, the tears coming down more readily now. Soon some nurses entered the room, rushing to the woman’s side and forcing her back, popping some medication into her mouth. Zarin just stepped back slowly, then turned around and left the room, the woman’s ebbing screams still echoing in his mind. Screams that now the musician could remember accompanied by the cheery tune of her music box, in a far away time at a far away place. His father had never approved of that music box, but his mother had loved it, and to this day the melody was still ingrained upon Zarin’s memories—the very same melody that he had been addicted to this very morning. The musician got outside, hopped in his red Camry, and drove to his house. Quick strides brought him to the portal, and once inside, immediately sought out the viola case. In but a few moments, the red Camry roared to life again and turned the opposite way in the driveway, towards the direction of the city.

Zarin crossed the threshold of the bar unnoticed, and he went into a backroom and started unpacking the viola. By the time he came out again, the small band had finished their jazz number, and with a few quick motions, Zarin indicated that he wanted a turn. The musicians, used to Zarin’s random appearances, nodded accord and picked up their music and left the stage, and the hush that usually accompanied Zarin’s entrance came about the bar. He placed the prepared music on the stand in front of him. By the time he began to play the despondent, elegant requiem, the tears that had stained his pin-striped outfit had dried, leaving only the Bard with his beauty upon the stage, telling a tale of shame and sorrow.