Cello

The Cello

The change of scenery startled my beloved.

I shifted my bag further up my shoulder and smiled childishly down at her. Entwining my fingers with hers, I lifted our hands to my lips and kissed her knuckles. Her eyes searched mine. I could tell she was exhausted.

"My love..." She did not have to finish.

I held her to me, as our brothers and sisters walked past us leaving us to trail behind them, "My beloved, give this place hope. I believe, no, I know that Poland has your answers."

She buried her nose into my chest and a whimper escaped her throat. Kissing her crown of dark hair, I urged her to walk onward. She walked beside me, but her eyes trailed the ground.

"No, my love," I said, raising her head, "You must see this country as you have seen the others. Observe and learn. Do you not find it different?"

"It is colder."

"Yes, now look beyond the coldness." I allowed a rush of air into my lungs, "Can you not feel the subtle changes? How the music travels through open windows from the city up ahead? Or how the flags wave to us at the distance, begging for one to wave to it in return?" I asked, pointing to where Poland awaited.

After a while, Kalila shook her head, "I cannot see as you do or hear as you do. Your eyes are fresh with wisdom and life. Mine, are dark with fear."

"But what fear is this, my love?"

She turned her eyes away from mine, but kept my pace. She did not answer.

-+-

I had hoped for many things when Poland came and shined along our path, like a hauntingly and beautiful spell of majesty.

I had hoped for her smile to outshine my own and I had hoped for her passion to never die.

But I saw her passion dying. At that moment, when Poland twinkled its conniving way, I knew that the girl I had found knitting in her family's small restaurant, the one whose large and graceful eyes moved over my body and turned my flesh aflame, was gone. I knew this and yet I sought to ignore it.

And now, I realize, as I sit here, crying over her death how much harm I had caused her those many years ago.

I had killed her that very day.

This thought tore open my heart.

-+-

I remember watching her that night. We were in our tent and Poland was finally at rest. She denied me for the first time. I overlooked it and merely thought her new found coldness was brought about by her nostalgic thoughts of home.

I held her in bed, but she did not return my embrace. Her back had faced me that night.

Within the week, I had explored the Polish city and had found a small antique music store directly in-between two larger buildings. Our large, red circus tent had finally been assembled and soon, it would be opened and thriving with Polish mothers, fathers, children, merchants, businessmen, bakers, and so on.

And thinking of the crowd spilling into our tents had my mind racing along with my pulse. This is it.

I returned to our camp with a sudden chill in my bones. I found Kalila with Anna, holding the youngest girl in her lap. She had the young one giggling madly and her own smile brightened. At seeing me, Kalila excused herself and, together, we made our way to our tent.

As day turned to night, I shoved off my shirt, only to feel small hands holding on to me. I stilled my hectic movements and touched her cold hands, warming them with my own. I felt my beloved rest her head on my back as her fingers toyed with the light hairs scattered across my chest.

"I want a child."

She had spoken those words very gently. At saying them, I felt her hands tighten around my torso and her lips touched the curve of my back.

"Then you'll have one."

This was my chance at giving her happiness. She had smiled against me and that night, as we made love, I thought that I had given her happiness.

And perhaps I did.

-+-

The next day, I took my beloved to Ewa.

Kalila was a bit nervous about walking into yet another music store. In her mind, she could already picture herself leaving empty-handed and with a heavy heart.

My failed attempts at making her laugh only seemed to increase her tenseness. Ewa greeted us very generously, almost to a point of being motherly. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back, allowing her long and graceful neck to protrude from her dark, amorphous dress.

Her smile was warm, welcoming us outsiders into her world. "Gypsies! My, how long ago have I not seen your kind here in Poland," she spoke to us in a very thickly accented Polish accent. Her voice was soothing.

"Yes, Madame," I said formally, nodding my head, "We travel with the wind at our backs." I gently squeezed my beloveds hand and motioned to her. "I am seeking an instrument for my wife, Ewa."

Ewa turned her gaze to Kalila and took in every part of her body. Not speaking a word, the Polish woman motioned for us to follow her. The moment she vanished into the back room, Kalila turned to me, "I have always been curious as to how you spoke so many different languages."

I chuckled, "Living our life, you pick up all sorts of things."

I walked forward, Kalila at my side, and together we entered the back room. Unlike Dmitri's piano museum, Ewa's back room was impeccably tidy and organized. On the walls, various instruments hanged brilliantly, having had the best of care for centuries.

"This store had belonged to my late husband," Ewa began in a fond voice, "I had not the heart to sell it after he died and decided to keep it in his memory." She turned to Kalila and smiled, "This act of love was absorbed by this very room. It has never failed to unite a man, or woman, to their true instrument." Ewa spread her arms open, "Take your time and I will be here if needed."

She stepped away and watched. I turned to my beloved, "Go, and find your soul."

"I do not think I can," she whispered, looking around with timid eyes.

"Look at me." She turned her head and slowly lifted her eyes to mine. I took her face into my hand and cupped her cheek lovingly, "If you do not want this, I will not force you to. You know that, don't you?"

She nodded her head as her eyes closed, "I know." She opened those large, dark orbs of hers and took a rattling breath, "I will do it, for you."

"No, my love, you will do it for you." At my words, Kalila left my side and began to browse the various instruments in the large room. The sheer power of each voice screamed at my beloved, but she did not pause at a single one for more than a second before continuing down the line.

Each instrument shined prettily and enticed the room in its glory, except for one.

Its wood was a deep mahogany and its beauty was so quite, so thoughtful, it would not outshine the rest. The strings of black horse hair stretched vertically from the top to bottom and its bow rested beside it, like a subservient brother to its elder.

His voice did not scream as the others did, it sang. And my beloved stopped before it and touched his body shyly. Caressing the wood, Kalila turned to Ewa, "What is this instrument?"

Ewa, who did not speak Turkish, turned to me. In her stead, I answered, "It is a Cello."

"Cello..." The words resounded in the closed-in room. My beloved turned back to the handsome relative to the violin and asked to hold it.

Ewa immediately was at her side and I approached them, helping her to take down the large instrument from its resting place. Handing it to Ewa, she instructed Kalila to sit with a hand motion and gently placed the cello in-between my beloveds thighs. She then handed Kalila the subservient bow and took a step away from her.

Kalila's eyes appeared fogged as she rested the bow horizontally to the cello and, with a swift movement of the hand, strung the bow through the horse string. His voice, the cello's voice, was rich and deep and a bit heartrending with its foreboding melody.

That small, rich voice was all my beloved needed.

We left Ewa and returned to camp, ignoring the curious glances of the others. Escaping into our tent, my beloved stood in the middle of our makeshift home and from deep within her throat, escaped a withheld sound of pleasure and happiness.

And in her hands, the cello breathed.

-+-

On the night of the crescent moon, the stars were luminous and shone their light down on us. The red fabric of the Gypsies circus tent was parted, as a door would part to allow entrance into a home. Benches scaled the closed-in area and the awaiting visitors were already impatient for the grand show to begin.

Famous for their clever inventions found in their travels, the gypsies had the tent illuminated with small white lights. The air was warm with murmur.

The buzzing whispers came to a quite once those small, white lights blinked out, leaving the tent in complete darkness. A spotlight soon fixed itself center stage and the audience sat still.

The head gypsy walked into the spotlight. Her cloak of purple tones gave the impression of mystery, though Zilma has always been one to exploit her anonymity. As the proctor for the evening, Zilma announced the acrobats who performed their tricky body stretching moves. Then the dogs and bears performed their little dances, followed by the lions and Siame with the elephants. The tent was filled with wonder and amusement as the magicians finished up with tricks learned from all corners of the world.

Fireworks captured from China were unleashed within the tent, dazzling the crowd in the multitude of colors and lights. And on the show continued, enrapturing the European Polish men and women. Last, the acrobats set up chairs within the spotlight and quickly disappeared in the darkness.

Soon, the musicians appeared and, with ease, filled in those empty seats. In my hands I held my violin and, as the room stilled once more, I took her up to my chin and began our small concerto.

I was soon joined by other violins and then the wind instruments. The air was pregnant with our music, our sound, and within each heart, magic lingered.

Our melody was slow at first, until it became rising notes of many voices playing as one entity. At our climax, the guitars were strung and then, a stillness. The crowd was stunned, believing the show to have ended.

I turned my eyes to my beloved, who sat furthest from me. She wore the same white robe of our wedding day. The spotlight suddenly narrowed in on her, catching her delicate movements as she raised her bow and brought it down to the cello that rested in-between her thighs.

The sound that escaped that erratic movement had the crowd crying in sheer bliss.

Kalila, in little over a month, had practiced day and night on her cello. Though she has not mastered it fully, she persuaded Zilma into allowing her to perform tonight. And I believe her solo did not come from her constant practice. No sound so beautiful could come from such tedious labor. No, that angelic sound came from her heart.

My beloved had found her one voice, her soul.

As she finished, lowering her bow and sighing out a long withheld breath, the crowd roared to life and not one person sat still as they clapped for her. The other musicians took up their hands and joined the audience. My beloved stood timidly, the lights having turned on abruptly, giving light to the once shadowed faces of the crowd.

Her eyes skimmed the faces and she smiled, bowing her head as her body shook with emotion. And then she turned to me and the joy I saw in her eyes made me feel that same powerful ecstasy.

I had smiled for her.

-+-

Thirteen years.

Within those thirteen years, my beloved was renown by the world. We never abandoned our travels and no matter where we found ourselves, my beloved would perform and capture the hearts of thousands.

And I remember Siame seeking me out during those years, always waiting for me to be alone. "Once, I had told you that she would only cause you misery and you ignored my warning. Once, I had said that you were a ghost and you ignored not only my warning, but yourself. And now I tell you that there is little time before those miseries eat what's left of your heart."

He never spoke to me again after that.

I was too foolish and too much in love to listen. Slowly, I noted the subtle changes in her music. In the beginning, her sound was soothing and so very lovely that it could easily melt your heart, but as the years passed and I grew older and she grew older, that music turned melancholy.

The people loved it. Women shed tears at the power of her cello's deep voice. The sound could break a heart. And during those years, I realize, we never had a child. I doubt she ever could have a child.

The thought of never having children, of never having the opportunity of being a mother, perhaps drove her to play with such depression, as if already mourning a child that never had the chance to live.

And she blamed herself for it.

-+-

My beloved had accomplished what she had sought when she had stepped out of the boundary of her country; freedom.

She had traveled the world. No longer a timid and ignorant girl with hair wrapped in painted cloth. No, she had become a woman with that hot, white passion still much alive in her.

The thirteen years have made me an old man.

Those thirteen years had brought my band of gypsies to Italy. Italy was always in a festa, no matter where you went. We found ourselves in Milan soon after and made camp. No doubt the Italians would welcome us.

I remember it well.

It was two weeks. Yes, two weeks. Our red tent was touching the sky and we performed that night for Italy. My beloved had done her solo, and perhaps he was in the crowd and had heard her, or perhaps not.

That night we barely acknowledged each other. I had awoken before her and decided to see the city. I was gone the whole day.

I had played my violin at a park to escape the world for a moment. The clouds had rolled over my head, big grey clouds and I figured it would rain later.

More than ever, I felt like an old man, sitting in a park, alone, trying to find a hint of solitude. Though in my heart, I still felt the same as I had those many years ago.

It was dark when I was returning to camp and I could see the lightening threatening the distance. Thunder had cracked the dark sky and it began to rain. I walked faster towards our tent. Passing by other homes, I continued until I finally stood before our home.

I had reached out a hand and pushed aside the draped opening, feeling my eyes blur from the downpour. I pushed my wet hair aside as I walked in, only to freeze.

My beloved quickly lifted her head and her once lust-filled eyes morphed to out right panic and fear. She was lying down on the ground, naked, with a thin blanket under her.

I remember tearing my eyes from her and they instantly landed on him.

I can still picture his face: Tan, obviously young and beautiful for a man, even a bit feminine in the lips and eyes. This angelic man was hovering over my beloved, naked, but his face, before I had interrupted, had been lost within the curve of her neck.

In an instant, he had pulled himself out of her and crawled away. My body was shaking. My pain was hidden by the anger and I did not think, did not feel, as I reached for that damned Italian and smashed his pretty face in.

Over and over again, I shoved my knuckles into his flesh, breaking the bones, tearing the skin like paper. He fell to the ground and I took his face into my hands and shoved his freshly shaved chin into the graveled dirt.

He never tried to fight me back. Too shocked perhaps, too frightened. I had his face in the dirt, my knee digging into his back and all I could think of was murder.

"Stop! Yamel, stop it! You'll kill him!" She had cried out, focusing all of her strength into pushing me off her Italian lover.

My hands released his hair, my knee lifted from his spine and he did not hesitate to run. He ran from the tent, ran into the cold rain, leaving his clothes behind.

My breath was erratic. I tried to calm myself but found that impossible. The shock, the pain, hit my every nerve all at once, as if I were being plunged into freezing water.

"How could you?" I said in a hard tone I had never once taken with her.

She looked everywhere, except at me.

Betrayal, she had betrayed me. The anger came back as I walked towards her and I grasped her long, black braid into my hand, "Huh?" I shook her, and yet she said nothing. Her eyes were moist.

I pulled her out into the rain and threw her to the ground.

"Please, I'm sorry!" she yelled as I walked away from her. And I left her there, in the rain, to pick herself up in pieces.

I did not know where I was headed to; all I knew was that I had to keep walking. I could barely feel the rain pounding on my shoulders. I had walked into the city; no one was around to hear, as I cried out into the night.

I had not kept track of time, but I knew that after awhile I had found a rundown pub. Not much of what happened next I can easily remember. In my mind it was a blur as I sat down and drowned in stale liquor and wine.

My heart was drenched in its toxins.

And at some point in the evening, I had passed out and when I came around, my boots and pocket knife were missing.

-+-

The rain was unrelenting.

Drunk and still angry, I trudged in the mud back to camp. Though the pain of finding her with another man was enough to cause me such unspeakable grief, I still had a small, lingering hope that things could be worked out.

I was wrong.

When I entered our tent, I had found her dried eyed, dressed and furious. A bag sat by her as she suddenly stopped swinging from the hammock. She stood and pinned me with those black, dangerous eyes.

"Get out of here," I slurred angrily.

"You're drunk," she said coldly, smelling the stench of alcohol I carried.

"Get out," I repeated, turning away from her.

"Yamel, look at me."

I did not look at her for fear that I would collapse into tears and drunken sobs. My pride kept me from looking at her.

"I'm leaving, Yamel. I'm leaving and never coming back." Her voice wavered before a fury erupted, "I stayed in the rain for hours and not one person came to me. Not one. I stayed in the rain thinking and not once have I thought ill of you. I loved you once. You were my life. But I was a stupid girl that didn't know any better."

She looked at me then and took a step forward boldly, "I was a fool in ever marrying an older man."

She bent over and lifted her sole bag before heading towards the tent opening, not once looking back.

In my drunken desperation, I had seen her cello and at some point, it found its way into my hands. Again, without thinking, I somehow swung that huge instrument and its back crashed into my beloved head.

Instantly, she crumbled to the floor and since then, she has not moved.

-+-

It is strange that I cannot stop myself from calling her my beloved.

The blood is now running in-between my toes and binding the skin in a sticky web. Her foot had barely reached the exit before she died and from the little opening of the tent, the sky cried along with me.

What have I done?

The cello stared at me from the ground, where it laid in all its broken beauty, accusingly.

That once glorious instrument that had rested against the warm flesh of her thigh was cold and lifeless on the gravel of the ground, no longer an inspiring soul.

I had killed them both in only one moment. And now I count the hours till morning comes.

-+-

An old woman sits by and smokes her pipe with her clairvoyant eyes open before closing them shut.

Smoke trailed from her mouth in small, grey clouds.

FIN

-+-

I hope you liked it. It is a tragic ending, but I hope it left something burried in your heart. Thank you for reading.

Side note: The closing image with the woman smoking her pipe is Zilma. She had been the very same beggar woman that had warned Kalila's father of the death of his youngest daughter.