Stella Fracta The Unnamed Violin

25. Concert Is Tomorrow

By evening I felt better. When I washed my face, the same green-faced scrawny guy was looking at me from the mirror above the sink, and I made a middle finger gesture at him. A real Little Raccoon and a pool — but he, unlike me, had made friends with his reflection.

I was sitting on the toilet, naked, shirtless, with my pants down to the floor, rubbing my face with my hands to stop nodding off, struggling to keep my eyes open, I regretted getting out of bed. I didn’t want to do anything.

When I pulled on my jeans and trudged into the kitchen, I found not only the chocolate bars I’d bought on the table, but also boxes of ready-made food — which were supposed to go into the refrigerator. The containers with their sad contents went into the trash can.

I turned on the kettle and sat down on the stool. Overcoming the desire to fall with my heavy head on the tabletop, I looked at my hands lying on my knees, listened to the measured gurgle of the boiling water. The scar on my right wrist, reaching almost to the middle of the palm, was almost unnoticeable …

The enchanted violin of the Architect! Nonsense.

The kettle boiled, emitting hot steam from its nose. I stood up and began mindlessly pouring water into a mug. I realized something was wrong when my hand involuntarily jerked away from the boiling water, which was already pouring out of the mug onto the table.

I slammed the kettle down on the countertop, rushed to the sink, and stuck my fingers under the cold water. I was getting sleepy again, and I leaned my hip on the countertop to keep from falling to the floor. I swung my hand thoughtfully, splashing everything around me, and fell into a trance, staring off into space. The icy water was soothing, and I kept my hands under the faucet …

Only when my head was under the stream, I suddenly came to senses, gasping for air. Not understanding what was happening, I jumped back.

I finally woke up.

As if through the thick walls, the sound of the phone was coming. I grabbed a kitchen towel and went into the room.

I looked at the screen, wiping my hair: it was Baphomet. Water was running down my spine into my pants, I picked up the phone.

“Hey, Victor,” he greeted me carefreely. “You’ve become quite impudent, don’t you think?”

I was puzzled.

“What’s the matter?”

Met laughed.

“The concert is tomorrow, and you haven’t come to the rehearsal even once. Is the Austrian count really so busy that he forgot about us?”

“Concert? What concert?”

I couldn’t figure it out.

“Met …?” I called out, confused.

“Dummy, I told you, the festival was moved to tomorrow. Did you forget? You’ve been strange lately … Come early so you can make it — we’ll discuss everything. At least don’t forget to take the violin.”

Before I could object, he had already hung up. How could I sing like this? And the violin … I had to tell him everything now! I sighed resignedly and threw the phone on the bed. Then I continued drying myself.

I have been with the demons for a year — since last fall. I tried to find something to do in New York related to music, I tried myself in different musical genres — to please those who listened to me in Manhattan speakeasies and basements of Queens and Brooklyn — but they responded more to appearance and presentation, and not to complexity and skill. No one needed experiments, I was asked to avoid academic tediousness, to sing softer, to look ‘sweeter,’ and I, on the contrary, wanted to develop in extreme vocals … I did not fit in with musical bands that performed metal, organized slam dancing at concerts — for them, I was too calm and melancholic.

Until I met the demons.

I was zipping up my guitar case at the bar counter and was about to leave the nightclub, as usual, without even approaching the manager to collect my ridiculous wages for the shift, when a man in a checkered jacket approached me.

“Can you do any hard stuff?”

I looked up at him, I didn’t even try to smile. There was a fascinated expression on his goatee-bearded face.

“I can,” I responded.

“I’m Kaftz.”

He extended his hand, I shook his palm.

“Victor.”

“I know.”

I assumed he would offer me a job at another club or bar, and I waited for him to continue.

“We need a vocalist, you have a special voice.”

Special, yeah.

“Like a chainsaw,” I couldn’t help myself.

Kaftz — I didn’t show that I was surprised by his name, which was obviously not his real one — was odd — I felt it in my gut, but, contrary to my premonition, I had no intention of running away.

“Something like that,” he laughed. “An angel and a demon and a cat in March. Do you write your own music?”

The guitar was already on my shoulder, I nodded. The next day I came to Good Room, I was met by a man named Baphomet, he, like Kaftz, talked to me as if he knew me — in a folksy and friendly way.

For the first time, I didn’t have to prove anything, I didn’t try to seem better — to be liked. They simply said that I was the one they had been looking for, for a long time.

I had an easy time with them, all six of them were jackasses — especially Kaftzefoni and Baphomet. They enthusiastically learned my musical compositions, they gave me the idea for the mask — noticing that I was overreacting to the attention directed at me.

They said, with a mask everything would be different — because in a mask I could be someone else … And that the feeling that I was selling myself would go away.

It didn’t go away — but the demons never heard from me about it.

I threw the towel on the floor and lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I needed to get up and eat something, but apathy again entangled me with the tentacles of helplessness.

I still felt like something was wrong. They hadn’t heard from me in so long, and yet Met was talking to me like we’d just seen each other yesterday …

I coughed and rolled over, pulling the crumpled blanket up. The phone was stuck somewhere under my ribs, I pulled it out, threw it aside without looking, and closed my eyes, dreaming of falling asleep. Let it be excruciatingly sweet, like those same dreams; let it be terrible, and let all the monsters of the universe attack me …

I don’t care.

I’m so tired of all of it. So tired.

26. I Lied

Someone had punctured all four of my tires and I had to get on the subway to make it to the club. I didn’t go to work again, I had given myself another day off without regret, knowing full well Mrs. Thompson wouldn’t tolerate it. I looked gloomily at my feet, making my way through the stream of people entering the New York subway at the 30th Avenue station.

First, I had to go back home from the parking lot to get my coat. The rumble of the trains was so loud that it laid my ears, it seemed like I had been in the subway for a long time, like in a past life. An uncompromising monster train, air currents circulating through the tunnels, outstripping the machine, a predictable change of scenery …

The subway was as dirty as before. Household garbage was white on the line, and rats often ran from corner to corner along the passageway, even at daytime, completely unfazed by the flow of people.

The subterranean is both chaotic and indifferent. At the same time every day, passengers wait for the train on the platform, get in the car, take the same seat, show no interest in anything around them, stare at their phone, tablet, or computer, and meeting a stranger’s gaze is like death to them.

I would prefer that no one stared at me.

I admitted to myself that I was uncomfortable — and I was constantly expecting a trick, every passing glance made me want to fall through the ground, I wanted to jump out of the car, never to return to a crowd of people. In the reflection in the glass of the subway car — as if an unfamiliar face; every transition between stations — a flow in the herd, a feeling of being an imposter, who is visible from afar, and at any moment someone will scream and start pointing a finger at me.

I haven’t been stealing wallets for a long time, I haven’t been a shaggy teen in a worn-out sweatshirt and holey sneakers who snuck into the subway to warm up for a long time.

I rode the escalator up and wondered what was wrong with me. I spent the wait at the Nassau Avenue light, as well as the walk to Good Room, in existential thoughts. A few minutes later, I was already entering the club, greeting everyone I met along the way.

Once I was in my place, I forgot about my troubles. It was time to quit working for Mrs. Thompson — offices are not my thing.

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1

Rex Gray is a character from the novel ‘Cats Don’t Drink Wine’ by Stella Fracta.

2

Ned Everglade is a character from the novels ‘The Knight, the Beauty, the Beast, the Fool’ and ‘Murder Gene’ by Stella Fracta; also mentioned in the novel ‘Albedo Castle.’

3

Peter Riedel and Erwin Frei are characters from the novel ‘Albedo Castle’ (Stella Fracta).

4

Sir Leigh McKellen and his assistant Remy Adan are characters from the novel ‘Incredible Spy Detective’ (Stella Fracta); also appear in the novels ‘Wild and Violent’ and ‘Cats Don’t Drink Wine.’