Sin sin sin

Look where we've been

And where we are tonight

Hate the sin not the sinner

I'm just after a glimmer

Of love and light

When the violinist lowered his instrument with shaking hands from his neck, it seemed as though a spell was broken – the audience let out a collective murmur. Glances up at the sky and back at the city – darkness, lit candles previously placed in an eerie perimeter around the courtyard. The violin was placed into the case before he accepted a cup of water from one of the elderly men in white clothing, which he drank down in one sitting, pushed the cup back into wrinkled hands, and coughed. His compatriot – Ramakrishna – slapped him on the back, then turned to speak to some natives dressed in dhotis of varying colors, while others began to stroll back to town.

The violinist was shivering, despite the warm night. The wrinkled men seemed to be addressing him in low tones, in their own dialect. He shook his head, exhaled, and shook his head again.

James approached as unobtrusively as possible, not wanting to seem threatening, but the violinist, seemingly dazed, didn't notice his presence until he was right next to him. There was a yelp, then unfocused dark eyes narrowed. "You."

James tried his best smile. Unfortunately, although he had intended to say something intelligent about the Marini sonatas that the violinist had treated them to, the words refused to navigate his tongue. "Um. Hi. Warm night."

A piercing, disdainful stare, then the violinist turned away and picked up his case. "Yes." He glanced over at Ramakrishna. "Finished?"

The bald merchant waved a little frantically, glancing at them. "One moment, sah!" Heads were bent back down to a rapid-fire conversation in dialect. The violinist sighed.

James forced his throat to attention. "I liked the Madrigaletti best."

The smaller man arched an eyebrow at him, and the temperature seemed to drop further. "Don't you have somewhere to go, marine?"

"Eh… I was wondering if I could buy you a drink." The words came out in a rush.

"I don't think so." The tone was positively glacial now. "Good night."

"Um…"

"Did that priest send you?" Fingers were raked absently through dark hair.

"Not… not really." James looked a little embarrassed. "I did ask him some questions, but he claimed not to know anything, and, er… that is to say he gave me a list of unhelpful names. In exchange that I try to persuade you to attend an interview with him. If you want."

"Good Lord, no," the violinist looked away, at the small hut behind them. "I'll never get any peace, between him and the natives with that strange little superstitions."

"Well… er, listening to you play, I can easily believe that you were gifted by some higher power," James smiled winningly. The cold mask didn't budge.

"It's the Strad," the man said, stroking the case absently.

James was interrupted in his protest by a sudden ring of dusky men in colorful dhoti, all of whom wanted to shake the violinist's hand. Sensing there was no real way he could speak to the man again tonight, he bowed slightly, and left.

--

"He's early," Ramakrishna observed, up in the tree.

Beckett paused in finger exercises to glare up into the boughs, whispering in a hiss, "And whose fault is that?"

The marine was out of breath, against the wall, though this time hiding (or attempting to hide) in the shadow of the alley. Some of the native audience who filed in shot him unfriendly stares, recognizing him for the reason the previous recital had been cut short.

"Chal chal! Aiee… I didn't think he'll really… eeh… I can tell him to go away, if it's really bothering you, sah."

"I've tried. Repeatedly," Beckett muttered, repeating the simple exercises. The Stradivarius turned each simple successive note into miniature works of art with rich, vivacious embellishment. "But don't bother. I think he's harmless."

"Eeh… he's a chapterr."

"Foolish? Possibly. Strange? Definitely." Beckett shut out the world with its odd marines, and studied Uccellini and the sixth position.

Later, when the marine offered (with that damned shy smile) to buy lunch, Beckett glanced up into the branches. He could sense Ramakrishna was awake, but being placatingly silent. He sighed, then dipped his head. "I want phuchka."

Despite the marine's insistent overtures, Beckett refused to speak during the meal.

--

James was rather aware that the initial curiosity over the mystery was turning into obsession. It was only lucky that his disappearances every break to wander about town trying to catch strains of a masterfully crafted violin was brushed off in the offices – everyone simply assumed that some girl about town had caught his eye. James endured the good-natured jibes with enigmatic smiles, preferring the rumor to the reality. It wasn't only the fact that the violinist clearly valued his privacy – it was that this was his secret.

He did rather think the Post Captain suspected something, though – occasionally, over dispatches, there would be a harrumph, and an amused, "Seen any violinists lately, boy?" or a "By the by, the Reverend asked after you." James would smile, and shake his head.

It seemed nobody knew where the violinist was on the weekends. Fridays' recital was usually in an alcove in a back of a ratty bread and breakfast known for strong coffee, but by the time he had found out about that, the man was gone. The attendants in Kalighat knew nothing, and the fruit seller, in exchange for more coin, directed him to a potter, who (for more coin) gave him a list of locations for Monday and Tuesday recitals.

It was fast becoming, for his midshipman's pay, an expensive obsession.

Nobody knew his name or precise occupation, only that charity (or donations, or gifts) were always politely but firmly refused. The white sir, it seemed, the one blessed by Saraswati, was like a spirit, a zephyr, of music.

The man's companion – Ramakrishna – was just as difficult. It turned out the name was extremely common – James might as well attempt to track down specific John Smiths, in London. Other than the fact that he was either a lascar or a merchant (probably the latter, judging from the man's surprising depth of knowledge about commerce), there was very little to go by.

On Saturday, to James' irritation, reports of sightings of French Naval activity galvanized the office into action, and he was off to sea, aboard Ramsey's Furious Angel. Normally, he welcomed this sort of work above all else, on the decks, in the rigging, at the cannon crews, but the distraction affected his joy in the sea.

He found himself whistling Marini.

--

"Did you tell him to go away?" Beckett asked, as they walked out of the bread and breakfast, full from generous portions of rice and curried fish.

"Who?" Ramakrishna blinked a little sleepily.

"The marine."

"Oh, the strange one. No." A little frown. "Ah… he hasn't been around lately, sah."

"That's why I asked."

A grin. "Miss him?"

A glare.

"Okay, okay. Heheh. Eeh, he is Navy, right? The French, they causing problems at the moment, you heard?"

"Oh." Beckett wondered why he suddenly felt relief. "I see."

"More importantly," Ramakrishna said, cheerfully, "Remember Savadjee Dutta? He say he sell us tea, the price you want. A little lower, in fact, sah. We can get the shipment out, and he know trusted contacts in Southampton with a reasonable cut."

"I'd need to talk to Mister Dutta."

"Thought so. We meeting him at his house for dinner. Eh…"

"You want me to bring the violin."

"Ayyy… don't kill me…"

"Ramakrishna."

The man had the grace to hang his head. "I said, eeh, to him, that you didn't like the… well, but his wife, she is very religious. Without her I don't think Savadjee Dutta agree to your plan – like me, he think, sell to common, that risky." When Ramakrishna was nervous, his accent got heavier and heavier.

Beckett shook his head. On one hand, he was aware that to sell in sufficient bulk, he would need several suppliers, and would definitely need more contacts in London. On the other hand, it really felt, somehow, that he was tarnishing his Stradivarius.

Still, musicians all over the world sold themselves for their art, commercialized themselves, or turned into the pets of the rich, powerful or blue-blooded. This was really just a somewhat odder way of doing so, wasn't it?

But given that part of the reason why he refused to perform in front of his peers was that he didn't want to 'sell' his music… he was already a little uneasy of how the natives here seemed to treat it, especially on Wednesdays.

He would, however, as a junior member of the Company, need some way to get a foot in the door, so to speak. And what with that business with his family, he did rather need the capital. And Ramakrishna, at least, had been placing a lot of faith in his ideas.

"I'll bring the violin."

There was an exhalation of relief.

"But you're going to buy dinner. For a week."

"… ayyyy…"

--

It was a Tuesday morning when Furious Angel docked for repairs. James endured the attentions of headquarter's surgeon for the cutlass wounds on his arm and flank, then ignored stern calls for rest, changing and walking out of the building after checking on the unconscious Post Captain. There had been few injuries for a battle that could have gone so badly – they had been boarded, and the Post Captain had been shot in the back while slicing a few enemies to ribbons. Thankfully, it had been the shoulder, and James and Lieutenant Delbie had been close at hand – one to drag him to the captain's cabin, the other to stand guard.

Delbie had been cut down before reinforcements finally caused the French Navy to retreat. Due to the Indian heat, the funeral was tomorrow. The wounds ached dully as James wondered how Ramsey would take that – Delbie had been his favorite.

He was early, but still got a little lost in the winding streets. Directions from helpful natives turned him to Chatterjee Street, and finally to a nondescript, partially open air building already thronging with men of color, all talking at the same time. Dhotis of different color and quality. Men of different castes. James, feeling a little self-conscious, hesitated at the doorway, then blinked when dark fingers suddenly plucked at his white sleeve.

A grinning face of a short, plump native – yellow turban, prodigious beard, and startlingly red dhoti and sarong. "A white man in a house of adda," the man was saying, in heavily accented English. "Incredible, incredible. Would you like to join our table, good sir? Ayyy… for we were just about to discuss English, chal chal…"

Bemused, James allowed himself to be pulled to a rickety square table, around which eight grinning men already sat. A chair was pulled up, and he shook hands, was patted on the back, and firmly pushed into the chair. Food was ordered. James found himself pulled into an only partially English, heated debate about the artistic quality of religious symbols in paintings, and the concurrent value they brought to the piece. Ten minutes into the discussion, he felt decidedly out of place, conscious of his ignorance, and ate the proffered phuchkas quickly, to give him an excuse to be politely quiet. His mention of Bernini's sculptures, vaguely remembered from overheard discussions between his uncle and his whist artist partners, sparked an avalanche of excitable and only partially understandable questions.

It was to his relief that a small, sturdier table was pulled into a cleared circle in the middle of the room, and a familiar, slight frame wove through the crowd towards it, carefully holding a battered black case to his chest. The chatter went unabated until he climbed onto the table, helped up by Ramakrishna. The first notes of the finger exercises – a long, perfect intonation with delicate use of the bow – lowered the thrum of conversation several notches in volume.

--

Beckett sat cross-legged on the table and drank coffee, his case in his lap. The hum of human debate resumed, unceasing, and he was glad that Ramakrishna was at hand to stave off curious men. He wasn't in the mood to handle broken English, at the moment.

The deal from Dutta had come with a catch – it was strongly suggested that he make himself available to play for Dutta's associates, whenever the merchant required it. Sensing his associate's blackening mood, Ramakrishna had hurriedly said they would think about it, and they had beat a quick retreat. Outside, on the way back, Beckett had told him in no small terms exactly what he thought of that idea.

They were chasing up a few other potential lines of business, at the moment. At least the cinnamon deals seemed to be going through, without any issue of his music – the spice merchants, as a whole, were far more impressed with his detailed plans than with his ability at the fiddle. Still, he knew – knew – that real money was in tea.

He hadn't been expecting a diffident, "Good afternoon," in familiar, crisp English, and nearly spilled his coffee. A sharp glance to his right showed the marine, looking slightly battered – the folds of his shirt suggested bandages, and his face was drawn slightly in pain – but all smiles, standing next to the table. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."

"They talk through the music," Beckett shrugged. "I may be vain, but I don't like it. Still, they do have the best phuchkas, and we get treated, especially of late." He realized that he was almost being friendly – affected by the odd sense of relief at seeing the marine around again, and his lip curled down. "Shouldn't you be at the hospital?"

The marine looked down at his arm, obscured by a sleeve. "You noticed?"

"Obviously. You're favoring your arm and whatever happened to your back is affecting your posture." Beckett said, before he remembered that he was trying to be unfriendly. He hunched his shoulders, pulled his eyes away, and drank coffee. A plate of phuchkas arrived, delivered by an overawed, veiled girl. He ate.

"Only scratches," the marine said, dismissively. "But, er… how are you?" There was a slight flush to pale cheeks, as the man seemed to realize how facile that question was. Beckett smirked, and didn't answer, ignoring him. Eventually, the man went away.

--

James was accosted by the Reverend next Sunday, having actually shown up for services to pray for an uncomplicated recovery of Post Captain Ramsey, and was hustled into a private study. "Well, young man?"

"Um… what, sir?"

"The violinist, boy, the violinist. Have you found anything about him?"

"Er…" James found it was exceedingly difficult to lie to a priest, let alone one who was obviously intelligent.

Brown eyes widened in the narrow face, and there was thoughtful smile. "Remarkable! Remarkable. And I suppose he isn't on that list I gave you. Still, did you ask him to look for me?"

"Yes, sir. But he said he wasn't interested, that he was busy." James said quickly. "Also, he refused to give me his name, or any personal details."

"Intriguing." The Reverend pulled at his wispy beard, folding the other hand over his white robes. "That's very odd. Obviously not a violinist by profession, then. And by his clothes, likely middle or working class. But how would someone of that sort of class acquire a Strad and the means with which to play it with such finesse as you describe? Know Handel? Hmm. Very curious. Very curious."

"Uh… so you believe me?" James blinked. "That there is such a violinist, that is."

"I am a musician myself," the Reverend Paul said impatiently, "And there is a look about you, young man, that can come only from regular enjoyment of enrapturing music." He brightened. "So you definitely know where he holds his outdoor recitals."

James hesitated. "He made it clear, I'm afraid, that he didn't want to speak to you, sir. He was convinced that you would instantly try to… er… well…"

"I don't have to speak to or see him to listen, young man," the Reverend said, dryly. "There must be a way to hide, in one of those places."

James thought of the ageing Reverend, with his air of careful dignity, in a clerical collar climbing into a barrel, for a moment, absolutely randomly, and couldn't help but grin. "How well do you get along with the natives, Reverend?"

--

Beckett sat on the fence with Ramakrishna and watched the jockeys exercise their snorting steeds with a faint smile. He loved the proud animals, even though they reminded him of a forgotten life in England – loved their beauty, speed and grace.

"Want to bet, sah?" Ramakrishna grinned, watching a chestnut mare shake out her mane with a spirited whinny.

"We have money?" Beckett raised an eyebrow.

"… not really," Ramakrishna admitted. "But we should, in a couple of weeks or so, from cinnamon. And then you'd want to invest it in something else."

Beckett chuckled. "We've enough to live by."

"Well… it would be nice to have some money," Ramakrishna groused, "It's not just comforts, it opens doors, as well."

"That seem to be opening just fine, due to that absurd moniker."

"Ayyy… but… well, you don't like to…"

Beckett nodded. "Yes. I don't like arrangements like Dutta's."

"Fair enough," Ramakrishna nodded. "Heh… but I wish I could be paid to eat."

"Eating for the sake of something other than enjoying the food? Whenever someone else dictates that you do?"

"Mm." Ramakrishna thought this over. "Eeh. I think I see your point, sah. Maybe it not so good."

A colt raced past, in high spirits and a tossing tail – Beckett chuckled in pleasure. His banian smiled. "Someday if we come into big money… you buying into horses, sah?"

"I'll definitely look into acquiring a decent stable," Beckett agreed. "Perhaps some blood from Araby."

"Hah… desert horses! You better hope the big money is really big," Ramakrishna laughed.

"What would you do with money?"

"Use it to get more money. Marry. Big house, much food. Have many children. Perhaps name a couple of them after a strange English sah with a violin."

"Really?" Beckett smirked.

"I think with a few changes to your name, sah, it'd fit a girl," Ramakrishna nodded sagely. His companion snorted.

--

James left the priest sequestered in one of the rooms in the bed and breakfast, and went down to the taproom. He was early, and technically should have been on duty, but the Reverend commanded a remarkable amount of weight in the Naval presence in Calcutta, for reasons James couldn't fathom, and he had been let out on his break early. Lieutenant Ezra, when pressed, said something vague about how he was injured, how there was nothing to do at the moment with the French threat beat soundly back, and how everyone was really only interested in whether Ramsey would recover fully and didn't he have somewhere to go?

The fish curry was really good.

He looked up when the violinist entered the now-crowded room, and walked to the cleared table which held a cup of coffee and water, but the man pointedly didn't look at him. The musician took out his violin, turned a chair around, sat down, and, with only the barest attempts at warming up, began with Bach to absolute silence.

The effect was incredible. Wednesdays, the background of the river and the sound of nocturnal creatures disrupted the tone – Thursdays, the faint background of the bazaar, and Tuesdays, the noise in the adda house. Silence brought out the full force of sound.

Enraptured, James forgot about the priest, his wound, his worry over the Post Captain, and lost himself to music.

It wasn't the Stradivarius – not entirely. The natives were right, perhaps – there was something about the violinist, in his control, his grace, his sensitivity. Something other that was indefinable. Divine, perhaps. He wasn't sure who had come up with the moniker, but "Saraswati" was murmured in the crowd, at the end of the first sonata. The violinist drank a gulp of cooling coffee, and played Marini.

When he closed with scales, James had to stretch out a cramp in his back, wincing at the sharp pain from the wound as he got to his feet. The violinist eyed him with annoyance as he approached, secreting the violin into the case as he dug into the innkeeper's offerings of Indian bread and fish curry. Ramakrishna was the one to grin at him when he sat at the table. "Eeh… the marine. How's the Navy? Gave the French a sound seeing to, sah?"

James found himself discussing French expansionary tactics with someone who seemed by all appearances a lascar, while the violinist ignored them both. Ordinarily, such a pointed display of unfriendliness would have made him back off long ago, but he was now rather wryly aware that the curiosity was indeed obsession.

Besides, he was also aware, a little to his consternation, that it wasn't only the music and the violin that he found beautiful.

--

Beckett glared at the marine when the tall, thin Reverend was waiting for them outside the inn. The man looked shocked – he frowned at the priest, then looked at Beckett with an expression of such plaintive apology that he almost relented. Almost. He growled, and attempted to ignore the priest, furious with the marine and feeling oddly betrayed.

Reverend Paul stepped into his path, and grasped his free hand with both of his wrinkled ones. Beckett realized to his consternation that the man's eyes were bright with what could only be tears. "Good day, Reverend," he said, cautiously.

"I'm very sorry," the Reverend said quickly, "The midshipman told me I had to stay hidden, and that I shouldn't have come in the first place, but I'm afraid I insisted."

Midshipman. Hm. Petty officer. Being right, however, didn't in any way assuage his anger. "I see." Flatly. "Well. I suppose I shouldn't have expected someone I'm only barely acquainted with to keep a secret."

"I'm afraid I'm terribly unrelenting," the Reverend admitted. "But your delivery of Marini was exquisite. Beyond anything I've heard, even in England."

"If you're trying to…"

"Oh no, good sir," the Reverend let his hands go, ducking his head in a wry smile. "I'm afraid that any accompaniment that I can manage to arrange here, any choir, would only be a detriment, rather than enhance your music. Perhaps there would be very few appropriate, even in London."

Rather taken aback by the effusive praise, Beckett blinked. "Oh."

"Perhaps someday you could come down to the church for tea," the Reverend smiled, "And your banian, too."

He blinked again. The priest was perceptive. "Perhaps." Neutral.

"I dabble a little in commerce, sometimes, for the maintenance of St Anne's," the Reverend said, wiping at his eyes. "And perhaps you might be interested in some… contacts, that I could point out." A lopsided smile. "Just to help out a poor musician, you see."

Beckett caught the subtext, and smirked, his anger partially forgotten. "Of course. Thank you, Reverend."

"Anytime," the Reverend smiled, and looked at the midshipman with mild surprise. "Oh, you don't have to look at me like that, young man."

Beckett and Ramakrishna hastily slipped away, while the marine was occupied.