Edited 5.30.18

Hints of a Family

Giver19

The raucous noise from the bar only magnified my anxiety. My stomach growled, yet I had no intention of leaving this room in favor of dining with the public. They'd stare at me, whisper cruel words, and eventually turn on me violently-at least that is what my father constantly listed as reasons why I should not have left the cellar.

While I sat on my bed, which was really little more than a cot barely stuffed with enough straw to make it tolerable, I had imagined every feasible scenario and played it through my mind until I was sick to my stomach with dread.

The only person who could ease my troubled mind ignored me still, especially since I had forgotten to wake him as he had asked. We'd said little to each other while we shared the same room, and the cold, dreadful feeling of solitude crept into my heart. Each time I wanted him to speak to me I looked away, fearful of what he would say.

The noise downstairs grew louder. More people entered the dining room, more steins of beer filled and emptied. I balled my hands into tight fists and held my breath while wishing I could drown out the noise. I feared this night would strangle the life from my body.

I sat on my lumpy mattress,unable to get comfortable no matter how I shifted. Head bowed, I studied The Shadow from the corner of my eye, attempting to take my mind off food and unwanted company.

He sat hunched over a shoddy desk for a long while and scribbled on both sides of a single piece of paper, which was all the innkeeper would spare. As he thought, he would tap the pen against the ink well, then grunt and begin to furiously write again.

Curiosity got the best of me, and at last the silence was broken between us.

"What are you writing?"

"A letter." He paused, read over his words, and glanced up at me. "My penmanship is not what it used to be." He smiled briefly. "One should always write with great care, for it is not only the words which you send, but the first glimpse of yourself in each stroke. Remember that."

I would. "To whom are you writing?"

"To my oldest son."

"Joshua."

He seemed genuinely amused. "You've remembered your cousin's name."

I sat up straighter, proud of myself. Slowly, I would regain his affection and my confidence as long as I could keep the conversation moving. "And your youngest son's name was Matthew."

"That's what his mother called him," he said under his breath. He glanced at me and I couldn't tell if he was glad for my change of mood or annoyed I insisted on speaking while he attempted to write a letter. "I called him trouble, which honestly would have been like calling him by his given name." He signed his letter and folded it in thirds before tapping it on the desktop. Once he had it in an envelope, he tucked it into his back pocket and stood. "They had better have good food tonight. I'm in no mood for eating rats. Let's go down to the tavern."

He motioned for me to stand and I hesitated briefly, uncertain of whether I could walk down the stairs and not immediately pass out. Sustenance was of little concern, and as I looked around the room I realized neither was the crowd as I had no desire to be alone with my thoughts. I could wilt no further. His company, his companionship—outweighed my fears.

"And good music," I added.

His hand settled lightly on my shoulder as he opened the door. "Indeed, my son, good music indeed."

-o-

The air smelled of barley, pork, and sweat. Nauseating at first, but eventually the combined scents were tolerable, especially when I saw the servers carry dish after dish to the tables and waiting patrons. The worst of it, however, was the smell of alcohol. Not merely beer, as my father had not typically favored wine or ale, but hard liquor. The smell of whiskey froze the marrow in my bones. I held my breath and scanned the room, half-expecting to see my father in the crowd.

I followed The Shadow through a tangled mass of men and women until we were seated in the far corner where there were no windows. It was no less loud where we sat, but it was much darker. The candle was burnt to a stub, wax splattered across the table's surface. Names and pictures had been carved into the tabletop, which I traced with my finger to keep my mind off the crowd.

This many people in one place was something I had only seen from a distance, and I found myself unable to process everything at once. The room was uncomfortably warm, the air stagnant. All of the voices melded together and made it impossible to pick out one conversation from the next. Laughter burst out from different tables, and each time I heard someone bellow out for drinks or laugh unexpectedly, I jumped in my seat and wished I could crawl out of sight beneath the table.

"We may either eat well and spend all of our money now, or eat like beggars for several days and keep our bellies half-full." He didn't look at me when he spoke, which only reminded me that a rift still existed, that what I had chosen and he had denied still loomed between us.

"I'm not that hungry," I replied. There were eyes on me. I didn't dare look up from the table, but I could feel someone staring at me.

"You're a young man. You should constantly be hungry."

A woman approached our table and sighed. "Eating or drinking?" She sounded as though she'd asked a thousand times already and didn't care what we said in return.

"Both. Gives us two of whatever the special is tonight."

He ordered two steins as well, but I was unfamiliar with beer and only half-listened. My attention was swallowed up by several people dressed in mustard yellow vests. One man carried in a double bass, and I watched as he bumped into people in order to protect his instrument. Behind him a woman in a dark, flowing skirt and pale blonde hair ordered him to keep moving. Her features were long, as was her body. She looked gaunt, like a corn stalk with a face. Brother and sister, I thought.

The musicians had arrived. Food, drink, strangers…what were they? I had entered my own little kingdom, one ruled by sound. Hands clasped beneath the table, I sat forward and studied their every word, strained to hear their distant conversation.

"It's a Busetto-shaped double bass," The Shadow said casually. "Possibly a hundred years old by the looks of it."

The waitress slammed our drinks on the table and wandered away. I cradled my stein in my hands despite having no desire to drink it and watched as the bassist began tuning his instrument.

"Listen. Do you hear that?"

It took me a moment to dissect the instruments over the incessant murmur of the crowd, but when I did finally concentrate on just the bass, I turned to my uncle and cocked my head to the side.

"He isn't doing it right."

"Excuse me?"

"The tuning. He should tune it like a violin." He'd tuned it in fourths, in E-A-D-G, which didn't sound correct to my ears. Violins were tuned G-D-A-E, with A tuned first—then the rest were tuned against each other in intervals of perfect fifths, which I had memorized weeks ago when my uncle had shown me how to properly tune my instrument. Hearing this mistake, I was prepared to march over to this fool and correct him, but The Shadow shook his head.

"Listen closely. Do you hear the difference?"

My eyes narrowed, my ears straining to hear every decibel. I knew that they weren't played in the same manner, but being a string instrument I expect similarities between the two.

"It's not played like a violin." I smiled inwardly. "And it's not tuned the same way either. Why haven't I noticed before?"

The Shadow sat back and sipped his beer. "Have you seen a double bass before?"

"Once." It was apt to say I had heard the deep, looming sound of a double bass and had only glimpsed at it through a dirty window.

"Did you notice how he carried it in?"

I nodded. "Carefully."

"Why?"

"So that he wouldn't hit anyone."

"For the sake of the people or the sake of his instrument?"

"The instrument?"

He smiled again and nodded. "Did you know or did you guess?"

I offered a sheepish grin, which earned a shake of the head and a laugh from my uncle. "Better to learn this way than by ruining his bass."

The flow of our relationship had returned, the conversation steady, our bond growing. I sat forward so I could hear him better, absorb each word he spoke. I focused on his face and the gestures of his hands, and slowly the rest of the tavern disappeared.

"Why does the bass need protecting?" I asked.

"They're not sturdy like a cello—or a violin for that matter. An elbow could punch through it, destroy the instrument."

While the instruments were tuned and the musicians practiced, our food was brought to the table, still sizzling on the plates in a combination of grease and what smelled like beer. I poked at the sausage, unsure of its appeal.

That was when I became aware of laughter at the table across from ours. At first I ignored it, but then just like the double bass, their words became clear in my mind.

"What do you suppose he has under that mask?"

"I'll give you all of my winnings from last night if you ask him."

My gaze flashed up, but not long enough for me to get a good look at either man. Their voices quieted, but I knew they still stared and continued their wager in hushed voices.

The music was no longer a suitable barrier. Head down, I cut my food with my fork and ate slowly, pretending it was the most interesting thing I'd ever seen. Still their voices found a way to my ears. My stomach tightened and I wasn't sure if I would be able to keep my food down if I continued eating the greasy slop. The two men laughed and I knew it was at me, whispered words concerning my presence. Every gaze in the dark, smoke-filled pub had come to rest on my masked face.

"You are very much like your grandfather," my uncle stated suddenly.

I swallowed hard and glanced up at him. His gaze went from me to the table with the two men behind us.

"Ignore them, Erik," he said firmly. "They are drunken fools, and if either of them approaches, I guarantee they will regret their decision." He leaned back into his chair and his demeanor softened. "My father was a wonderful musician."

My cheeks burned as I stared at him, wondered why his voice seemed so distant compared to those around me. "I-I don't know anything about him."

"That's a shame," he replied. He stuffed tobacco into his pipe, which I hadn't seen him smoke for a while. The aroma made me inhale deeply, a reminder of our last meal taken around a table—and conversation about family. "When he was younger he apprenticed with a gentleman that made string instruments. You would have liked him if he were still alive. You resemble him."

"Oh." I folded my hands beneath the table and sat very still, unsure of how to interpret his words.

"Tall and slender," he said as he reached for my shoulder and gave me a shake. "With keen eyes, just like you, and a soft voice as well."

"How did he die?" I questioned. There was someone else like me, I thought to myself, a wonderful musician and apprentice of string instruments. Someone who would have liked me.

"He coughed black tar for many years, then one day it suffocated him, I suppose." He spoke without emotion, and I wondered if he'd been close to his father. I could picture myself speaking of my own sire in the same manner, as though it were a nameless man I'd seen on the street. It saddened me, the broken edges of my family.

"I'm sorry," I said obtusely.

"He was a very good musician. I remember when I was just a boy, much younger than you, and I would sit by the fire while my brothers played outside."

"You had two brothers?"

"Still do," he answered. "By blood, at least. By preference I still have one." He placed his pipe down. "My father could play the violin, the flute, the piano…if it made sound he would pick it up and entertain himself."

He paused and took another drink from his stein. "He would have sat beside you and bored you to death with every detail of how that bass was made, as well as everything the musician did wrong. He was critical of other musicians. I'd never play before him—not unless I wanted to be knocked down several pegs. Ah, but he knew what he was doing when he played, how to elicit emotion from a crowd of twenty or just his wife and children. You've got at least a drop of his blood in you, haven't you?"

Shyly I smiled. "Did my father play?" I blurted out.

He gazed at me, sadness in his eyes. "A long time ago. He gave up music for whiskey and gambling—and that woman he calls his wife."

"Did your children play? Did you teach them?"

"Joshua plays piano. Matthew was too ill to learn. He couldn't sit on the bench, nor hold a violin, but he enjoyed listening to me play."

Once again he left out Phelan, but I did not ask.

His words captivated me, these long-awaited glimpses into my roots. In my mind I painted pictures of them, younger versions—healthier versions—of my yellow-eyed, thin uncle. They would be tall like him, thin but well-built. Light brown hair, pale eyes, and handsome features. I was proud to be part of their stock, even if they didn't know I was alive.

"Did your father know your sons?"

"Did your grandfather know your cousins?" he asked, gently correcting my words. "He knew Joshua. Loved him as he loved me. He passed away months after Matthew was born." He smiled. "His only regret with Matthew was that his mother insisted we call him by his middle name, not his given name."

"Matthew was his middle name?"

"Yes, his name was my name."

"Alak," I said. My uncle nodded. "Why did he not go by his first name?"

"Because his mother tired of calling Alak and the wrong one answering." He winked at me.

"What about-" I paused, catching myself all too late.

"Speak," he ordered.

"Your other son," I said as I stared at a rather lewd etching in the table. I wasn't sure what made me more uncomfortable; the artwork on the table or the question I had posed.

"Phelan" my uncle answered. "My father loved him as well. Phelan learned to paint from his grandfather."

"How old are your children now?" I asked.

He continued to speak but the band began to play and his words were lost. I ate in silence until the musicians finished their song and the patrons applauded. Glancing over, I saw the table beside ours was empty. With a sigh of relief I relaxed and enjoyed my night spent in darkness, content with the food in my belly and the sound of music soothing my soul. At last it seemed as though the relationship I had nearly broken was on the mend.