"Canst thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door?"
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "Sonnet IV"
The next day after school I was walking leisurely down an empty hallway after meeting with a teacher who was a little confused about my previous school record. Then I stopped in surprise as I was passing Symphony Hall.
Someone inside was playing a violin. Without warning, all my childhood memories of my father playing his treasured instrument flooded my mind. For a moment, I forgot where I was and all I could do was whisper: "Dad?" I edged the door open, trembling, and saw Erik standing, his back to the huge mirror, playing a violin with such fluid grace that it almost seemed as if the violin was merely another part of his body.
As if sensing another presence, he stopped playing abruptly and whipped around to face me. Shock registered on the visible side of his face and we could only stare at each other until someone broke the silence with enthusiastic applause.
"That was fantastic!" exclaimed a portly middle-aged man with a mustache, standing near the door to Concert Hall. He walked towards us, a big smile on his friendly face, and I saw Erik stiffen out of the corner of my eye.
"Sorry," muttered Erik, lowering his head instantly so the masked side of his face was hidden. Carefully, he lay the violin down in an open violin case on the piano. His long, thin fingers brushed the wood with reverence as he turned and headed towards the exit. "I-I couldn't resist playing it..."
"Wait!" exclaimed the man as Erik reached the exit. He stopped, his whole body rigid. "Where did you learn to play like that?" asked the man, awe evident in his voice.
Erik didn't move. "Nowhere," he answered softly as if remembering something from long ago. "I taught myself..."
The room was silent for a moment; the clock on the wall clicking to the next minute startled me. "Are you in the school orchestra? I don't remember seeing you today... I'm Mr. Hayes, the orchestra director."
I saw Erik's fist tighten almost imperceptibly against his black coat. "No, sir. I am not."
Mr. Hayes' pleasant face twisted in bewilderment. "You're not? With talent like yours, son, you should be!" He took a step towards the silent figure by the door.
Erik stiffened and turned his head slightly. "I am not your son, sir," was his soft reply. Erik left swiftly, leaving an aching void where music had once been.
The silence was deafening and I soon became aware that I was still trembling from the memory of his music. I was sure that not even my father had played so well. Erik's music seemed an outpour of his very soul, flowing forth with a stunning intensity that left me feeling as if I'd gazed into a bright celestial light...
"Who was that young man?" asked Mr. Hayes softly, startling me.
I stared out the door that he had exited, the wind blowing a few early fall leaves into the room. "Erik," I replied simply. There was nothing else to explain.