The forecast was wrong. The climate was changing. The Monday morning downpour was definitely a surprise to Greg and to his wife Mariah, who was busy dressing up their six-year-old daughter, Naidoo, for the crèche. However the downpour wasn’t as important as the enchanting tune that was coming from nowhere. It was a Beethoven symphony in C minor, from a violin. Yes, from a violin.
Greg stopped; he was standing and fixing his tie in front of the bathroom mirror. The classical piece was really haunting and so piercing that Greg became slightly melancholic and meditative. Naidoo, his daughter was rather excited with her mum; they seemed not to have noticed anything except that it was raining and they may likely get wet.
“Sweetie, please tell Naidoo to do away with the noise!” Greg called from the bathroom. The “noise” was a popular nursery rhyme Naidoo had been taught in the crèche with the other kids to keep them busy and out of trouble. Of course she had gotten so used to the rhyme that it had become her anthem at home and Mariah felt pleased with that. At least it made Naidoo seem like a potential poet. On that morning, though, the rhyme was nothing but a piece of noise as compared to the enchanting sonata from the violin.
“I hope to know why you are displeased with Naidoo’s recitation,” Mariah reported from the bedroom. Naidoo didn’t stop; she was still muttering it to herself and her mother.
“There is a difference between noise and sound,” Greg muttered. The rhyme was nothing but a total nuisance to his sense of hearing. The solo violin continued, um- um-um-um-um …
“Who is playing this piece?” Greg asked himself. He was actually a music teacher at Moreal College in Johannesburg, and one funny coincidence was that the sonata playing was the piece he had failed twice during his degree programme. The violinist played the same piece with such skill and simplicity, it sounded like he had been a master of the symphony for many years. Greg shut his eyes in meditation and smiled to the dirge, the soulful stream of rhythm flowing from the master’s strings. He could imagine the slim but straight fingers strumming the strings in great style across the neck of the violin while the bow swung and glided smoothly and in unity.
Thm-um-um-um-um, the music continued; the sonorous tune pierced his intellectual mind and cut through to his spirit. He stood like he was in a trance and in total obedience to the orchestrated composition that was beyond his power. His spirit floated out of his body to the celestial bosom of the violin man.
Just then, Naidoo burst into the bathroom. “Daddy! We are ready!” she shouted, and jostled Greg back to consciousness.
“Oh! Ooh… really…” Greg stammered from the shock and shook his head lightly. He realized the sonorous tune had changed something about him. He seemed more prepared for the day ahead.
Greg drove out of his compound and waved happily at his neighbors, the Govenders; they were his new neighbors. They had moved into the house not even three days ago. Mariah had observed that they were likely to be classical music lovers, especially when a huge truck had come to deliver a polished grand piano, with three hefty men lifting it into the house.
“Rasla Street is becoming an artistes’ residence. You remember the Marians’ family did an exhibition last week and Justin’s wife is a writer and now the Govenders are into music,” Greg said, still driving out of his garage. He had bought his own house from an estate agent, specifically because he preferred to live in the suburbs; the CBD was getting busier and overcrowded with nightclubs and heavy traffic jams. It was too lousy for his liking and especially with reference to his creativity.
“The Govenders will make a good pair with us,” his wife suggested.
“You are right sweetie. It is nice getting to see someone I share an interest with. Just this morning one of them was practicing a masterpiece Beethoven’s symphony composition in C Minor on a violin. Imagine! A violin! I mean it was such a touch of genius,” Greg replied, still reflecting on which of the Govenders could be responsible for that piece.
Naidoo was seated at the back, reciting her rhyme animatedly. She sat close to the door window, peeping out to catch a glimpse of whatever was going on in the neighborhood. The drizzle had stopped; Greg drove carefully out of his driveway onto Rasla Street, changed gears and turned the steering wheel towards the corner of Rasla and Fandola Streets.
“Daddy look!” Naidoo shouted with a surprise. A beggar was seated under the public signpost. His unkempt but shaggy hair was wet and spooky. There was something curious about his blue eyes, staring emptily ahead, holding out a milk can for passersby to put in their coin offerings. There was nothing fascinating about him except for the fact that he was a destitute who had slept in his makeshift cardboard tent to shelter himself from the rain and he looked unwashed with a filthy, oversized T-shirt.
Greg shook his head, it wasn’t a new thing to see a beggar but it was unusual to find a beggar at Rasla Street. And the most annoying thing was to spot him about thirty meters away from his own house. “Definitely this is one thing I will not tolerate,” Greg said, half annoyed. He had to slow down at the junction to join the highway. “I mean, I left the city life because of them. I am absolutely sure they will come one after the other to colonize another territory beside my house. I won’t allow anyone to pose a threat to my house and to my family in particular. I must talk to The Govenders and Justin’s wife about this.”
“He isn’t a threat, is he?
“It is strange to find beggars in Rasla Street especially a few meters from my house. They aren’t meant to be here, are they?” Greg retorted. Mariah was thoughtfully silent. “Dear, there shouldn’t be beggars if everyone works hard enough,” Greg assumed.
The strange beggar stood to his feet and walked slowly up to Greg with a dirty, urine-soaked blanket draped around his body. He stretched the can towards him and smiled to expose his set of crooked stained teeth. Greg gave him a sinister look then stepped on the accelerator.
~
Naidoo couldn’t get the beggar off her mind because her mind wasn’t strong enough to cope with certain things. She was a young girl that had been diagnosed with bipolar illness. Two nights had passed, and the beggar was still there by the cardboard shelter. Naidoo had screamed twice in the middle of the night from a nightmare that the strange beggar had come into the house through the back door and had wanted to touch her. Under the same influence Naidoo had sleepwalked into the kitchen, only to start scribbling strange musical notes on the fridge with a sharp knife, and in the process had injured her hand with cuts.
On Thursday evening, Mariah was bothered and greatly disturbed about the incident, which the family doctor had dismissed as mere psychological stress that in some way had aggravated Naidoo’s crisis. “ I told you something must be done to stop this mad man. There was something weird about his look!” Greg uttered angrily while seated at the balcony, staring deep into the late night sky.
“I believe you spoke to Justin’s wife about the madman?” Mariah asked.
“They are out of town.”
“ And the Govenders?” she asked again, this time sitting by Greg.
“Well, they are busy with rehearsals for their concert. They wouldn’t even want to talk much about it.”
“That’s absurd! Why should no one care about an issue that concerns everyone’s safety in Rasla Street?” Mariah retorted in surprise.
“Actually Mrs. Govender does not foresee any serious danger coming from that man.”
“A beggar can be dangerous. You can never tell with them,” Mariah warned.
“Exactly, maybe I will let the police handle this. I won’t allow anything more serious to happen to my daughter.”
Mariah heaved a sigh of relief. “And about the violin sonata?” she inquired looking more serious.
“Oh! I forgot to ask them about that. I actually want them to give me the score sheet. I need to start looking seriously into the symphony the Govender rehearses every morning. I failed it twice in my college days and I am expected to conduct an ensemble with that music,” Greg said and shook his head sadly.
“You know what?” Mariah voiced, a bit soft but sincere. “The masterpiece had a way of tendering a peace offering to my spirit and leading me through the day,” she said, and as she spoke there were tears welling up in her eyes. There was something emotional about her statement.
Greg hugged her passionately and kissed her on the forehead. “Such is the power of music, sweetie. I also profit from it in a way, the spirit of the composition restores my confidence. The piece wasn’t arranged for violin as a solo performance, it was meant for the piano and a full orchestra. Whoever improvised it for the violin must have been a genius.”
“Was that why you kept on failing the course?”
“Perhaps, yes. My ultimate goal was to see the piece played on a violin, just like the Govenders have done. And honestly, I am willing to pay any sum to buy the score sheet from them,” Greg said thoughtfully.
It was getting darker. The couple was seated in the balcony, sipping red wine and staring at the stars as they recounted the day’s events. Naidoo was already asleep on Mariah’s lap, and the Govenders had turned off their light. “ Our little poet will sleep in our room with us,” Mariah whispered, running her hand through the little girl’s hair. She looked pretty and innocent in her sleep.
“How about her medication?” Greg asked.
“She’s getting along with it, only that she wouldn’t speak to anyone.”
“Even the doctor?”
“Yes.”
“And about the weird scratches she did on the fridge with knife?”
“She advised us to leave her to it, she’s only expressing the pressure in her mind.”
“I might as well buy a new fridge.” Greg smiled, but he was a bit sad- his daughter was too young to have to cope with mental illness.
“I don’t want anything to happen to my daughter,” Mariah uttered and again ran her hand through the girl’s hair.
“Don’t worry about that, I will alert the police first thing tomorrow on my way to the college. I need to sleep now, I don’t want to miss the music in the morning,” Greg whispered and smiled, rising to his feet.
“Me too. I always look forward to it,” Mariah responded. Greg lifted Naidoo and walked into the lounge, leaving Mariah to pack the wine cups and the bottle. As usual the violin sonata woke them up on Friday morning.
On Friday evening, Greg was happy that the week was over; his return from the college was exciting especially when he observed that the makeshift cardboard was empty. The mad man was gone! He smiled peacefully at himself and drove past. He had alerted the police at the station that a strange man was threatening his family and of course the police didn’t take such threats lightly.
“I wont allow destitutes to colonize Rasla Street,” he murmured with pride as he drove into the garage.
Naidoo rushed out of the living room to the balcony screaming, “Daddy is back!” Greg was exceptionally excited too, he hurriedly came out of the driver’s seat and lifted his daughter in the air with excitement. “Police men came to our street!” Naidoo shouted.
“Really?” Greg feigned ignorance.
“Yes, they came and took the beggar and his violin away.”
“Really?” Greg said again animatedly.
“Daddy lets go and see the place.” Naidoo pulled him towards the small gate.
“ No not yet, I need to say hi to your mum.”
“No daddy lets go,” Naidoo insisted. Already she was walking towards the place.
Greg followed her to the makeshift cardboard. There was nothing there except the dirty blanket and the empty tin. Greg felt a bit guilty but he believed he had done the right thing for his daughter.
“Okay lets go back home. I need some rest now.” They walked hand-in-hand back to the house.
Already, Mariah was standing by the door to the living room, waiting for them. “He’s gone!” she shouted; there was something beautiful about her statement.
“I know. I feel better too,” Greg replied.
“Justin’s wife invited us for a dinner and braai.”
“Woo! That sounds great. I will be able to chat with her about my next project.” Greg felt impressed that they were beginning to become important in their neighborhood thank goodness he had single-handedly cleaned the street of mad beggars. He was sure they would talk deep into the night at the braai, after all it was Friday night. And of course they would wake up to a beautiful Saturday morning with Beethoven’s symphony playing as usual.
~
At 6:30 am on Saturday morning, nothing happened. There was something unusual and unpleasant about that Saturday. Greg, Mariah and Naidoo were sick and terrible with serious hangovers from the Friday dinner. There was no symphony to wake them up. Mariah looked more tired than usual. Greg forced himself out of the bed and staggered to the window. The music wasn’t coming, rather, it was dark and thick clouds had gathered across the sky with a heavy rumbling sound.
“What’s wrong this morning?” Greg asked himself. Mariah murmured inaudibly and wished the symphony would keep her up. Naidoo grumbled of a slight headache. Greg wondered why the Govenders had stopped the early morning rehearsal, merely because Justin hadn’t invited them to the braai. Greg staggered to the bathroom to rinse his face. He stared at himself in the mirror by the sink and realized he looked terrible. He hadn’t had adequate sleep. The music wasn’t play either. He decided then to walk up to the Govenders house to accuse them of robbing his family of good music.
“Where to?” Mariah murmured, still struggling to hum the violin tune. Maybe it would make her better.
“To the Govenders‘, why should they stop the music when we need it the most?” Mariah shook her head. She thought Greg was still drunk.
Greg knocked on the Govenders’ rather early. He was fortunate to find Mr. Govender himself, standing face-to-face with him, wearing a bathrobe and holding a wine bottle. He was a fat man, with a rough outlook and smelt of tobacco. The Govenders weren’t actually friendly but Greg forced himself on them for friendship because of the symphony.
“Hi! Morning,” he greeted him and smiled. The clouds were gathering up in the sky.
“What’s the problem?” Mr. Govender retorted.
“Er… em… the violin symphony. What’s up this morning?”
Mr. Govender stared at him strangely and shook his head, “ What are you talking about?” He attempted to shut the door in Greg’s face, but the latter quickly wedged his foot in the doorway.
“Wait! Hold on… I… mean… the Beethoven Symphony on C minor…”
“Hey what about it? First you came here two days ago for a music sheet… next you talk about beggars threatening you… now it’s about a violin symphony. I don’t know what you are talking about man! I don’t even play classical stuff. I play Rock ‘n Roll. If you want that I will give it to you…” Mr. Govender turned back into his house and called on someone inside, “Jason! Please turn on the heavy metal rock!” Then he slammed the door against Greg’s face.
Greg was disturbed and walked sadly away. All this time he had thought the Govenders had been the ones playing the classical music... Then where was the classic music coming from? He walked slowly and the rain started to fall. At first it was very light, then it became heavy rain. Greg didn’t care about the rain. He cared more about getting to the bottom of the mystery. Who had been playing the music?
The rain pelted him heavily. He was wet and drenched in his pyjamas. He suddenly remembered one thing Naidoo mentioned- that the beggar had a violin. He walked briskly to the makeshift cardboard shelter that was already soaked and blown apart by the storm. The blanket was still on the soil, heavily soaked with water. Greg raised it up with his foot and saw a torn score sheet with an old, termite-eaten violin carefully wrapped inside a plastic bag. He cautiously picked them up and studied the awkward music notes written with pencil on the half torn but wet sheets. He wished there was more. Obviously, it had been the so-called beggar playing the symphony on a broken violin.
Greg marveled and shook his head, “ A genius is gone.” He carefully picked up the wet music sheets and searched around for more. He wished he could find the rest of the scripts. Unbeknownst to him, the rest of the music notes had already been written on the fridge in the kitchen, scribbled with a sharp knife by Naidoo.
« return.