Page 132 of Share with Me

Something Vittorio had said made Ivan think.

A left-handed violin.

He had seen some renowned violinists play it that way. The chin rest, strings, everything would be a mirror image of the right-hand violin where he held the bow with his right hand. He’d have to contact a luthier to see if he could get a left-handed violin where he could control the strings with his right hand, which didn’t have a broken wrist.

Could he make a living that way? At least until his left wrist healed?

He’d be the only violinist on the wrong side of the string section. Would he have to sit away from the other violinists or risk poking their eyes out with his bow? Would any orchestra even accept him into their staff?

Premature!

Vittorio had mentioned in passing that it would take baby steps to get back to his old form. Ivan decided to make a mental list of the basic functionalities he needed: turn his wrist, hold the fingerboard, play both arm and wrist vibrato, handle the portamento—

Whew.

Ivan expelled a breath into the cold Atlantic air.

Beneath the splint, his left wrist throbbed staccatos to an invisible metronome.

He called Brinley again, but she didn’t pick up. He texted her, giving her the lowdown on Vittorio from an obviously skewed perspective. But it made him feel better to complain to someone, to let it out, to say it.

More phone calls and apologies from his students’ parents came. His music studio might as well close with only one student left. He knew that kid; she wasn’t really interested in music at all. Her mother had made her do it so she could perform on stage vicariously through the poor daughter, who’d rather be a cheerleader. She had both violin and piano lessons. With violin lessons out of the question for another four months, Ivan had offered her a discount.

But one student does not a music studio make.

* * *

At the endof a grueling week, Ivan saw enough improvement for him to brave dropping in at the SISO studios at rehearsal time. He entered the rehearsal room quietly and found a wooden stool in a corner, on which he sat and watched SISO go through its repertoire for the upcoming music festivals in Jacksonville and Miami.

He knew the numbers by heart, knew exactly when the arpeggios, chords, slurs, and time signature changes would occur. He counted through the rests, and nearly picked up his invisible bow when the string section began the next movement.

For a moment music was Ivan’s therapy. For a moment the worst was over this Thursday. Vittorio was done breaking him up and he had the rest of the day off.

The orchestra stopped abruptly.

“No, no, no!” Conductor Petrocelli repeated it several times, a string of no’s followed by Italian expletives lost in translation.

Ivan might be a Christian man, but he even missed Petrocelli’s rant on the lack of maintenance, passion, or something or other that every single Sea Islands Symphony Orchestra member had been accused of during the last year Ivan had been in it.

Scold me now! I miss being scolded!

A ping in his wrist jolted him out of his memory walk. The clock on the wall registered a good thirty minutes past the time for him to take more over-the-counter pain meds. He wondered if he could possibly not take any at all and survive Vittorio the occupational therapist’s torture chamber.

Maybe not.

He kept telling himself that once his wrist had full mobility, he’d be back playing vibrato, both arm and wrist. If he couldn’t vibrate the strings with his left hand, then he was done.

SISO started up again. This time Ivan was impressed with Warren Yamaguchi’s rendition of César Franck in the string and piano duet. He knew Warren had the technical skills, having been a product of the Suzuki Method back when he was in San Diego. He was here in SISO because his retired parents now lived on Hilton Head, and he wanted to be close to them. Ivan knew what that was like.

At the next break, the entire string section came to wish Ivan well. He felt loved.

“Good job there, Warren,” Ivan said when Warren passed by.

“Thanks, man. Sorry about your wrist. I hope you get well soon.” Warren stepped closer.

“Me too.”

“Too bad you’ll miss the Jax festival next week but take it as an opportunity to get well.”

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