Eight Variations on the theme of
“The Man With The Violin Laughed And Walked Away”
The Man with the Violin
by
Lois Mcgill
It seemed a bit of a laugh to begin with, an anecdote for an after dinner speech or an experience retold at parties to amuse and show how cool he was. But after a strip search and a night in the cells the joke was wearing thin. Visions of the Birmingham Six or the Guildford Four came to haunt him. Were the police any better now; were Muslims the new Irish?
He had thought the machine gun in the violin case a Mobster urban myth; a device for 40’s Al Capone movies, not real life. But the police didn’t think so: a tip off, more likely someone playing a joke, but in the present atmosphere not to be ignored.
How long could they hold him, what were the rules these days? He had thought the stories of police brutality were blown up by thugs. He lived in Sevenoaks for goodness' sake, played cricket, belonged to the National Trust and owned a retriever. When this was all over he would complain forcibly. The discrimination he thought he had overcome all his life was as nothing, he was just a Paki to them. He had given them names. The conductor was well known and could vouch for him, but obviously he had not been contacted – too caught up in the moment, he could hardly answer his mobile.
Months later his story of how he had missed the Olympics Opening Ceremony was a great party piece – what a great chap they would say. He watched Mr Bean’s performance on You Tube in the station the next day while waiting for his release. He was given an apology and tried to be the bigger person.
So the man with the violin laughed, and walked away.
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The Man with the Violin
by
Sheila Cooper
The passers by would have been surprised by how profitable busking was. The bedraggled trio at the entrance to the city precinct also were unaware of how the casual chucking of coins added up - except for the violinist, Ron. Good old Ron, he was the unofficial manager. He pocketed the cash if it looked too much to elicit sympathy from the shoppers who donated small change on their way back to the car park; he collected up the hat at the end of the day and paid the other two at month's end. The other members of the trio were considerably younger than Ron and regarded him as dull, not to say boring, but he was a great violinist. He was always reluctant to head home because his wife despised him and his home life was composed of nagging rows and bitter silences.
But today would be different. He set off as usual to the pitch and played as normal. Inside he was a mass of whirling emotions. He gloated over the flight ticket and large amount of cash in his money belt. So many years, he thought, and no-one had suspected the careful extraction of cash every day. They trusted old boring Ron. But today he would no longer be boring. He'd be off to the new life he had planned - no more busking on soggy days; no more going home to marital disharmony just freedom.
At the end of the day when the last shoppers had drifted away Ron scooped up the hat, laughed and walked away.
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Götterdämmerung
by
John Hadley Evans
I was at the World Violin Congress of 2005 . . . the last one. The programme was diverse, with much of interest to players of all abilities. It was inspiring to see the great of the concert platform mixing freely with those at the beginning of their professional careers. The talk of the week was the recent sale of the Stradivarius called the “Lady Tennant,” for two million dollars.*
On Tuesday, we were waiting for a lecture on 18th century bow making to start in the main hall, when a grey haired man in a dark suit walked onto the stage and started to play. Within seconds the chatter in the stalls died away and an absolute stillness gripped the audience.
First he played a simple melody of surpassing sweetness that showed off the warm, rich tone of his instrument. Then he began to improvise on it, producing variations of amazing complexity without losing sight of the original theme. Dazzling cascades of trills, fine-drawn high notes that pierced the listener, delicate arpeggios that drifted up to caress the rafters. He finished with a brisk coda.
I turned to my neighbour, one of the greatest players in the business, to find him crying unashamedly. Everywhere in the hall people were looking dazed. With that one short piece the stranger had demoralised a whole generation of violinists and destroyed many careers.
With an elaborate flourish he bowed to his audience, mocking them, then turned on his heel, laughed and walked away.