Anne Rice - Violin

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Jacket painting: Saint Sebastian by Guido Reni, Musei

Capitolini, Rome, Italy, EU

Scala/Art Resource, NYC

Alfred A. Knopf publisher, New York 1997

For Annell Blanchard, M.D.

For Rosario Tafaro

For Karen

and as always and forever

For Stan and Christipher and Michele Rice,

John Preston,

And

Victoria Wilson

Aand In tribute to the talent of Issac Stern

and Leila Josefowicz

Violin

By Anne Rice

What I seek to do here perhaps cannot be done in words. Perhaps it can only be

done in music. I want to try to do it in words. I want to give to the tale the architecture

which only narrative can provide -the beginning, the middle and the end-the charged

unfolding events in phrases faithfully reflecting their impact upon the writer. You

should not need to know the composers I mention often in these pages: Beethoven,

Mozart, Tchaikovsky-the wild strummings of the bluegrass fiddlers or the eerie music of

Gaelic violins. My words should impart the very essence of the sound to you.

If not, then there is something here which cannot be really written. But since it's

the story in me, the story I am compelled to unfold-life, my tragedy, my triumph and its

price-I have no choice but to attempt this record.

As we begin, don't seek to link the past events of my life in one coherent chain like

Rosary beads. I have not done so. The scenes come forth in bursts and disorder, as

beads tossed helter-skelter to the light. And were they strung together, to make a

Rosary-and my years are the very same as the beads of the Rosary-fifty-four-my past

would not make a set of mysteries, not the Sorrowful, nor the Joyful or the Glorious. No

crucifix at the end redeems those fifty-four years. I give you the flashing moments that

matter here.

See me, if you will, not as an old woman. Fifty-four today is nothing. Picture me

if you must as five feet one inch tall, plump, with a shapeless torso that has been the bane

of my adult life, but with a girlish face and free dark hair, thick and long, and slender

wrists and ankles. Fat has not changed the facial expression I had when I was twenty.

When I cover myself in soft flowing clothes, I seem a small bell-shaped young woman.

My face was a kindness on the part of God, but not remarkably so. It is typically

Irish-German, square, and my eyes are large and brown, and my hair, cut blunt just above

my eyebrows-bangs, if you will-disguises my worst feature, a low forehead. "Such a

pretty face" they say of dumpy women like me. My bones are just visible enough

through the flesh to catch the light in flattering ways. My features are insignificant. If I

catch the eye of the passerby, it's on account of an acuity visible in my gaze, an honed

and nourished intelligence, and because when I smile, I look truly young, just for that

instant.

It's no uncommon thing to be so young at fifty-four in this era, but I mark it here,

because when I was a child, a person who had lived over half a century was old, and now

it's not so.

In our fifties, our sixties, it does not matter what age, we all wander as our health

will allow-free, strong, dressing like the young if we want, sitting with feet propped up,

casual-the first beneficiaries of an unprecedented health, preserving often to the very end

of life itself a faith in discovery.

So that's your heroine, if a heroine I am to be.

And your hero? Ah, he had lived beyond a century.

This story begins when he came-like a young girl's painting of the dark and troubled

charmer-Lord Byron on a cliff above the abyss-the brooding, secretive embodiment of

romance, which he was, and most deservedly so. He was true to this grand type,

exquisite and profound, tragic and alluring as a Mater Dolorosa, and he paid for all that

he was. He paid.

This is... what happened.

Chapter 1

He came before the day Karl died.

It was late afternoon, and the city had a drowsy dusty look, the on St. Charles

Avenue roaring as it always does, and the big magnolia leaves outside had covered the

flagstones because I had not gone out to sweep them.

I saw him come walking down the Avenue, and when he reached my corner he

didn't come across Third Street. Rather he stood before the florist shop, and turned and

cocked his head and looked at me.

I was behind the curtains at the front window. Our house has many such long

windows, and wide generous porches. I was merely standing there, watching the

Avenue and its cars and people for no very good reason at all, as I've done all my life.

It isn't too easy for someone to see me behind the curtains. The corner is busy; and

the lace of the curtains, though torn, is thick because the world is always there, drifting

by right around you.

He had no visible violin with him then, only a sack slung over his shoulder. He

merely stood and looked at the house-and turned as though he had come now to the end

of his walk and would return, slowly, by foot as he had approached-just another afternoon

Avenue stroller.

He was tall and gaunt, but not at all in an unattractive way. His black hair was

unkempt and rock musician long, with two braids tied back to keep it from his face, and I

remember I liked the way it hung down his back as he turned around. I remember his

coat on account of that-an old dusty black coat, terribly dusty, as though he'd been

sleeping somewhere in the dust. I remember this because of the gleaming black hair and

the way it broke off rough and ragged and long and so pretty.

He had dark eyes; I could see that much over the distance of the corner, the kind of

eyes that are deep, sculpted in the face so that they can be secretive, beneath arching

brows, until you get really close and see the warmth in them. He was lanky, but not

graceless.

He looked at me and he looked at the house. And then off he went, with easy

steps, too regular, I suppose. But then what did I know about ghosts at the time? Or

how they walk when they come through?

He didn't come back until two nights after Karl died. I hadn't told anyone Karl was

dead and the telephone-answering machine was lying for me.

These two days were my own.

In the first few hours after Karl was gone, I mean really truly gone, with the blood

draining down to the bottom of his body, and his face and hands and legs turning very

white, I had been elated the way you can be after a death and I had danced and danced to

Mozart.

Mozart was always my happy guardian, the Little Genius, I called him, Master of

His Choir of Angels, that is Mozart; but Beethoven is the Master of My Dark Heart, the

captain of my broken life and all my failures.

That first night when Karl was only dead five hours, after I changed the sheets and

cleaned up Karl's body and set his hands at his sides, I couldn't listen to the angels of

Mozart anymore. Let Karl be with them. Please, after so much pain. And the book

Karl had compiled, almost finished, but not quite-its pages and pictures strewn across his

table. Let it wait. So much pain.

I turned to my Beethoven.

I lay on the floor of the living room downstairs-the corner room, through which

light comes from the Avenue both front and side, and I played Beethoven's Ninth. I

played the torture part. I played the Second Movement. Mozart couldn't carry me up

and out of the death; it was time for anguish, and Beethoven knew and the Second Move-

ment of the symphony knew.

No matter who dies or when, the Second Movement of the Ninth Symphony just

keeps going.

When I was a child, I loved the last movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, as

does everybody. I loved the chorus singing the "Ode to Joy. " I can't count the times

I've seen it-here, Vienna once, San Francisco several times during the cold years when I

was away from my city.

But in these last few years, even before I met Karl, it was the Second Movement

that really belonged to me.

It's like walking music, the music of someone walking doggedly and almost

vengefully up a mountain. It just goes on and on and on, as though the person won't stop

walking. Then it comes to a quiet place, as if in the Vienna Woods, as if the person is

suddenly breathless and exultant and has the view of the city that he wants, and can throw

up his arms, and dance in a circle. The French horn is there, which always makes you

think of woods and dales and shepherds, and you can feel the peace and the stillness of

the woods and the plateau of appiness of this person standing there, but then...then the

drums come. And the uphill walk begins again, the determined walking and walking.

Walking and walking.

You can dance to this music if you want, swing from the waist, and do, back and

forth like you're crazy, making yourself dizzy, letting your hair flop to the left and then

flop to the right. You can walk round and round the room in a grim marching circle,

fists clenched, going faster and faster, and now and then twirling when you can before

you go on walking. You can bang your head back and forth, back and forth, letting your

hair fly up and over and down and dark before your eyes, before it disappears and you see

the ceiling again.

This is relentless music. This person is not going to give up. Onward, upward,

forward, it does not matter now-woods, trees, it does not matter. All that matters is that

you walk... and when there comes just a little bit of happiness again-the sweet exultant

happiness of the plateau-it's caught up this time in the advancing steps. Because there is

no stopping.

Not till it stops.

And that's the end of the Second Movement. And I can roll over on the floor, and

hit the button again, and bow my head, and let the movement go on, independent of all

else, even grand and magnificent assurances that Beethoven tried to make, it seemed, to

all of us, that everything would someday be understood and this life was worth it.

That night, the night after Karl's death, I played the Second Movement long into the

morning; until the room was full of sunlight and the parquet floor was glaring. And the

sun made big beams through the holes in the curtains. And above, the ceiling, having

lost all those headlights of the long night's traffic, became a smooth white, like a new

page on which nothing is written.

Once, at noon, I let the whole symphony play out. I closed my eyes. The

afternoon was empty, with only the cars outside, the never ending cars that speed up and

down St. Charles Avenue, too many for its narrow lanes, too fast for its old oaks and

gently curved street lamps, drowning out in their alien thunder even the beautiful and

regular roar of the old streetcar. A clang. A rattle. A noise that should have been a

racket, and was once I suppose, though I never in all my life, which is over half a century,

remember the Avenue ever truly being quiet, except in the small hours.

I lay that day in silence because I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. Only

when it got dark again did I go upstairs. The sheets were still clean. The body was stiff.

I knew it was rigor mortis; there was little change in his face; I'd wrapped his face round

and round with clean white cloth to keep his mouth closed, and I'd closed his eyes

myself. And though I lay there all night, curled up next to him, my hand on his cold

chest, it wasn't the same as it had been when he was soft.

The softness came back by midmorning. Just a relaxing of the body all over. The

sheets were soiled. Foul smells were there. But I had no intention of recognizing them.

I lifted his arms easily now. I bathed him again. I changed everything, as a nurse

would, rolling the body to one side for the clean sheet, then back in order to cover and

tuck in the clean sheet on the other.

He was white, and wasted, but he was pliant once again. And though the skin was

sinking, pulling away from the features of his face, they were still his features, those of

my Karl, and I could see the tiny cracks in his lips unchanged, and the pale colorless tips

of his eyelashes when the sunshine hit them.

The upstairs room, the western room, that was the one in which he'd wanted us to

sleep, and in which he died, because the sun does come there late through the little attic

windows.

This is a cottage, this huge house, this house of six Corinthian columns and black

cast-iron railings. It's just a cottage really, with grand spaces on one floor, and small

bedrooms carved from its once cavernous attic. When I was very little it was only attic

then, and smelled so sweet, like wood all the time, like wood and attic. Bedrooms came

when my younger sisters came.

This western corner bedroom was a pretty room. He'd been right to choose it, dress

it so bountifully, right to fix everything. It had been so simple for him.

I never knew where he kept his money or how much it was, or what would become

of it later. We had married only a few years before. It hadn't seemed a proper question

to ask. I was too old for children. But he had given so generously-anything I desired.

It was his way.

He spent his days working on his pictures and commentaries on one saint, one saint

who captured his imagination: St. Sebastian. He'd hoped to finish his book before he

died. He had almost won. All that remained were scholarly chores. I would think of

this later.

I would call Lev and ask Lev's advice. Lev was my first husband. Lev would

help. Lev was a college professor.

I lay a long time beside Karl and as night came, I thought, Well, he's been dead now

for two days and you've probably broken the law.

But what does it really matter? What can they do? They know what he died of;

that it was AIDS and there was no hope for him, and when they do come, they'll destroy

everything. They'll take his body and burn it.

I think that was the main reason I kept him so long. I had no fear of the fluids or

any such thing, and he himself had been so careful always in the final months, demanding

masks and gloves. Even in the filth after he died, I'd lain there in a thick velvet robe, my

unbroken skin closing me in and saving me from any virus that lingered around him.

Our erotic moments had been for hands, skin against skin, all that could be washed-

never the daredevil union.

The AIDS had never gotten into me. And only now after the two days, when I

thought I should call them, I should let them know-only now, I knew I wished it had

gotten me. Or I thought I did.

It's so easy to wish for death when nothing's wrong with you! It's so easy to fall in

love with death, and I've been all my life, and seen its most faithful worshipers crumble

in the end, screaming just to live, as if all the dark veils and the lilies and the smell of

candles, and grandiose promises of the grave, meant nothing.

I knew that. But I always wished I was dead. It was a way to go on living.

Evening came. I looked out the little window for a while as the street lamps came

on. As the lights of the florist shop went on, just as its doors to the public were locked.

I saw the flagstones ever more covered with the stiff, curling magnolia leaves. I

saw how wretched were the bricks along the side of the frnce, which I ought to fix so no

one would fall on them. I saw the oaks coated with the dust rising from the roaring cars.

I thought, Well, kiss him goodbye. You know what comes next. He's soft, but

then it's decay and a smell that must have nothing, nothing to do with him.

I bent down and kissed his lips. I kissed him and kissed him and kissed-this

partuer of only a few short years and such considerately rapid decline-I kissed him and

though I wanted to go back to bed I went downstairs and ate white bread in slices from

the wrapping, and drank the diet soda, hot from the carton on the floor, out of sheer

indifference, or rather the certainty that pleasure in any form was forbidden.

Music. I could try it again. Just one more evening alone listening to my disks, all

to myself; before they came, screaming. Before his mother sobbed on the phone from

London, "Thank God the baby is born! He waited, he waited until his sister's baby was

born!"

I knew that's exactly what she would say, and it was true, I guess; he had waited for

his sister's baby, but not waited long enough for her to come home, that's the part that

7ould keep her screaming longer than I had the patience to listen. Kind old woman. To

whose bedside do you go, that of your daughter in London, giving birth, or that of your

dying son?

The house was littered with the trash.

Ah, what license I'd taken. The nurses didn't really want to come during the last

days anyway. There are saints around, saints who stay with the dying until the very last,

but in this case, I was there, and no saints were needed.

Every day my old-timers, Althea and Lacomb, had come to knock, but I hadn't

changed the note on the door: All Is Well. Leave a Message.

And so the place was full of trash, of cookie crumbs and empty cans, and dust and

even leaves, as if a window must be open somewhere, probably in the master bedroom

which we never used, and the wind had brought the leaves in on the orange carpet.

I went into the front room. I lay down. I wanted to reach out to touch the button

and start the Second Movement again, just Beethoven with me, the captain of this pain.

But I couldn't do it.

It even seemed all right for the Little Genius, Mozart perhaps, the bright safe glow

of angels chattering and laughing and doing back flips in celestial light. I wanted to. .

. But I just didn't move . . . for hours. I heard Mozart in my head; I heard his racing

violin; always with me it was the violin, the violin above all, that I loved.

I heard Beethoven now and then; the stronger happiness of his one and only Violin

Concerto which I had long ago memorized, the easy solo melodies, I mean. But nothing

played in the house where I lay with the dead man upstairs. The floor was cold. It was

spring and the Weather wavered in these days from very hot to winter chill. And I

thought to myself, Well, it's getting cold, and that will keep the body better, won't it?

Someone knocked. They went away. The traffic reached its peak. There came a

quiet. The phone machine told lie after lie after lie. Click and click and click click.

Then I slept, perhaps for the first time.

And the most beautiful dream came to me.

Chapter 2

I dreamed of the sea by the full light of the sun, but such a sea I'd never known.

The land was a great cradle in which this sea moved, as the sea at Waikiki or along the

coast south of San Francisco. That is, I could see distant arms of land to left and right,

reaching out desperately to contain this water.

But what a fierce and glistening sea it was, and under such a huge and pure sun,

though the sun itself I couldn't see, only the light of it. The great waves came rolling in,

curling, full of green light for one instant before they broke and then each wave did a

dance-a dance-I'd never wituessed.

A great frothy foam came from each dying wave, but this foam broke into great

random peaks, as many as six to eight for one wave, and these peaks looked like nothing

so much as people-people made of the glistening bubbles of the foam-reaching out for the

real land, for the beach, for the sun above perhaps.

Over and over, I watched the sea in my dream. I knew I was watching from a

window. And I marveled and tried to count the dancing figures before they would

inevitably die away, astonished at how well formed of foam they became, with nodding

heads and desperate arms, before they lapsed back as if dealt a mortal blow by the air, to

wash away and come again in the curling green wave with a whole new display of

graceful imploring movements.

People of foam, ghosts out of the sea-that's what they looked like to me, and all

along the beach for as far as I could see from my safe window, the waves all did the

same; they curled, green and brilliant, arid then they broke and became the pleading

figures, some nodding to each other, and others away, and then turning back again into a

great violent ocean.

Seas I've seen, but never a sea where the waves made dancers. And even as the

evening sun went down, an artificial light flooded the combed sand, the dancers came

still, with heads high and long spines and arms flung beseechingly landward.

Oh, these foamy beings looked so like ghosts to me-like spirits too weak to make a

form in the concrete world, yet strong enough to invest for a moment in the wild

disintegrating froth and force it into human shape before nature took it back.

How I loved it. All night long I watched it, or so my dream told me, the way

dreams will do. And then I saw myself in the dream and it was daytime. The world was

alive and busy. But the sea was just as vast and so blue I almost cried to look at it.

I saw myself in the window! In my dreams, such a perspective almost never comes,

never! But there I was, I knew myself; my own thin square face, my own black hair with

bangs cut blunt and all the rest long and straight. I stood in a square window in a white

facade of what seemed a grand building. I saw my own features, small, nondescript with

a smile, not interesting, only ordinary and totally without danger or challenge, my face

with bangs long almost to my eyelashes, and my lips so easily smiling. I have a face that

lives in its smiles. And even in the dream I thought, Ah Triana, you must be very happy!

But it never took much to make me smile, really. I know misery and happiness

intimately!

I thought all this in the dream. I thought of both the misery and the happiness.

And I was happy. I saw in the dream that I stood in the window holding in my left arm a

big bouquet of red roses, and that with my right arm I waved to people below me.

But where could this be, I thought, coming closer and closer to the edge of

wakefulness. I never sleep for long. I never sleep deep. The dreadful suspicion had

already made itself known. This is a dream, Triana! You aren't there. You're not in a

warm bright place with a vast sea. You have no roses.

But the dream would not break, or fade, or show the slightest tear or flaw.

I saw myself high in the window, waving still, smiling, holding the big floppy

bouquet, and then I saw that I waved to young men and women who stood on the

sidewalk below-tall children, no more than that-kids of twenty-five years or less-just kids,

and I knew that it was they who had sent me the roses. I loved them. I waved and

waved and so did they, and in their exuberance they jumped up and down, and then I

threw them kisses.

Kiss after kiss I threw with the fingers of my right hand to these admirers, while

behind them the great blue sea blazed and evening came, sharp and sudden, and beyond

these youthful dancers on the patterned black and white pavements, there danced the sea

once more, flocks of figures rising from the foamy waves, and this seemed a world so

real I couldn't pronounce it just a dream.

"This is happening to you, Triana. You're there."

I tried to be clever. I knew these hypnagogic tricks that dreams could do, I knew

the demons who come face to face with you on the very margin of sleep. I knew and I

turned and tried to see the room in which I stood. "Where is this? How could I imagine

it?" But I saw only the sea. The night was black with stars. The delirium of the foamy

ghosts ran for as far as I could see.

Oh, Soul, Oh, Lost Souls, I sang aloud, Oh, are you happy, are you happier than in

life which has such hard edges to it and such agony? They gave no answer, these ghosts;

they extended their arms, only to be dragged back into dazzling sliding water.

I woke. So sharp.

Karl said in my ear: "Not that way! You don't understand. Stop it!"

I sat up. That was a shocking thing, to have so recollected his voice, to have

imagined it so close to me. But not a terribly unwelcome thing. There was no frar in

me. I was alone in the big dirty front room. The headlights threw the lace all over the

ceiling. In the painted St. Sebastian above the mantel the gilded halo gleamed. The

house creaked and the traffic crawled by, a lower rumbling.

"You're here. And it was, it was, it was a vivid dream, and Karl was right here

beside me!"

For the first time I caught a scent in the air. Sitting on the floor, my legs crossed,

still all filled up with the dream and the strictuess of Karl's voice-"Not that way! You

don't understand. Stop it!"-all filled up with this, I caught the scent in the house that

meant his body had begun to rot.

I knew that scent. We all know it. Even if we have not been to morgues or

battlefields we know it. We know it when the rat dies in the wall, and no one can find it.

I knew it now. . . faint, but filling all of this whole house, all its big ornamented

rooms, filling even this parlor, where St. Sebastian glared out from the golden frame,

and the music box lay within inches. And ihe telephone was once more making that

click, time for the lie, click. A message perhaps.

But the point is, Triana, you dreamed it. And this smell could not be borne. No,

not this, because this wasn't Karl, this awful smell. This was not my Karl. This was just

a dead body.

I thought I should move. Then something fixed me. It was music, but it wasn t

coming from my disks strewn on the floor, and it wasn't a inusic I knew, but I knew the

instrument.

Only a violin can sing like that, only a violin can plead and cry in the night like that.

Oh, how in childhood I had longed to be able to make that sound on a violin.

Someone out there was playing a violin. I heard it. I heard it rise tenderly above

the mingled Avenue sounds. I heard it desperate and poignant as if guided by

Tchaikovsky; I heard a masterly riff of notes so fast and dexterous they seemed magical.

I climbed to my feet and I went to the corner window.

He was there. The tall one with the shiny black rock musician hair and the dusty

coat. The one I'd seen before. He stood on my side of the corner now, on the broken

brick sidewalk beside my iron fence and he played the violin as I looked down on him. I

pushed the curtain back. The music made me want to sob.

I thought, I will die of this. I will die of death and the stench in this house and the

sheer beauty of this music.

Why had he come? Why to me? Why, and to play of all things the violin, which I

so loved, and once in childhood had struggled with so hard, but who does not love the

violin? Why had he come to play it near my window?

Ah, honey babe, you are dreaming! It's just the thickest yet, the worst most

hypnagogic trap. You're still dreaming. You haven't waked at all. Go back, find

yourself; find yourself where you know you are... lying on the floor. Find yoursel£

"Triana!"

I spun round.

Karl stood in the door. His head was wrapped in the white cloth but his face was

stone white and his body almost a skeleton in the black silk pajamas I had put on him.

"No, don't!" he said.

The voice of the violin rose. The bow came crashing down on the lower strings,

the D, the G, making that soulful agonizing throb that is almost dissonance and became in

this moment the sheer expression of my desperation.

"Ah, Karl!" I called out. I must have.

But Karl was gone. There was no Karl. The violin sang on; it sang and sang, and

when I turned and looked I saw him again, with his shiny black hair, and his wide

shoulders, and the violin, silken and brown in the street light, and he did bring the bow

down with such violence now that I felt the chills run up the back of my neck and down

my arms.

"Don't stop, don't stop!" I cried out.

He swayed like a wild man, alone on the corner, in the red glow of the florist shop

lights, in the dull beam of the curved street lamp, in the shadow of the magnolia branches

tangled over the bricks. He played. He played of love and pain and loss and played and

played of all the things I most in this world wanted to believe. I began to cry.

I could smell the stench again.

I was awake. I had to be. I hit the glass, but not hard enough to break it. I looked

at him.

He turned towards me, the bow poised, and then looking right up at me over the

fence, he played a softer song, taking it down so low that the passing cars almost

drowned it.

A loud noise jarred me. Someone banging on the back door. Someone banging

hard enough to break the glass.

I stood there, not wanting to leave, but knowing that when people knock like that,

they are bound to come in, and someone had caught on that Karl was dead, for sure, and I

had to go and talk sane. There was no time for music.

No time for this? He brought the notes down low, moaning, loud arid raucous again

and then high and piercing from the strings.

I backed away from the window.

There was a figure in the room; but it wasn't Karl. It was a woman. She came

from the hallway, and I knew her. She was my neighbor. Her name was Hardy. Miss

Nanny Hardy.

"Triana, honey, is that man bothering you?" she asked. She went to the window.

She was so outside his song. I knew her with another part of my mind, because all

of the rest of me was moving with him, and quite suddenly I realized he was real.

She had just proved it.

"Triana, honey, for two days, you haven't answered the door. I just gave the door a

hard push. I was worried about you, Triana. You and Karl. Triana, tell me if you want

me to make that horrible man go away. Who does he think he is? Look at him. He's

been outside the 'use, and now listen to him, playing the violin at this time of night.

Doesn't he know that a man is sick in this house-"

But these were teeny tiny sounds, these words, like little pebbles dropping out of

somebody's hand. The music went on, sweet, and demure, and winding to a

compassionate finale. I know your pain. know. But madness isn 't for you. It never

was. You're the one who never mad.

I stared at him and then again at Miss Hardy. Miss Hardy wore a dressing gown.

She'd come in slippers. Quite a thing for such a proper lady. She looked at me. She

looked around the room, circumspect and gently, as well bred people do, but surely she

saw the scattered music disks and empty soda cans, the crumpled wrapper from the bread,

the unopened mail.

It wasn't this, however, that made her face change as she looked at me. Something

caught her off guard; something assaulted her. Something unpleasant suddenly touched

her. She'd smelled the smell. Karl's body.

The music stopped. I turned. "Don't let him go!" I said.

But the tall lanky man with the silky black hair had already begun to walk away,

carrying in his hands his violin and his bow, and he looked back at me as he crossed

Third Street and stood before the florist shop, and he waved at me, waved, and carefully

placing his bow in his left hand with the neck of the violin, he raised his right hand and

blew a kiss to me, deliberate and sweet.

He blew me a kiss like those young kids had done in the dream, the kids who'd

brought me roses.

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Jacketpainting:SaintSebastianbyGuidoReni,MuseiCapitolini,Rome,Italy,EUScala/ArtResource,NYCAlfredA.Knopfpublisher,NewYork1997ForAnnellBlanchard,M.D.ForRosarioTafaroForKarenandasalwaysandforeverForStanandChristipherandMicheleRice,JohnPreston,AndVictoriaWilsonAandIntributetothetalentofIssacSternandLei...

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Anne Rice - Violin

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