Metro Concerto

If you shook my uncle's hand, you would notice two things: the strength of his grip and the energy  in his touch. His hands have played the violin in front of thousands of people, TV cameras, heads of  state, and the Pope. Yet, he has never played a wrong note or faltered. eople around the world  considered him the best concert violinist alive, but you would never guess it. He doesn’t go around  flaunting his achievements. 

I didn't see much of my uncle until the year I turned fourteen. That February, my father died in a car accident. Everyone wanted me to cry. I tried. I wished I could because it hurt so much, but nothing  came. There was a knot inside of me, a tension in my whole body, which would not allow the tears to  come. Instead, I stayed walled-up in my room. I emerged only to go to school, and the tears stayed choked back behind a veneer of anger. Then Uncle David came. He said it was for a series of concerts  in New York City, but I knew he was worried about me and Mom.

“Mark Johnston!” Mom banged on my door the last Friday evening in April, “You are coming with us. It's your uncle's opening night.”  

“I don't care!” I shouted back as I sat in a bedroom that slowly darkened with the setting sun, the way my life had dimmed since Dad left. I didn’t really care what Uncle David thought of me.

“Do you realize what some people would give to go to this concert?” Mom asked loudly through my locked door.  

“I don't care what a bunch of rich people would pay for a seat in Carnegie Hall! I'm not going!” I  declared hoarsely. 

“Mark! I am your mother, and I am telling you that you are going. Your father would have wanted  it.”  

“Oh, yeah! Well, he's not here anymore.” I could feel the pain carried by my words. I heard my  mother's hand slip from the door knob, and I knew without seeing her that she was standing in front of  my door, her head bowed. Deflated.  That knot inside of me tightened, making it hard to breathe. 

“Abigail,” Uncle David's calm, firm voice came a second later. “There will be other concerts. Let  him be.” Mom didn't say anything more, and their footsteps retreated down the hall. Before leaving,  she turned the TV to the public channel that was broadcasting the performance live and cranked the volume up to the highest level. Once they were safely gone, I turned it off and went into the kitchen to  make myself a peanut butter sandwich the way Dad used to: just bread and peanut butter. I took it back to my room, sitting there until it was too dark to see my hands in front of my face. Then I fell asleep. The next morning, I was jolted awake by the sound of a violin. I pulled my pillow over my head to block out the notes, but the lively phrases of music could be heard even through the layers. After about four minutes of this, I felt like my nerves were going to snap. I threw off the covers and ran down the  hall, bursting through the guest bedroom door.

“Stop!” I shouted, “Just stop! Do you have to practice next to my room?” Uncle David paused, his bow perfectly positioned on the strings of his priceless violin.   “Hello, Mark,” he said, looking undisturbed. “I'm sorry. Your mom said you would be awake by now.  I thought you would like it. We missed you at the concert last night.” I just groaned. “No, really,” he insisted earnestly. “I wish you had come. I think it would have been good for you.”  He put the violin down in its case and loosened the bow tension.  

“I hate classical music. It's old and all the composers are dead” I stated just because I could.

Uncle David snapped the case shut and straightened up,  

“A beautiful piece of music can bring a lot of joy to someone. I think that's why people still love it after all these years”.

“It’s boring”.

Uncle David only smiled, which made me angry.  

“The only reason classical music is still being performed is because rich people want to dress up and parade around in fancy theaters.” I knew I was being rude, but I felt angry enough to continue. “No one finds joy in it. I'll bet if you played that piece on the streets, no one would give a damn.” I hoped to  silence him with the shock of my profanity.  

 Uncle David regarded me steadily. 

      “How much?” 

      “What?” I didn't understand. 

      “How much do you bet?” he repeated. “I'm taking you up on that wager, and I'll play anywhere you  want.”  

      “In a subway?” I suggested. He wouldn't dare. 

      “Sure,” Uncle David nodded, unfazed. “Now how much?” 

      “Fifty-seven dollars,” I blurted out the first number that came into my mind. 

      “Fine,” Uncle David stood up briskly, “Go, get dressed.”  

      “What! We're going now?”  

      “No time like the present,” he picked up his violin case. “I'll meet you in the kitchen in ten minutes.” Mechanically I turned back towards my room, and got my clothes out of my closet. In  another few minutes, I was standing outside the kitchen just in time to hear my mother exclaim, “He's going out with you! David, he hasn't left the house on his own in weeks.” I wanted to rebel,  turn back and lock myself behind the door again, but I had too much invested. Fifty-seven dollars  equaled almost two months of my allowance. Instead, I followed Uncle David out the apartment door  and into the underworld of New York City subways.

The subway station was overwhelming after the quiet of my own room. Everywhere people shouted  and pushed, jostling me every which way until I wanted to scream for help. But my voice would have  been lost in the whirl of lurching subway trains and tramping feet. Everywhere people hurried by with  blank expressions turned down toward their phone screens, rushing, rushing. 

In a prominent corner of this bleak, gray environment, Uncle David took out his violin and began to play. Heads turned, smiles flashed across a few faces, but the forward momentum of the crowd  continued unchanged. A teenage girl, talking loudly on her phone, flung a five dollar bill into the open  instrument case as she walked by. It seemed more a matter of habit than of appreciation. She probably  wanted to help a “starving artist” buy his lunch. Uncle David looked amused. The night before, the  cheap seats in Carnegie Hall had cost over five hundred. Then, two people stopped to watch, but only  for a minute or two before they rejoined the stream of moving people. I squirmed uncomfortably where I sat at the base of the staircase which led up to the outside world. I hadn't expected my prediction to be so accurate. I glanced at Uncle David. His eyes were closed, and he didn't seem to care if anyone was  listening at all. A lifetime of work had gone into his music, and I suddenly had the impression that he  was playing as much for himself as the people who listened.

The piece finished. A stranger in a trench coat clapped before hurrying into the terminal. A lawyer, I thought. Didn't count. Uncle David looked at me. I shrugged, and he put the violin against his shoulder again. The piece he began next sent a trembling through me. Those beautiful rolling stanzas of music I had heard many times before. Mozart's Violin Concerto no. 3. It was Mom's favorite. She played it every year during our drive down to New Jersey for summer vacation. Dad always teased her about falling asleep while driving, but we all knew he liked it too. I had taken those times for granted. Now each note and each memory they brought back felt like a dagger. I jumped up to stop Uncle David, but then I noticed her. A little girl, no more than seven, stood in  front of my uncle, looking as if she'd just seen heaven. Her eyes were wide and her whole face glowed  with amazed delight. Uncle David saw her too. His notes became more pure and beautiful. The two of  us stood rooted in place; I behind Uncle David, she in front.  

 The concerto continued on gently now, peacefully. The music bounced around the concrete corridor.  It blocked out the bustle of the subway station until it cloaked the three of us in our own world, and we  stood there spellbound by the beauty. I had never experienced music that way.   After a few minutes, a woman dressed in a waitress uniform emerged from the crowd.   “Emily!” she clutched at the little girl's hand. “Don't you ever go off without me again!” She pulled  her away, leaving Uncle David once more without an audience. Now was the time to stop him, but I  didn't step forward. Instead, I stood there and let the music pour into me. I felt the tight knot inside of  me, the one that had been there so long, start to untangle. Then it suddenly slipped away, the way rain  drops down a window pane, taking away the dust as it falls. I sank back onto the stairs, covered my  face with my hands, and began to cry.  

 I sobbed until my hands were wet and tears streamed off my cheeks. My shoulders shook with each  choking breath until Uncle David wrapped his arm around them.  

“Oh, Mark,” he whispered quietly. I buried my head in his shoulder and didn't think about anything  else. People continued to rush past us. No one saw the boy whose father had died or the world-famous  musician who comforted him. I was free to cry.

When we finally returned home at noon, I went straight for my room, but this time I didn't close my  door or lock myself in. Uncle David played again that night to a sold-out audience in Carnegie Hall. The following evening, I almost gave Mom a heart attack by agreeing to go with her to Uncle David's final concert in New York City. The critics described his performance as “soul stirring.” It sounded  rather trite on paper. I didn't think they did him justice. 

Right before he left, Uncle David came into my room and put fifty-seven dollars down on my desk.  

“What's that for?” I asked.

“You won our bet.”  

     “That's not true. I bet that nobody would notice,” I pushed the money back at him, “but I did.” He  only shook his head and smiled.  

      “Keep it, and get that skateboard you were saving for.”  

 He left New York City a few hours later, but not my life. I always knew where to turn in a difficult  situation, who to ask for advice, and who would listen if I just needed to talk.   

If you shook my uncle's hand you would notice the strength of his grip and the energy in his touch. It is known that the hands of a skilled surgeon can heal the physical injuries of life, but the hands of a gifted musician can heal wounds that grief and loss leave unseen.