Unholy Matrimony (Unedited)

6

N.

The memories I have of my mother are more like blurred snapshots that skipped past in my mind like flat stones on a still river, like a photocopy was given to me in place of the actually memory.

But I could remember the music, the humming sound of the ivory strings sliding across the nylon steel of her violin. It fascinated me, the science behind the music produced from string instruments.
It was simple and complex all at once.

My mother used to play the violin, The Lady Blunt Antonio Stradivari, an intricate wood work of spruce, willow and maple with her initials seared into the underside of the instrument. The bow itself still had broken strings that hung like wisp of Angel hair from the last time my mother had played it.

It remained in my room, along with mostly all my mother's possessions that Rene hadn't thrown out. My own instrument, stood tall and proud on its stand in the corner of my room.

I would've chose the violin like my mother, it was small and delicate. Everything in my life has been as such, the cello was delicate but  the instrument itself was almost half of my frame, however, all it took was a press of a cord, pluck of a string or swipe of my bow and whatever sound emitted was mine and mine alone. There was a power- a type of control I felt each time I positioned my cello between my legs. Manipulating it to my composure.

Playing the cello was not only all I had left of my mother but it was the only thing in my life I had almost full control over.

"Delgado!" There a quick, sharp two knocks on my dressing room door and through the mirror, Tomas pokes his head in and flexes his skinny fingers twice.
"Ten minutes." I nod and the door clicks as he slips back out just as quick as he came and I sigh.
Glancing at myself in the mirror, I watch my shoulders deflate slightly. My hair is pulled back now, slicked back into a ponytail with half a tub of gel, my curls puffed and finger combed and rested on my back like a dark cloud.

Performances was the only time I was ever able to apply make up without scraping it off my face five minutes after. I've settled for mascara and lip gloss, trading my usual dress for a professional pant suit. Fitted in black, the blazer was buttoned so really all was visible was my collar bone underneath a black semi lace corset tucked underneath.

"Music is universal Mi corázon, so long as it is passion you feel when you play- It is a language that can be misunderstood by no one."
My mothers soft voice blanketed in a thick accent plays in my head like a warped recording.

The lights are always low, besides a single spot light. Looking at the crowd is pointless, there is no one here for me. Angelo will be waiting in my dressing room, pretending he has been here the entire time and my father will ask me about the performance with vague interest.

Tonight is easier than most, it's a two song ballad of Elgar: Cello Concerto and Cello Suite No. 1 in G major, BWV 1007. They're the most popular and some of the first few songs I had learned.
The first hum of ivory gliding across the strings of my cello settles the noise in my head. My eyes flutter shut, eyebrows drawn as my ears are focused on the humming rhythm, until it sounds like each note syncs with the beating of my heart, a physical presence of the breaths expanding my lungs.

When the last note dies and I fall out of synch with my instrument, my breathing shutters and I blink my eyes open. In the dimness of the concert hall the crowd roars. Whistling and clapping echo off the walls and there are even a few roses tossed onto the stage. With a bow I exit stage left leaving my cello for the staff to gather, smiling in gratitude at the compliments I receive on my way back to my dressing room.

I don't feel like I can truly breathe until I shut the door of my dressing room. Leaning my forehead against the cool wood, closing my eyes for a moment I try to hold onto the split moment of pure bliss if felt while playing. It slips past me like a handful of sand.

"You are a innominate woman, Nalani." The tone is deep, rasped and send a chill slithering down my spine. I almost want to slap myself, how hadn't I noticed the already opened door, the suffocating stench of a burning cigarette.

The fingers tips in my left hand are still numb from pressing into the strings of my cello and I pick at the skin of my nails. My mind was screaming at me to open the door and walk out but my body was frozen.

"Potrei guardarti tutto il giorno."
(I could look at you all day.)
He muttered more to himself, even if he did say it loud enough, I couldn't understand.
Squeezing my eyes shut and taking a deep breathe I remember the dark cloud that had been looking over our estate since Don Bianchi's visit.
We were all walking on eggshells and my father was waiting, on the edge of the blade of his rage for one of us to do something, anything to give him a reason.
If it gets back to him I disrespected the Don or worse, gave him reason to reject my fathers offer all together- my father may very well kill me that day.

So with a deep sigh I plaster a polite smile on my face and turn away from the door. Clearing my throat, "Good evening Don Bianchi." His eyes were like a puma's, one lurking at you from the tree's. They reminded me of moldavite crystals, with a dangerous glow to them.
Despite his devilish features his hair looked like a halo, a beautiful sunshine color of blonde that was slicked back with a single strand hanging over his forehead, with the cigarette hanging from his lips and his comfortable posture leaned against my vanity he looked straight out an old Sicilian mob movie and I tried not to grin at my foolish thoughts.

"I wasn't sure what was proper for a performance of such elegance." He takes around a puff a smoke before pressing the bud into an ashtray that surely wasn't there before. Producing a bouquet of flurry, bloomed Bayahibe roses, a small white card tucked over the bushel of the flowers. "You play with a certain grace I have not had the pleasure of hearing until now. Thank you." He pinned me with his eyes and the heat crawled up my neck like tentacles. Burning my cheeks as I was pulled into the depths of his gaze, I blinked and he was standing in front of me, pressing the bouquet into my hands.

"I don't know what to say. Thank you." I murmur, clearing my throat. I had never been complimented on my work so...intimately.

The tips of his lips quirked slightly but it wasn't a smile, "Had I not met you last night I wouldn't have known Brian had a second daughter." His tone had nothing of the bitterness of I was used to.
Second daughter.
I was referred to as such by almost everyone, I was the child of a marriage that was no more. Despite my mothers empire placing my father on the chess board- I was a bastard second child because I was a child out side of his current marriage.

With the bitterness coating my tongue I offer a right lipped smile.
"I do not enjoy engaging in the business events, Selene is more of a socialite." I plug Selene into our conversation effortlessly, hoping the mention will offer any insight on what he could be thinking.

I blink as he gazes at me for a moment, long enough for me to notice the faded scar in his left eyebrow. It was maybe an inch long and created a scar that cut through the hair of his eyebrow.

"Goodnight Lani, get home safe." I blink again and the door of my dressing room is clicking shut.