The final act

HER echo sings in my ears as I play my act. I touch her with the caress of a man's hands on the body of the woman he loves. I feel her curves—up and down—slowly and intimately. She is soft and warm. I feel how she vibrates next to my chest as I touch her. With my calm hands, I push up, unhurried, as her murmur fills the entire room, sobbing for more in higher, indistinguishable notes. "Sing, my love," I whisper in the intimacy of our moment. As I hear her louder, I finish, with her melting in my arms, trembling with joy, and me, beside her, barely breathing, while small drops of salty water shamefully run down my forehead, my eyes closed.

Applause! Louder and louder. I open my eyes, greeted by the audience, applauding in ecstasy, while a single red rose falls, motionless, at my feet. I come out of my trance and take a small bow, the violin in my left hand, presenting this instrument of pure love-making to the people. I straighten my back and breathe deeply, then, with a quick turn, leave the stage with firm steps.

"Sir, that was amazing! Amazing, I say!" a short, hairless man exclaims frenetically as I come behind the curtains. He takes my hand in his small, sweaty one, shaking it violently. The costume he wears is too tight for his voluptuous figure. If one of those bullet-like buttons escapes his shirt, someone might be seriously injured.

"Thank you," I say in a cold, emotionless voice. "If you'll excuse me, monsieur, I cannot stay any longer. But I will see you in two days if you still keep a place for me in your program, of course."

"Yes, yes! How could I not? You must join me for a glass of wine one day! You are welcome anytime. My wife, Angeline, will be thrilled to see you! She and her friends always talk about you. Listening to them, it can drive you mad, I tell you! Monsieur Nicolas, if I didn't have such strength of character, I'd be long gone, I tell you! Long gone!"

"It would be my pleasure. Now, if you'll excuse me," I hear my monotonous voice saying to the agitated little man before me, as I place my beloved back into her wooden coffin, "I'll make my way to the exit."

But this time, my words receive no reply. I hadn't expected one. I take a deep breath and glance back to where the man stood. All I see is a dusty hallway and a curtain, bitter and faded red. Behind it, an empty room that, in its glory days, had been filled with light, joy, and expensive dresses.

"One day, I will truly live these things. One day I will live this dream." 

I take my beloved and step through the back door. The cold autumn air strikes my face as I try to find my way home through the drizzle. I light what's left of my cigar—just enough for tonight and maybe tomorrow. These days, you can't afford to throw anything away unless it's truly piddling. And nothing is truly piddling.

I watch my feet as I step on the wet concrete. The water in my right shoe mutters with every step. The dark brown of their leather is lightened by dampness, and I can see a small hole where my big toe is. I'll have to patch it soon. My pants, too, are short. I'm not tall, but their cheap material tore at the hems. Yes, my pants are short, and my shoes are worn. I hide my beloved under my old, loose sweater.

I put out my cigar and raise my gaze. The streets are nearly empty. A thick fog covers everything, and for a moment, I feel as if nothing has changed. I feel as if my life were as it was months ago, here on the Parisian streets. I close my eyes, and a faint memory returns: the smell of freshly baked bread. I hear the soft pop of a wine cork from a nearby restaurant, followed by the pour of a dry red into the glass of a young lady. Oh, the ladies... My eyes miss the sight of young women in colorful dresses, riding their bikes with flowers in their baskets, laughing under sun hats, wearing bright red rouge à lèvres, while men admire them from café tables.

My fleeting happiness is broken by the harsh laughter of two men nearby, hidden by fog. I can't see them, but their firm footsteps tell me they're coming my way. If this had happened earlier, I wouldn't have been frightened, but it's getting dark, and I shouldn't be here. I walk quietly and quickly toward a side street, hiding behind some cardboard boxes. It's not the bravest thing to do, but I value my life, and my arms weren't made for fighting. The streets are empty, except for the German soldiers.

I make myself small as they approach. My breath quickens, so I place my shaking hand under my sweater, touching her strings. I pinch them softly, making her sing under my fingertips. They won't hear me. Their brutish ears wouldn't notice such sensitivity, even if I were playing directly in front of them. My heartbeat slows as her vibrations calm me. Now, I can hear them talking, though faintly. They've stopped near my hiding spot. The darkness conceals me, and I edge closer. In the dim light of a distant lantern, I see their silhouettes, strong bodies clad in rigid uniforms. The taller man speaks proudly, gesturing and laughing, and I strain to hear his words. He boasts of his cruelty, of how he beat women until they could no longer stand, or shot them if they tried to flee. Then, he draws his gun and mimics shooting, turning it on his friend, who trembles. My blood runs cold. The shorter man raises his hands in fear, but the tall man quickly puts the gun away, laughing. "Ich habe nur Spaß gemacht, Hans." He was only joking.

I exhale, realizing I had been holding my breath. Two things are certain: Germans have a terrible sense of humor, and there's no more German name than "Hans." But as I watch them, I realize they aren't men—they're boys, as young as me. They have parents, sisters, friends. They aren't monsters; they're just boys. They may have dreamed like us before hell consumed us all.

Suddenly, a gunshot rings out, followed by a woman's scream. The two soldiers run toward the sound, and their heavy boots echo in the numb streets. I rise, wanting to go home, but I find myself following them, slipping into the darkness. I'm not brave; I'm weak and have always been so. I even ran from the war. But something about those young men—their cruelty, the way they laughed about their deeds—compels me to follow.

There, in the street, a young woman lies on the ground, curled in pain, her bleeding knees against her chest. My body freezes. I hide in the shadows, clutching my beloved tightly. The taller soldier shouts, his spittle flying as he hits her again and again, his gun still in hand. The girl tries to rise, but another blow sends her crumpling. "Maybe next time you'll obey," he sneers in his thick German accent. "Maybe next time you'll think twice before trying to escape!" Another kick lands on her fragile body. I hear her quiet moan, see her eyes close.

Slowly, I draw my beloved from her wooden coffin, place her next to my heart, and close my eyes. I begin to play, softly at first, then louder. Her voice is sad and heavy, singing for this girl, for every soldier away at war, every mother who has lost a child, and every child who has watched their mother die. She sings for the heavens and for flowers drowned in blood. I pour my sadness onto her strings, and her voice fills the air. I open my eyes and see the soldier lift his arm, aiming his gun at me. The girl rises unsteadily and disappears into the darkness, but not before giving me a small, sad smile.

My love sings her final note, magnificent and raw. "Enough with this circus!" I hear, just before a loud shot. I want to stand, to run, to tell someone how brave I was. But my body is heavy, and I lie on the cold concrete. My love is in my hand, still with me. I tighten my fingers around her, smiling. I feel the cold, but I am not afraid. This time, I didn't run. I wasn't weak. I had her in my arms, and her echo sings in my ears as I played my final act.