Secrets

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

When one takes the time to contemplate their life over a cup of bitter tea or perhaps a root beer float, he or she or another person of undetermined gender realize that are only so many ways in which they can express a particular talent. There are many things that we realize that we will never be good at. For example, a tap dancer would never be good at becoming a spy due to their training to be incredibly loud while stomping on the stage or in tune with a particular song with a heavy beat. A scuba diver would not be able to navigate the dry climates of the Sahara Desert as they would be unfamiliar with the creatures in which reside in the said desert and a lack of understanding of reduced ability to survive without proper hydration. I, myself, have expressed the talent of being able to memorize all the important words and phrases used in a particularly important organization and a knack for defining long and complicated words to which some people would view as pretentious and pointless. While these skills have served me well in the years since I began my journey in researching the Baudelaires' woeful story, I am very much aware that my talents end after my ability to play a very bulky and complicated instrument that requires immense upper body strength. Even now as I sit, drinking a root beer float while an inquisitive young girl bearing the name of the woman I once dearly loved sits next to me. She stares up at me with curious brown eyes that remind me of someone else I care about deeply; I know my talents cannot extinguish the flames that surround both of our lives or turn back the clock to save those we hold the dearest.

Holly S, herself could be viewed as a girl of many talents. She had skills that were unique and completely her own and although not all of them were considered useful, considering the mystery she was about to become wrapped up in, she could take pride in the abilities she had to show at this moment in time. While the infamous Vice-Principal Nero had the foolish fantasy that he had a great talent for playing the violin, which he did in fact not possess, Holly was another case entirely.

She could play the violin and was far more talented and capable than the man who was many years her senior. From the scraps of papers, I have gathered from her ruined seaside home and the information smuggled to me on the napkin underneath my root beer float, Holly S had been playing the instrument for many years. Who her instructor was cannot be fully determined, but it can be assumed that the man was an old friend of her mother's and was once a great composer who wrote wonderful sonatas, ones that could rival a heavily experienced classical orchestra. Alas, his work has been lost through the test of time or burned by a bald, jealous violinist to prevent him from gaining the recognition he greatly deserved. Unlike the vice-principal of this boarding school, Holly had a good ear for music, she could tell the pitches and tones that her instrument made and knew when they needed tuning. She had practiced until her fingers practically bled from being overworked on the strings; she had memorized many songs, she even had written a few of her own, and she was capable of starting from any part in a piece of music and play until the very end. She also took great care of her instrument, polishing it and repairing the strings when they were broken. She loved making her father proud. She knew that he always listened outside her bedroom door as she practiced deep into the night, never once complaining about the noise or ordering her to go to bed. Sometimes the girl would fall asleep with the violin by her side.

Her father had told her that a violin was the reason he'd met her mother. At the time, he had been attending a symphony, many years before his daughter was born and he would get a slight gleam of sadness in his eyes as he told the tale. His eyes landed on a beautiful violinist in a long silk gown, and he could tell that she was very talented. She was highly regarded by her fellow musicians and was admired by all their friends. She had been the one to pursue a relationship with him, instead of the other way around and he'd often chuckle when recalling the time in which she serenaded to him on the empty streets one night below his hotel room. He then invited her up for a cup of tea and he knew instantly then that she would be his wife one day. It's a story I often think about when the thought of ill-fated romances comes up in a conversation or before I fall asleep at night after weeping very heavily for hours.