The Violinist (part 1)

Just a short story I've been working on for the past few days.  Trying my hand at a more limited 3rd person narrative than usual and my first attempt at utilizing the concept of Absurdism after reading me some Albert Camus.  Let me know what you think.

Past the crumbling tenements, against the back corner of the city, the music could be heard drifting through the near deserted streets, echoing across the cracked concrete.  During the day, it cannot be heard, but the residents know it’s there, and every night when the shouting of neighbors dies and the soft cries of infants begin to echo through the buildings, the music can be heard outside.  The dross gathered on the front steps of the tenements pay it no attention for the most part, but occasionally, one looks up into the dark night towards the sky, stars hidden by the lights of a city in despair, and sighs, hearing the violinist’s melancholy song.

            It came from the crumbling redbrick between the dissatisfying government housing, a single three-story dwarfed by the unfeeling concrete monoliths next to it.  It was rotting and in disrepair: once, it may have been enviable, when the neighborhood was still enviable and white.  Following every winter, more shingles fell from the roof, and more vines pulled apart the mortar between the bricks; every spring, more water seeped in through the broken foundation.  The house of Arthur Wade.

            The tall, gaunt man stood at almost military attention, finger flipping across yellowed pages on a music stand, mumbling to himself.  His skin was pale and sickly, and although not an incredibly old man, he looked much older than his actual years.  A lifetime spent indoors, shut away from the horrible world around him.  He mumbled as he paged through the yellow paper, his thinning, raggedly cut hair falling in front of his ancient reading glasses.  Arthur gave a yelp in pain, bringing his thumb to his mouth as a few drops of crimson stained the paper.  He pulled his thumb out, and stared intently at his hand, watching the blood congeal and run down towards his wrist. “Bow hand. Bow hand, Bow hand,” he muttered, over and over again as he pulled a stained handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped his hand up in it.  The violent red began seeping through the light cotton, but Arthur was already staring back down at the papers in front of him, humming now, tracing lines with his left hand, as he precariously held the right close to his face, the white handkerchief now spotted with blood.  He turned the page, and continued humming.

            The blood stopped, and the handkerchief barely had time to fall to the floor before Arthur arched his arm and dragged the bow across the violin’s strings as a howling screech before a single note echoed through the room, reverberating against the yellowed wallpaper and falling back into Arthur’s ears.  His eyes closed, yet eyelid’s fluttering to the music, he began to play the sweet, mournful song.  The music swelled through the house and out the boarded up windows, before falling on the ears of the old black woman walking up from the street.  Past her, no one heard.

            She stood on the ancient front porch, listening to the music, a canvas bag tightly grasped between her hands.  After a few minutes, the notes died, and she reached for the brass knocker, bringing down on the door as strongly as her hands could manage.  She waited a few minutes before knocking again, and almost immediately, a compartment slid open across the door and she was greeted by the cold, blue gaze of Arthur Wade’s eyes: “Mrs. Washington.”

            “Good evening, Mr. Wade.  I have your things from the store for you.” Ms. Washington smiled at him through the door, and was greeted by the rattle of locks and chains.  It slid open enough for a pale hand to stretch out, grasping the canvas bag and pulling it quickly out of the old woman’s grasp.  It retreated into the darkness beyond the door before returning with a crumpled twenty dollar bill.  Mrs. Washington took it gingerly, and then paused to shake the hand, as Arthur attempted to return it to the darkness of the house.  “Mr. Wade, it’s a lovely night out.  Why don’t you come outside?”  The door slammed closed after the hand returned inside, and the click of locks and the rattle of chains could be heard.  Mrs. Washington shook her head and walked down the sidewalk.

            Arthur examined the contents of the canvas bag while sitting in a dusty wooden chair in the ruined kitchen; the cupboards were mostly empty, until he began placing an amount of tin cans into them.  He reached into a poorly varnished drawer, brushing aside a wayward cockroach as he pulled out a can opener.  After opening the can, he reached back into the drawer and procured a single match, striking it against the rough wood under the peeling plastic of the table.  It sparked, as he rushed toward the stove, lighting it before placing the can upon it.  Almost stumbling backwards, Arthur turned and walked down the hall back into the bedroom: a dirty mattress and old blankets sitting in a corner, surrounded by stacks of yellowed and dusty books, all on music.  He carefully selects one titled Schumann and sits on the overstuffed chair in the corner opposite his bed.  Outside, the wind began to pick up, and the house creaked around him, but Arthur paid it no mind.

            After several minutes, he returned to the kitchen and removed the can from the stovetop with an old potholder.  Sitting at the table, book in hand, Arthur began to eat, as he always did.  The soup dribbled down his thin lips, before he wiped the back of his sleeve against them, adding another stain to the faded red fabric.  Above him, as he intently continued to read, a faded photograph looked down at him.  The boy in the picture stood smiling in front of a middle-aged woman, carrying the hawkish nose and the short chin of Arthur.  A violin was clutched in the boy’s hand; a boy with the same hawkish nose and short chin.  Arthur finished his meal, dumping the can into a slot through the wall, as the clank fell into the alley next to the house and directly into an open garbage can.  It fell loudly, amplified by a yowl as a tabby jumped from inside the can and took off further into the alley.  With a gushing of brown water, Arthur clumsily washed the spoon, placing it back into drawer.  The cockroach was nowhere to be seen.

            The house was in complete disrepair.  The stairs leading to the top floors sagged and gradually coalesced into a mass of splintered wood below the top floor.  The light caught a glimmer of a cat’s eye: the feral occupant of the second floor, content to prowl at night for mice and rats through the inhabited mess of the first floor.  The carpeting was worn through in a single track down the hallway, the same path Arthur trudged towards his bedroom.  He sat back down in the over-stuffed chair, and continued reading, mumbling to himself.  He fell asleep quickly, knuckles turning white against the book, the sunlight barely disappearing behind the buildings crowding the horizon.