THE VIOLINIST. A canon.

The violinist waits for the wind to change.

He awaits, standing still at the edge of the cliff; a draught of air pulls at the black coat that wraps his tall, slender figure, and the thick fabric dances and whistles in time to its melody. His long tresses, the colour of cooper, wave at one side, and tickle his forehead and eyelids.

He doesn't bother to move them away; he doesn't need to see more clearly, since he is well aware of what lies in front of him: a green cliff that looks down into a sea of grass, as far as the eye can see. The blades also bend and sing, in whispers.

At his back, a forest stands; like a treasure of precious metals, oaks, birches, poplars, ash and walnut trees rise, dressed with all the colours of Autumn. Their branches, still laden, take part in the symphony, and at the feet of the wide trunks the fallen leaves swirl. A thick layer of them covers the path that, from the grass, goes deep into the forest.

North wind. The violinist bows his head, as complying with a silent signal, and turns around; while his steps lead him to the entrance of the forest, his black clothes wave now at his back, and reveal the red wood violin in his left hand, that had remained hidden under its folds. His feet in high, dark boots, draw a quiet rustle off the mantle of yellows, and cinnabars, paprikas, terra-cottas and ochres on where he steps.

It's time to embark on a new journey.

The sculptor beholds, knitting his brow, the big lump of clay that confines the sketch of his new work. It's a beautiful reddish, shiny colour, and the refreshing scent wafts across the studio, like a relaxing balm. And yet, the artist can't calm down.

No matter how long he watches, he isn't capable of seeing; he can't penetrate, beyond the clay in front of him, the hidden silhouette that, elusive, seems to mock his efforts. How many days have been already? Seven? Ten? A hundred? He can't remember for how long he has been scrutinising the shapeless mound, surrendering, covering it with the wet canvas, uncovering it, surrendering... And back to start again, day after day, until the clay hardens too much and he has to replace it, cursing, and pray for the new lump to be more benevolent and whispers its secret to him.

With desperation, he buries his fist into the malleable surface; his moist fingers feel later the shape of his own knuckles; he leans down, as if he wanted to see through... Nothing.

As he stands with his back to the light, the sculptor doesn't notice the dark figure, under his window, that looks up and studies him in turn, with the same care he devotes to the embryo of his work. There isn't despair, however, in his eyes: he is indeed capable of seeing... Raising his hand, he places the violin under his chin; the right one places the bow, gracefully, on the strings; he closes his eyes and starts to play...

The sculptor opens his eyes wide; there's something new in the air, apart from the Autumn scent, and the smell of clay and wet fabric. It's a melody that seems to sing straight to his ear; no, not only that, because it talks to all his senses; it brushes his fingers, slips into his nostrils, whistles between his teeth and tongue; it floats across the whole room, like a naughty wind, rummaging through every corner, until it discovers the silent block of clay in the centre, surrounds it, lovingly caresses it, and decides to lend it its voice.

The sculptor doesn't seem to realise, until much later, that it wasn't the melody what embraced the material, or provided it with a shape, but his own hands; his hands that, deep into the red dirt, removed the veil and brought to light what it concealed. He freezes, astounded; he takes several steps back and, for the first time, he sees him.

He sees the delicacy of the lines that trace the harmonious body of a young man, at the peak of his beauty; the chest, beautifully well defined; the limbs, slender; the back, a haven that invites to caresses, a sea in calm, whose smooth surface only ripples there where the curves of his muscles are drawn. His right left is flexed against his stomach, the arm resting on his knee, the alluring visage leaning on it, under the curtain of his hair.

All of him is perfect. The sculptor drinks to his heart's content from those intoxicating shapes; his sight can't stop travelling across them, and every new corner he visits reveals new prodigies. Did this come out of his hands? But he hardly dares to brush it with his fingertips... Shyly, with reverence, they glide along the hollows of his collarbones; barely stroke the small erect nipples; tiptoe across the muscles of his abdomen until the nicely chiselled member that rests between his legs... Embarrassed, the sculptor moves them away from there; but nothing can separate them from his masterpiece, and when they go up again, they stroke the arches of those moist lips, endowed with life that irresistibly impels him to kiss them...

The melody flows again, filling every crack that it finds in its way. But this time, the sculptor doesn't seem to hear it: as he is so immerse into it as into the young man's embrace; sweetly trapped by the arms that surround his shoulders and the legs encircling his hips; lost in the kiss, that has an unmistakable taste of Autumn...

The violinist lowers his instrument and casts a last glance at the window; his feet follow the road of the wind.

The drawer stifles a curse as he spills a drop of beautiful reddish ink on the scroll he's working on. He quickly does his best to fix the damage, but can't avoid a feeling of impotence; everything seems to come out wrong that day: his favourite ink stick is lost, the parchment is too coarse, and his calligraphy is a disaster. And the worst of all: that huge hollow among the figures of the landscape, that he must fill with an image of worth seeing beauty.

He places his pencil on the stand and rubs his tired eyes; Why didn't inspiration come? A hundred times he dipped into the ink, and as many he started his sketches using thin stripes of paper that now are nothing but shreds, surrounding the table like dead leaves. The breeze entering through the wide doors makes them dance; outside, the day is bright, although the wind starts to wake up and blow, stronger and stronger.

The violinist looks, from the garden, through the sliding doors, inside the room. His eyes caress the scroll and the drawer's back. He raises his left hand and bows his head...

The drawer has a vision. It's a charming profile, dressed up in a kimono that displays the most vivid, the most harmonious colours of Autumn. It seems to rest under a tree; the right arm, whose delicate lines stick out from the sleeve that can't manage to cover it, is stretched and wants to catch a leaf that, slowly, falls from the lower branches.

He rubs his eyes again; he doesn't understand how, but it isn't a vision any more: he is standing in the room, and in front of him, hanging down the wall, the scroll is on show; the central figure is a beauty, with a kimono in shades of orange; the reaching hand seems about to touch the leaf with its fingers...

He isn't dreaming, when he feels the gentle contact on his cheek, right? Nor when he hears the rumour of silks sliding and slowly falling to the floor, revealing the most radiant skin he ever saw. He dares to look further, as the slender fingers become entangled in his hair...

The violinist returns home. The wind took him and the wind brought him back; he looked through painters, musicians, writers; in every occasion, his eyes showed him a theme and his hands woke up the melody.

He's still a lonely figure. His black coattail still flaps in the wind, on top of an emerald ocean. His cooper tresses again brush his face. The rustle of the leaves under his feet, the colours... Everything has the same flavour, the same rich, fragrant texture of fruits harvested before the snow season. Everything remains the same. Everything remains...

Something snaps inside him, like a violin string.

He always played someone else's dream. What would happen if he tried to bestow what's hidden inside him with a voice? Doesn't he have dreams? Doesn't he feel desires? That tight knot inside his stomach, mustn't it mean anything?

He slowly raises his instrument, traps it under his chin and starts to play. It's the first time his melody joins the orchestra of that landscape; that isn't right, it isn't how it should be... The grass stops dancing; the leaves remain frozen in mid-air; the branches fall silent, for an instant.

And suddenly, everything moves again, in time to that new music. The leaves swirl on the ground and form an orangey mound when they listen to his emptiness, talking; the earth vibrates under them, and turns, upon being touched by the notes of his loneliness; the lines undulate, come together, separate...

A male body takes shape on the ochre carpet; he rests on his side, naked, like a baby in his mother's womb, his face partially covered by his joined hands. Each note adds a curve, a touch of colour, a gleam of life to his flourishing outlines.

The violinist, oblivious to his surroundings, keeps playing. For the first time in all his existence he feels the flow of feelings that belong to him, only; the beating of his heart, inside his chest. For the first time, he dares to look in the mirror of his music, contemplated by so many before, and he sees himself; and he understands what emptiness and loneliness are. Pain is like an arrow in the middle of his chest; it closes his eyes, and makes him shed a tear.

At the same time, the figure resting on the ground opens his own eyes; green, like two pieces of the emerald ocean.

The violinist feels a brushing along his cheek: a brushing that captures the lonely drop and dries the wet line it left behind; he blinks and faces him...

He made him with pieces of Autumn, with yellows and oranges, with green grass. He gave him the very essence he himself is made of. But it's his wish, what provided that soft skin with warmth and those features with beauty... Upon staring at his nude body, as carved in stone, whose hands rest on his face, he learns what desire is; and when their lips come together, and their tongues feel each other, his heart races, faster than any melody he ever played before.

Somewhere there's a forest that belongs to Autumn, and a cliff looking down to a sea of grass. The breeze is soft, and makes the leaves sway.

Right at the edge of the cliff, hidden among the thin blades, sleeping in silence, there's a red wood violin.