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My condition is nothing other than a wooden box that vibrates when played. “Play me,” I say. And when their hands do, my ribs expand and my chest bursts. I sing. Sometimes I cry. But without the scratch of Mongolian hair on my neural cords, and the poking of finger tips on my neck, my words spill out of the case and die in silence.

Noise around me, a bassoon, voices, wind through brass tunnels, and the ringing of wooden boxes like myself, exhausted, extruded, handled, when a drop of sweat lands on my skin reminding me Calixto lives through me. And I hate him for that.

When night finally falls, the cover of the oblong case closing on me, my voice fades and I could be considered mute, which I am not. To him I might have seized to exist. But the notes he missed or played out of tune are still in my mind, a potential, like unsaid words between lovers.

Time to rest now, inside this coffin, the green walls velveting me. I lean against these walls and remember the cheap sofa in the madam’s parlor where I once spent a day singing, while men took fake nubile girls upstairs for a session of touching, I suppose, and the exchange of bodily fluids.

Come to think of it, eager hands regularly touch my chest, my back, and my neck. Pointy chins, fleshy chins dig hard into my right hip. I know they do not mean to hurt me but the pressure is sometimes unbearable. That makes them feel heroic, like they are one with me. In their minds they are, for I do not often feel that way. Once when I was young… No, not more.

Calixto walks away. Half-drunk he walks away. Not that he intends to forget about me. He cannot. I his dreams he pretends to play me. I hear him sometimes. He thrashes trough the night with his fingers, searching for my body, trying to correct those notes he missed. He moans. He touches the air in the middle of the night. I pray for him not to find me then. But what good is the prayer of an inanimate soul?

I know he can destroy me anytime. It would not take much. A hard swing against the floor or a doorframe. He could easily extinguish my voice forever. I admit; I do not like to entertain that thought. Who would like to seize to exist? But even if I fear him, I know he would not be violent towards me. He has all of himself to be violent against. The alcohol and the self-pity already maim him. He loves me, I know, but I cannot say the same.

He turns all the lights off, except the one in the porch outside. Not that a thief would stop at the sight of a quivering light. But maybe he feels secure that way, the same way I feel secure when he closes the lid of my case. No lights then, just the memory of a stage and the imprint of his fingers.

His main problem is one of doubt. When his fingers slide down my neck, I sense an uneasy hesitation, as if he questioned where to press, where to impart that heaviness, the necessary stimulus to make me sing. Not that I sing as he wants me to, but that is a different matter.

About doubt, much is known, but very little comprehended. When a finger lands on me, poking on a precise spot on my neck, I sense the intention, the very note he wants me to sing. But the smallest shift up towards the scroll of my head or down towards my belly, makes me think he is unsure. Either, he does not know what he wants, or even worse, he dares not listen to me, when I explode, cracking the air on the third position of my E cord, growing and penetrating his truth.

At times, when he grabs me, I feel his disdain for me, more precisely, his despise. I, who came from nowhere, without a respectable pedigree, a mere wooden box, made him famous, admired, even wanted. He knows I know, and that is what he detests, the sense of exposure when he is alone with me practicing. However, there are times when he surprises me with his touch, without the pretense of music. I feel him then, and he feels me too.

Calixto turns the hallway lights back on and I hear his steps approaching. He will come to hold me, to watch how I glow in the faint light. Sometimes he licks me just to watch his saliva glistening under that light. He beholds me as a lover, my skin reflecting an amber light that excites him. And sometimes, he ejaculates all over me, spasmodic, a whiteness he admires for a short while before whipping it away. All in silence, in the absence of music. I feel violated then. And during the next practice session, I turn into a dissonant beast.

That is when he plays me hard, digging the Mongol hair and roughing my cords. I sing off-tune for the very pleasure of his frustration. And I fill the air with a loud grunt, or a squeal, a screech for sure. He sweats then, and turning his left eye long down my neck, he wishes to strangle me. I know he does.

This morning he wakes up earlier than usual and snatches my case, a hard pull, swinging me away from the memory of the previous night. I know what awaits me: a long rehearsal, the ache in my neck, his stiff fingers, and the heaviness of his breath, a mixture of red wine and overripe pears. Mornings like this remind me I sing for others. A prostitute? No, not a prostitute. That is not what I am. Even when they touch my open body, even when they rip through me, I still sing my individual harmonic frequencies. They follow the score of a dead master, but I follow my own veins. And I oscillate at will, and go places they detest, for my voice is hoarse, luminous, and sometimes unreal. Who plays whom?

When we arrive at Casa da Música, that steel meteorite that landed in Porto at the wrong time in history, I feel a sense of foreboding. The rehearsal room is empty and the temperature is too low for me. Kiara is not here yet. And all I want from this day is to feel her fingers, her skin. When she ditches her vulgar viola aside, she places a sheet of silk between her chin and my body, and plays me. A deep, round, magnificent B flat on my G cord. I reverberate, I purr. He does not mind. He could never imagine that I long for Kiara’s fingers. She does not exist for him, a violist, a woman, an inferior talent, a mere playful moment when she touches me, not knowing, not even dreaming, that I find her touch riveting, her fingering a miracle, and her breath a miasma to dive into.

But there is nobody here at this time. How hard to wake up in a Porto morning when a thick veil of brume hangs over you. And with the passing of the minutes, he becomes anxious, fidgety, and when he takes me out of the case I fear he will start practicing alone. He does not. He simply paces back and forth and mumbles words I cannot understand. The room contains a few chairs—all empty now—several music stands, and an air of sadness that sips into my belly. He begins to tap his fingers on one of the music stands recreating a passage in Bartok’s Violin Concerto No. 1. I know very well that is what he wants to play, and I am relieved he does not want to try now.

The first to arrive is Angelo, with his beard and delicate face. He plays a good second violin when he is not distracted. He lays his violin next to me, as if the Venetian and I were next-of-kin. I am not related to that violin, like I am not related to the antique Cremonese—a lesser violin I am.

Angelo then starts to talk with that soft voice of his. He tells Calixto how difficult he finds his part in Bryce Dessner’s Aheym. That he dreamt all night about his fingers getting all tied-up and his tongue swelling inside his mouth. This I find hard to imagine for his fine lips could not harbor a grotesque protruding tongue. But that is what he says, and I know Calixto wants to believe all of it because he relishes on anything that will make Angelo breakable.

They talk to each other with respect. A lie, a pretense. Calixto wishes to be as beautiful as Angelo. When he stands in front of the mirror, holding me under his chin, playing for his imaginary audience, I know he abhors the reflected image, for his lips are not as delicate, nor his expression as virginal as that of Angelo. I can understand his feelings, for I would love if Angelo were to lay me to bed and close my case every night. As for Angelo, he envies how Calixto plays with such ease, such virtuosity. An unreachable dream for him, even with the help of his antique Venetian violin.

When nobody else shows up, I start to fear this will be a horrible rehearsal. Lateness can molest Calixto’s mind, and he will make everyone else miserable. He will play faster than necessary and criticize Leon for being over-passionate. Leon, whose smooth, rich tone is flawless. At a quarter past the hour, the room feels emptier. And the conversation between these two undeclared enemies begins to weigh on me more than the brume outside. I then concentrate on the initial notes of the Aheym hoping their intensity will drown the differences between the earthlings. To no end. This is the difference between the sound of vocal chords and that of violin chords—the human kind can be hurtful.

Leon opens the door to the room and pushes his large case forward, takes a sit, and pretends to be happy. A useless attempt since they all know what delays him, that desperate need for a morning hit, an intravenous melody, the deep basso continuo of white opioids. He keeps silent while unveiling his cello, placing it between his legs, and playing a few notes of the Aheym. I like the sound, god-like, soothing.

Without Kiara the morning makes no sense. The room feels so empty without her. I can sing with the others, I can swim through a myriad of scarles. None as perfect as when her neck and her long fingers come close to me. I think Calixto knows the way I feel. He wants her too, but in a different way – a brutish way. That is why he resents when she puts her viola down to pick me up. His eyes go wild then, a voyeur he is, watching the communion of our sensual energies. He drools, I know he drools. And I do not blame him for when Kiara touches me, my rance opens wide, and my voice reaches as far as the last row in theater heaven.

The Lesser Violin an exerpt