Violinist Solomon Fiddler (and “fiddler” is the same thing as violinist, in case you didn’t know) walked back from The Tavern along the dark street, humming under his breath, “ta-da-da-dam… aye, ta-ra-ram…”
The Tavern was a cozy little restaurant at the outskirts of a town by the sea, and Sol worked there as a musician, playing his violin every Wednesday and Friday. On Fridays – before Shabbat starts, of course.
When Shabbat began, he was always at home with bells on, sitting by a small round table covered with crispy white tablecloth, pouring wine into a silver goblet with lacy edge and breaking a piece off his challah.
It was a tradition in his house, and in his parents’ house, and in his parents’ parents…that’s how it’s always been. Who was he to change the long-standing order?
He got the goblet from his mom, and mom got it from grandpa, and Sol has never even asked how his grandpa managed to preserve those goblets during the war.
Grandpa survived Dachau, lost one of his lungs there and started coughing every time he heard the word “war”. To hell with this mystery, Sol thought, grandpa wants to keep it a secret – so be it, as long as he is healthy.
By the way, only grandpa was delighted when Sol started playing in restaurants, and not at the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra, where his mom and dad saw him in their dreams.
“Way to go, Solie, my boy! Us, Fiddlers, have always played the taverns – my grand-grandfather in Cologne, grandfather – in Warsaw, my tateh – in Rostov, and I *cough* am a useless invalid, worked as an accountant my whole life, never let my soul soar *cough* , only cough and figures, splashing in my eyes like tadpoles… Keep playing, my boy…keep playing! And hold on tight to your violin, sweetheart, it used to belong to my grandfather who really cherished it…and so should you *cough*
The color of dark cherry with golden vignettes, violin that used to belong to Sol’s grand-grandfather and now belonged to Sol was singing in a low feminine voice, viscid like honey, with a slight hoarseness sparkling on the bottom.
Sol was gently touching her neck with his long fingers, sighing and pressing his cheek against her, closing his eyes – and starting his endless love affair.
Sometimes she was frivolous and waved him off, her laughter ringing and spreading around, sometimes she was whispering hot and dirty words, stretched lazily, and sometimes she was wailing and asking for forgiveness, asking for love and compassion, begging to come back…
Sol never knew for sure who will meet him there, on the other side of a silky-soft cheek which he pressed against firmly and tenderly.
But whoever met him there – he loved them all, he heard many voices in this single slightly hoarse contralto, they lived many lives together while he was standing there, eyes closed and face pressed against the cherry chin-rest.
And there was not a single woman in reality whose voice was so sweet and seductive and who understood him at a sigh, and whom he wanted to caress just like that, sliding his palm from the thin waist towards the curvy thigh.
There wasn’t a single one that could make the world magical.
And at the round Shabbat table, when Sol was breaking off his very first bite of challah and saying a prayer, she was staring at him across the table, sitting comfortably by the wall and glowing approvingly, bending gracefully and seductively over the edge of the chair.
After finishing his prayer Sol would smile towards her and say, “You see, sweetheart, we have another Shabbat together – which means that everything is going to be fine with us!”
Yes, she was singing in return, sweetly and a little hoarsely, everything is fine, my fiddler, everything will always be fine…
Translated by Diana Shnaiderman-Pereira