Adagio for a Gypsy Violin

Adagio for a Gypsy Violin

They say Paganini trapped a human soul to voice his hunger on the strings of his violin.
They say he killed a woman and strung the violin with her pain; but I say he drew her soul out in a kiss and with the enchantment of her gift, anointed his violin with her desire.

Shall we do the same? Shall we be sobbing strings of fire pulled taut and humming with desire? You want to play? Shall I play you like a violin, or shall I strum you like a lyre?

Or like those hill-billys playing the fiddle, fingering it like a guitar “Hey diddle-diddle The cock’s in the middle…!” running fast and plucking rough and eager fingers so the poor strings twang; the aching sounds of pleasure bordering on pain? But I think I’d rather touch you with reverent hands as I would a soulful Stradivarius, run my fingers over the satiny smooth warm inviting wood, and even before I play, I know how it will sound. I know how it will fit the cup, and welcome the cradle of my hand. I run my palm over the humming strings. I twist my hair and string a bow to draw you further to desire. I stroke it with that gentle bow and the Stradivarius leaps to sound and life against my cheek; uttering first one moaning sigh; then another touch draws a deeper sound. 

And oh the sound…what plays who? Or who plays what? 

What use would they be apart? The skillful hands or the leaping aching strings?

So the melody grows: unfolds and moans crescendos stringing out the lovely rounded vowels… 

One last note foretells: here the music ends, and I, unwilling to let it go, lay a tremulous mouth against the singing strings and drink that final aching sound.

Manuela Cardiga