Читать книгу Stradivarius - Donald P. Ladew - Страница 8

Chapter 4

The dreams began in the hospital. They terrified him. During the day he hid the terror from everyone except nurse Pell. He feared he might be mad. Luther answered the doctor’s questions, even talked with a psychiatrist, though afterward he had no idea what the man said, or what he answered.

He tried to be what he thought other people would think sane. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded. The anxiety ate at him constantly.

How could anyone look at him and not know? he wondered

He struggled not to dream. It was another war, and he wasn’t strong enough for it. Luther confided in nurse Pell his fear of the shrinks. He hated them more than he hated any battle-maddened North Korean soldier.

When he was a boy, his auntie Rebecca had been forcibly committed to the state mental facility for the insane. Her husband, a cruel, many times born again Baptist, insisted she’d been possessed of the devil.

The poor woman talked to people she couldn’t see. No one in the family minded. She never harmed anyone. Folks would just agree with her and treat her gentle.

In the first year they gave her the electricity so many times she couldn’t remember her own name. He went with his father to visit and she asked his Daddy who is the nice little boy. He never forgot.

Whole days disappeared. He wondered if he was dying. Nurse Pell explained that he had done and seen more than he could deal with; that there were automatic mechanisms in the mind trying to help him cope with the hurt done to his spirit. She suggested he find a quiet place when he got back to West Virginia and rest.

Luther believed her. Whenever the army shrinks wanted to interview him, she scheduled it for the early morning. He felt better in the morning.

Luther started life with a strong, resilient body. Once begun, the healing went rapidly. A week before he left Japan for the states, Major Welter arrived from Korea.

Luther started to snap to attention and the Major waved him back to his chair. A worn bible sat on a table next to the bed.

Welter looked around the room and raised his eyebrows. He smiled. “Nice billet, Sergeant Major Cole.” He handed him the three-up and three-down cloth patch signifying his new rank.

Luther held the patch, but felt no real pleasure in it.

“Ah thank you, Major. I ain’t, I have not earned these stripes, but I’ll take ‘em seein’s you’re givin’ ‘em.”

Major Welter nodded. “I know, I do know.” He sat down in a chair across from Luther.

“It doesn’t seem right, does it? You are alive and your men gone.” The Major looked out the window for a long time. Luther’s hands writhed in his lap, knuckles white. “I’m still working on that one Sergeant Major. Maybe someday we’ll get the answer.” He looked at the Bible on the table. “I read the book too,” he nodded toward Luther’s Bible. “I look forward to one day, just one, when my soul is at peace, when I am at peace.”

Major Welter leaned forward. “Luther, don’t give up on yourself. You think you’re not a good man. You think you didn’t do it right, if you had, your men would be alive.”

Luther watched Major Welter with complete attention.

Welter sat back in his chair. “I’m a professional soldier. It’s my business to judge men. I judge them against the harshest environment there is. You and I were given commands far beyond what a soldier could normally be expected to accomplish. We might have died too, but we didn’t. We have to live, to go on, if for no other reason than to live long enough to figure out why it turned out this way. You and I deserve peace as much as the next man.

“Another reason I’m here is to counsel you on what’s going to happen when you go back to the states.”

For an instant a terrified look passed over Luther’s face. Major Welter didn’t see it.

“General Taylor, has announced your Medal of Honor. Before you give me any trouble,” —objection was written across Luther’s face— “you listen. I’ve seen a good many medals handed out. Many were deserved. I’m of the opinion you deserve yours as much as any man I’ve ever soldiered with. You don’t want it for yourself. I understand that. ”

Major Welter saw Luther’s despair. “You and I can’t give them back their lives. Christ knows, we want to. It’s out of our hands. “You will be a good soldier as you have been since you were seventeen years old, Sergeant Major Martin Luther Cole. You will obey your commanding officer, me, and stand in front of the President of the United States while he hangs that little bauble around you neck.

“And if I’m there, which I hope I will be, we will think of all the good men who should be there with us. We will not forget when the rest of the country has, as they always do.”

“Sir, I ‘preciate your comin’ here, a lot.”

“Good, good. I talked with nurse Pell before I came up. Nice woman; pretty, thinks a lot of you. You might think about asking her to go back to West Virginia with you.”

Luther flushed and stammered. “Now Major, no call to talk like that. She is a fine woman, but she’s educated. Me, I didn’t get past the seventh grade.”

“Uh, huh, I know. I also know education hasn’t got anything to do with how a woman feels when she being held by a man she cares for. You’re twenty four years old, Luther, plenty of time to learn what you need. “It was just a thought, Sergeant, I don’t mean to push.”

Major welter stood up to leave. Luther stood also and came to attention. Major Welter took his salute then shook Luther’s hand.

“In years to come when I talk of soldiers, your name will always come up, Sergeant Major. Despite what you think, you’re more than a good soldier, you’re a good man, and I am proud to have soldiered with you.”

After the Major left Luther opened his duffel and removed the violin case. He held it in his lap for a moment, then opened the case. He laid his hands on the wood and talked to God, who never seemed to be far from him.

A VILLA NORTH OF ROME, 1715

Count Domenici Paisello was dying, alone except for a manservant and his cook. He had fallen prey to the adage that the worst punishment in life is to outlive one’s children.

Plague, wars, and politics had tormented and finally killed them all. A man who devoted his entire life to music at the expense of his family, he felt shame. Yet he could not find regret for a part of life he’d never really experienced.

All his true memories were of music. He had heard them all. Bach, Boccherini, Haydn, Gluck, Scarlatti, Vivaldi. He drank with them, argued with them, and always played their music.

Count Paisello had been the greatest violinist of his age. They all come to him, asked his advice, wrote pieces especially for him, and he for them. Life enough for any man. He wanted no more. All the rest had been a surprise. In years long past he occasionally noticed his children waiting to see him. They were strangers. He wondered where they came from; surely they couldn’t all be his?

Now they were gone. The last had died during an Influenza epidemic twenty years before. Yet, Count Paisello wasn’t ready to die. He had one more thing to do; one more thing he must do. He had been the King, and with Kings there is always the matter of succession.

His servants were puzzled. He saw it in their eyes. They waited for him to die. A great joke. He laughed at them and they didn’t understand.

Thirty years before he traveled north and received into his hand the great violin called, Hercules. It was a mountain of a memory; the linchpin of his musical life. All things were measured as coming before or after that moment. It had been given into his hand, reluctantly, by the Maestro of Cremona himself.

Now he would do his duty; a most honorable duty. He had been twenty years making up his mind. Three weeks earlier he received a letter from the one selected saying he would come as soon as possible.

Count Paisello slept as ‘The Master of Nations’, as Giuseppe Tartini was called, arrived.

All the long trip from Padua to Rome, Tartini worried he would be too late. The Count said he was dying, but that he would delay the event until he, Tartini, arrived. He went on to say that that which he would give Maestro Tartini must be placed into his care by his own hand.

Tartini, called by the Count’s manservant, that northerner with the nose, was led to the Count’s bedchamber, where he settled himself in a comfortable chair. The servant brought him a carafe of wine and left.

When the count woke he saw his old friend, wrapped in his cloak, dozing, glass still clutched in his hand.

“Tartini...” his voice weak. Tartini did not stir. “Tartini...” louder this time.

Tartini woke with a start, looked at the glass and put it on a side table.

“Tartini...”

He got up quickly and went to the bed. He took the old Count’s hand in his own. “Count Paisello, my old friend,” he smiled, “it appears that I am not too late.”

The Count smiled the smile of children. What evil he had done in his life had been confessed or forgotten.

“You are not too late, old friend, though it has been a trial to stay alive when I have been so ready for death. “When I was younger, it was 1685, thirty years ago, I commissioned the Maestro of Cremona to make for me a great violin.”

He sighed, remembering the event.

“He excelled himself, to such an extent he did not want to give me what he had made. There, on the settee, bring it here.”

Tartini got up and brought the violin case to the bed.

“Open it, Giuseppe.”

Tartini opened the case. Count Domenici Paisello and Giuseppe Tartini looked at the golden perfection of a great violin.

“I have thought long about this moment. Who would be worthy? Not only in ability, but in character. I knew from the beginning its possessor must be more than a great musician.

“The Maestro named it, Hercules. It is strong. It has the same mythical power. I give this to you, Giuseppe, and I ask you to do the same someday. I ask you to give it to another when you can no longer be the one to make it sing...”

The Count coughed weakly. “It is good. I have done what I wanted to do. I think now it is time to die.”

“Hear me, my Count,” Tartini pledged, “I will do all that you ask. I pray God help me be worthy of this gift.”

Count Benedici Paisello’s eyes closed. His last breath joined the small breezes of the Roman dusk.