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.
Chapter 5
LUTHERSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA - 1951
Mud, thick and black as molasses. Boy Patterson’s blond hair was matted with it. The great wound in his chest opened like an alien flower pouring forth the essence of his young life.
“I have to git you outa here! C’mon, Boy, try,” Luther pleaded, “you gotta help me.”
The bus driver shook Luther’s shoulder and shouted in his ear. Luther’s terrible struggle went on, all within the small space of his seat. His dreams held him in place like a straight jacket.
Across the aisle, a middle-aged woman with cruel eyes and a pinched face pulled her runny-nosed child closer.
“You’d think the army’d put people like thet away. It’s men like him who run wild killin’ and rapin’ decent women.”
An older, colored man came down the aisle and gently moved the driver out of the way.
“Y’all give us a minute. I were a soldier, I know what to do.”
He bent down and whispered in Luther’s ear. “Sergeant Major, Sergeant Major, snap to, you’re needed on the double.”
Luther let go of Boy Patterson, nineteen years old, good natured and full of laughter. He dragged himself into the present. It took all his strength. His unfocused eyes looked at the black man for a long count.
“What...what is it? He coughed and pounded his knees with bony, clenched fists.
“You’re home, Sar’n Major. It’s time to git off the bus.”
He reached out and touched the four rows of medals, especially the one with the blue background and white stars.
“No more war for you, young fella.” He pulled Luther to his feet. “You gonna be all right, boy?”
Luther focused on the man’s face. He saw concern and respect. “Was I bad?” Luther looked around nervously.
The older man’s face creased with a smile. “Uh, huh, you was talkin’ some. Don’t you worry none. These folk don’t unnerstan. Jus’ ‘cause the fightin’s done don’t mean the war’s ovuh.
“Y’all go home now, find a place where folks won’t mind if’n you talk strange for a while. Find you a big ole’ rock. Talk at it. It helps to know it’ll be there the next day. This pain will ease, time an family ‘ll do it.”
He pulled Luther’s duffel down from the overhead rack. “Go on now, I’ll bring this. Time someone fetched for you, you done fetched for them,” he nodded toward the passengers.
The bus stopped in front of a run-down gas station with a diner attached. Outside the air was hot and humid. A faded Coca-Cola sign drooped across a slab of plywood. Someone had hand-painted, ‘Ray’s Fine Food’ on it.
Luther’s father stood by a pickup truck parked next to a Texaco pump. A twentieth century stoic: raised to work twelve hours a day, hide his feelings, and fear God.
Luther stood in the sun while the driver removed another bag from the storage compartment. The colored man stood nearby. Luther turned to him and put out his hand.
