Something is brewing inside. I need to pull the bow across the strings of the cello. I need to feel the notes vibrating. I need to sit on a bench in Park Sluizeken and send my melodies to the Oudburg, a few metres away.
I received an e-mail yesterday from Arpeggio Music:
We have already a rental cello available for you. You can collect the instrument in our shop.”
So there we have it. I begin. I walked over to Arpeggio today and there was my instrument. I bought a stand to store the cello, a little light to hang on the music stand, and a wooden plate with a hole for the cello’s spike.
The cello was embraced by a fabric case. Sixty years ago such a case had a handle that allowed me to carry the cello on my hip. Today that handle was missing.
Instead there were straps for me to carry it like a backpack. I felt centered, balanced, with future melodies touching me from behind.
As I strolled home from Arpeggio, I felt young. Young enough for a cool fantasy trip. I imagined that all and sundry were looking my way, seeing a man with white hair. He was clearly a professional cellist, wise in the way of symphonies, probably walking to his concert. He was easy in the fingerings, at home in the riffs of notes and the soaring melodies.
Or … he was some Canadian guy who hadn’t played for a very long time, a fellow who has much to learn. The first story was more fun.
I picked my route home, allowing to pass by the marvelous jewelry shop called Garderobe, hosted by my friend Lucrece. She smiled to see the cello attached to my back. Lucrece cheered me on as I winged across the Atlantic from Canada to Belgium.
And now to home …
My cello and me. Perhaps I’ll name her. Tomorrow I will play her.