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Alphonse’s father had been a composer, or so his mother had told him. Later Alphonse would find out that he was in fact a once destitute man who built pianos for a living and wrote music on the side for a few extra dollars a month, though the image of a brilliant gentleman sitting at his piano and scrawling notes on a torn piece of music paper was the one that remained.
There was a piano in their house, after all. A beautiful ebony piano with ivory keys, carefully handcrafted by Alphonse’s father all those years ago. It was one of the few things in the house that wasn’t either rundown or secondhand, and his mother took great pride in it. She polished and played it daily, Mozart and Chopin and plenty of other composers with names Alphonse could never remember.
He was barely seven when his mother began teaching him to play. She started with a simple piece composed by his father, a piece mostly comprised of variations of major and minor scales. Alphonse could still play it from memory on the day he died.
Alphonse grew to love music. It was something that was always there for him, always, even when his mother wasn’t, even when he started missing church on Sundays and stealing glances at other boys when he thought no one else was looking. He loved to play the melody, but understood the importance of harmonies. He wanted nothing more than to play for a living one day.
He was fourteen, throwing newspapers to support himself and his dying mother. The streets of Manhattan were harsh, full of pollution and loud noises and bad men and women. He did not like it, though at the same time he knew those same streets could be beautiful, full of music and laughter and excited young boys heading to the theatre for the first time in their lives.
It was one of those days that he found his violin: A beautiful instrument carved from the breastbone of a calf, strung with fine Italian catgut. It was being sold by a peddler, a ragged old man wearing a stained yellow-checkered shirt. He had eyes to match the violin, a piercing blue that radiated sorrow.
“How much for the violin?” Alphonse asked, pointing at the instrument and nodding. He would give his left arm (not his right, he needed his right to sell papers) for it if that’s what it took.
The man tilted his head. “Eleven dollars.” Alphonse pulled out his knit change purse and began counting. He had only nine dollars and fifty-seven cents, but when he turned to walk away the man spoke again. “You have the fingers of the musician,” he said, and Alphonse slowly turned around to look at him. “If you really want the violin, I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?” Alphonse wanted the violin, but he wasn’t stupid. There was only so much he could bring himself to do. He watched intently as the man picked up the violin and cradled it against his chest.
“I’ll give you the violin…” he trailed off and carefully gazed at Alphonse as if he were trying to calculate his wildest dreams and deepest fears, anything and everything that could possibly be used for or against him. After a moment he smiled. “I’ll give you the violin if you promise me that you’ll never fall in love.” Alphonse was quiet for a few seconds before he began to nod. He was a foolish fourteen-year-old, after all.
The man held out his hand, waiting for Alphonse to shake it. And he did. There was nothing exceptional about it, just a normal handshake between two men who had just made an agreement. The violin was handed over carefully, along with a pretty oak bow strung with fine horse hairs.
He taught himself to play quickly, with the help of books and the occasional kind-hearted busker. “A fine violin played by an even finer boy,” they’d say, and for once in his life Alphonse felt like he could actually make it in the world. It wasn’t long before he quit his job throwing papers and began to busk himself.
His mother died a few months later. Breast cancer, the doctor said. Alphonse had simply nodded and begun to make burial arrangements. There would be no funeral, for there was no one who would come even if there were to be one. She was buried in a small graveyard next to his father, a small granite headstone marking the spot. He placed three daisies on her grave and shed no tears.
And he began kissing boys, bringing them home to the house he had once shared with his mother and touching them and kissing them and even occasionally bedding them. There were pretty boys enchanted by his music, poor boys only in it for a nice meal paid for with that day’s earnings. Alphonse didn’t care. It wasn’t like he was trying to fall in love.
A blonde boy dressed in rags began watching him play one day, though he said nothing. Alphonse ignored him, but then he showed up the next day as well. And the next. And the next. On the seventh day of this boy watching him play without so much as a “hello” or a tip, Alphonse decided it was time to attempt to either strike up a conversation or rid himself of him. “What’s your name?” he asked as he packed up his violin, preparing to head home.
The boy’s eyes widened for a second, but then he nodded. “Joly,” he said, “and what’s yours? I haven’t enough money to eat most days, let alone spare you some, I hope you don’t mind that I watch. I like music, as did my papa.”
“Joly…” Alphonse repeated, “I like that name. And no, of course I don’t mind that you watch. I’m Alphonse.” He held out his hand for Joly to shake. “You can come to dinner with me if you like, I’ve enough money for the two of us.” He was counting the change at the bottom of his hat. Joly never did shake his hand.
“Oh! Yes, please. Of course.” He smiled earnestly, showing his teeth and lopsided dimples. Alphonse wasn’t expecting it, but the boy pulled him into a hug, and despite his ragged clothing, he smelled like peppermint.
-
The two quickly became the best of friends, absolutely inseparable. They eventually fell into a routine: Joly would come early to watch Alphonse play his violin, stay all day, and then they would go out to dinner with the money Alphonse had made. It was simple yet fulfilling and they both enjoyed it immensely.
It was a cold night in January, as ordinary as could be, when Joly kissed him. He had been walking Alphonse home, as he did every night, when he pulled him close and kissed him before running away so fast that Alphonse had to pinch himself to ensure he wasn’t dreaming.
The next morning Joly was there at the street corner, watching Alphonse play and making friendly conversation as if nothing had happened. But after they were finished for the day and preparing to head to dinner, Alphonse looked Joly in the eyes and took his hands in his own. “Come home with me,” he said, “please.”
“Yes,” and that was all Alphonse needed. They were home, and kissing and laughing and talking as if they’d been lovers for a thousand years. They went to bed together in the literal sense, Alphonse not wanting to overstep his boundaries, and so they simply slept.
Alphonse awoke to Joly beside him, wearing his nightshirt and clinging to a stuffed bear he’d found in his closet. It was horribly domestic and Alphonse absolutely loved it. He softly kissed Joly’s forehead and got up to write a note saying he was going out to get breakfast from a nearby bakery, nothing more.
He was on his way back from the bakery when he saw him - a man he hadn’t seen in nearly five years, a man he thought he’d never see again. He was wearing the same disgusting yellow-checkered shirt he’d been wearing when he’d given Alphonse the violin, and it was with that realization that he remembered his promise.
The man approached him, and Alphonse kept walking. Maybe if he ignored him he’d go away, forget, just leave him and his lover be. But no, the man caught up, tapped Alphonse on the shoulder, made him look at him. “How you’ve changed,” he said, looking Alphonse up and down.
“Do not speak to me.” He turned away and continued walking, suddenly very interested in the specks of dirt on the ground.
The man grabbed his wrist and pulled him into an alley, away from the prying eyes of curious citizens. “So you know you’ve messed up.”
“I do not wish to speak to you.”
“You love him.”
“Perhaps I do!” He attempted to pull his hand away from the man, to run home to Joly and stay there with him forever. But the man’s grip was like a vice, and there was no escaping for Alphonse.
“You broke your promise, Alphonse,” the man said. His sounded more matter-of-fact than anything, and definitely not threatening. Alphonse was still struggling against his hold.
“How do you know my name?” There was panic in his voice. It was a simple question, one he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear answered. The man sighed.
“You’re going to have to pay, you realize. One cannot break his promise and get away with it.”
“Don’t touch Joly!” Alphonse yelled. He felt tears beginning to brim in his eyes.
“Give me the violin.” He was so calm, and it made Alphonse so angry. He wanted to scream, to run, to claw his eyes out. He didn’t like the way the man was looking at him - like he was some sort of cheap, delicious dinner.
“I…” he sputtered, attempting to hide his tears, “It’s at home, and our only source of income, I can’t.” He finally let the tears fall as his head slumped in defeat. “Please don’t hurt him, I beg you.”
“Fine, then,” and he let Alphonse go, “good day, Alphonse. I wish you nothing but the best.” And he was gone as if he’d never been there at all.
-
Alphonse arrived home to find Joly missing, his note left apparently untouched on the piano. He’s just gone back to his house for a change of clothes or something, Alphonse reasoned, though nothing could stop the bile from rising in his throat.
So he began his trek to the house Joly shared with his mother and two brothers, if only to soothe his own paranoia. He could have sworn he saw the man multiple times during his walk; there he was, sitting on a bench reading a newspaper, looking out the grimy window of a bookshop, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall and watching him intently.
He knocked on the door and it was answered by a young boy, maybe thirteen at the most. “What’d you want?” he asked, tilting his head as he examined Alphonse.
“Excuse me, is Joly here? I can’t seem to find him.” He offered the boy a smile in hopes that it would help him get to the meat of the situation.
“Oh, so you’re the pretty boy dear Joly’s in love with!” The boy giggled, making his rather noticeable lack of front teeth even more obvious. “I’m afraid we haven’t seen him, we thought he spent the night with you.”
Though he felt his heart skip a beat at the answer, Alphonse nodded. “He did, he just seems to have wandered off.” He smiled again, though this time it was a bit more forced. “Back to looking for him, I guess. I hope to be able to get to know you better in the future…” he trailed off, unsure of the boy’s name.
“Albert,” he said, seeming to have read his mind.
“Have a lovely day, Albert,” and he was walking off, trying to keep himself as under control as possible for someone in his situation.
Alphonse wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and cry and take this all out on everyone who walked past him and ignored his anguish. “He’s gone,” he wanted to yell, “he’s never coming back and it’s all my fucking fault.” But there was also a rational part of him that wanted to say that he just left, that this had nothing to do with the old man and the violin. He knew that wasn’t true.
He went home and buried his face in his pillow. He wouldn’t go out today, he couldn’t even bring himself to look at that damned violin. He wanted Joly. He wanted to hold him and never let go for as long as he lived. Nineteen is far too young to feel as if your life is over.
And there it was, in the corner by the fireplace. Taunting him, laughing at his misery. “Fuck you,” he yelled, and he hoped it heard him. “Fuck you, fuck your fucking strings, and fuck your fucking promises.” But it did not reply, for it was a violin. Was this what it felt like to go mad? Alphonse did not want to know.
He got up without thinking, picked it up, and just looked at it. He ran his fingers along the fine, worn bone, and touched the strings where his fingers seemed to fit perfectly. He threw it against the brick of the mantel on a whim and watched it shatter with an odd sense of satisfaction. It had ruined him, so he would ruin it. The bow was next. He snapped it in half and threw it in the fire, watched it catch and burn along with any love for music he had ever had.
He carefully tucked himself into bed and fell asleep with tears in his eyes, and when he awoke, Joly was next to him. The shattered pieces of the violin were gone, the only evidence of what had happened before was a chip in the brick where it had hit.
-
“Why do you not play anymore?” Joly asked one day a few months later. He had sold his piano and they’d been living on the money made from it, though they were both aware that they’d have to get jobs soon enough.
“Oh, it’s a long, sad story,” Alphonse replied, kissing the top of his head. “One I’d rather not relive, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” He cuddled closer to his love, and for the first time in quite a while Alphonse felt as if he could move on, towards better things.