Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

But it had gotten him interested in playing.

“I loved the attention violin playing got me.” Jean-Pierre held a wicked smile. “Women gave me dollars and hugged my face to their breasts. The cute, older girls left kisses on my cheeks.”

“You were a perverted little kid?”

“I was.” He walked over to the fireplace. It too, had been boarded up. “My mother’s hot chocolate was heaven. I’ve never had another like it, no matter how much I’ve tried to replicate it. I finally realized, no matter how much money I spent it was about her making it. Thick, dark, and extremely rich. I think she whispered magic words, when she stirred it.”

I tasted the hot chocolate on my tongue, envisioning Jean-Pierre’s world. This moment meant so much to me.

Who was this man that I was falling in love with?

Jean-Pierre leaned against the wall. “One winter morning, I played, and my father hurried in. He looked nervous, but he always did on Sundays.”

“Why?”

“My father had to give weekly exchanges to this man named Étienne. He was a short fat man, but he ran this part of France and provided the cocaine that my father was trafficking.”

I tensed.

“My father was nervous on those Sunday exchanges because he was taking a little cocaine for himself and shorting the money too. Father knew that it would only be a matter of time, before Etienne found out.” Jean-Pierre touched the fireplace mantle and studied the dust on his fingertips. “I don’t know why he didn’t just stop. It must’ve been the drugs, although I don’t remember how bad his habit had become. My mother never wanted to talk about things like that later.”

“Later?” I whispered.

“My father came home as I played Strauss’s Sonata for the first time, all the way through. I was so proud of myself.” A faint smile came to him. “I thought I’d conquered the world even though it must have surely sounded like cats screaming.”

I walked over to him.

“That day, my father didn’t stop to listen to me play. He went straight upstairs. My mother had a worried expression on her face. Seconds later, Etienne arrived at the house. I stopped playing, when my mother let him in. Etienne shook his head and told me to continue.”

My chest stiffened. I felt so scared for young Jean-Pierre.

“My father began to come downstairs, spotted Etienne, and stopped in the middle of the staircase. His face. . .turned so sad. And then he looked at me. . .and said that he was proud of me.” Jean-Pierre let out a long breath. “Etienne headed up the stairs and my father turned back to me with tears in his eyes. He said to me… ‘Play, Jean-Pierre. Don’t stop playing. Don’t stop. Play it loud for your mother.’”

I went to him and embraced him knowing that he was probably past the rawness of the pain, but I had to hold him. I couldn’t imagine going through something like that.

Jean-Pierre hugged me back. “I still didn’t get what was going on as I played, and my mother cried on the couch. It was when Etienne walked back downstairs with bloody hands and left that I figured it out. My mother didn’t get up. I finished, and she told me to play it again and again. Hours passed. My uncles arrived at the house. I was still playing that damn sonata with aching hands. Snot and tears covered my face.”

“And you’ve been playing it ever since?”

“I did my best to attach it to good memories. I never wanted to forget that song. Never. It was what I heard when I saw my father for the last time.”

I held him tighter, learning about Jean-Pierre and loving him more and more.

I’ll make sure we put good memories to the Sonata. Trust me.

We left the house and bumped into Rafael. He joined us as we headed to Jean-Pierre’s main property, in Cannes. Many people didn’t even know he lived there. Jean-Pierre had explained that only those closest to him had even been to the house.

On the drive, elegant homes shifted to massive, majestic mansions. And in the heart of it all, we arrived at Jean-Pierre’s private estate, sitting right next to the sea.

It looked more like a castle than a home.

His family stood outside amongst ten luxury cars. Close to thirty people in all, and all of them resembling Jean-Pierre’s gorgeousness. His family greeted us with open arms. There French was heavy and fast. None knew English that well. I stumbled a lot through phrases, hoping that I was making sense. His mother had had five sisters. They were all over sixty and lived on the property.

Two of the older women frowned and wagged their fingers at Rafael, although it was clear that they loved him. Jean-Pierre explained that these weren’t Rafael’s aunts, but, that Rafael and Jean-Pierre were cousins because their fathers were brothers. However, Jean-Pierre’s aunts had unofficially adopted Rafael, Louis, and Giorgio as their own.