“Does he leave his apartment?” she asked.

“Never,” the super said. “He has everything delivered. The UPS man comes every day.”

There was no more privacy for her. She would have to put him out of her mind. Wear slippers, yes, keep decent hours, of course, but she wasn’t going to completely silence herself for him. She couldn’t. She would have to learn to play her violin without the luxury of solitude.

She tried to recapture what had been lost. She forced her fingers onto the strings until there were deep lines in her finger pads. The bow was heavy. There was a ferocity to her music, but no joy.

She tried to recapture what had been lost … The bow was heavy. There was a ferocity to her music, but no joy.

She tried to look forward. One day she would banish the man from her thoughts. One day, if she kept working hard, she would forget about him.

Then came the envelope under the door. She didn’t think anything of it, didn’t open it right away, didn’t know it was from him. “Marina” was written on the front, underlined with squiggles. When she opened it, it took her a moment to understand. It began on a conciliatory note. “I know you have tried diligently…” it said. It was a long letter, each paragraph dedicated to a type of sound, when the sound occurred, what the sound was like. It went beyond the violin. Now there were various scrapings and creakings described with adverbs and adjectives, metaphors and similes. A number of solutions were proposed, carpet, soundproofing devices, even, selling her instrument and getting a new electronic violin that piped the music through headphones.

It was a very poetic letter. Through her bewilderment, she admired its construction, its precise detail, the many hours it had taken to write and revise it.

It was a very poetic letter. Through her bewilderment, she admired its construction, its precise detail, the many hours it had taken to write and revise it.

At the bottom, she noticed, was a cc to the managing agent. For a moment, she feared she would be driven from her apartment. Then, with a violence that surprised her, she tore up the letter. The sound ripped through the silence. She went to her closet and selected a pair of high heels. She dressed carefully, a silky black dress, stockings, pearls. Just for good measure, she paced noisily a few times up and down the hall.

It was after 9 in the evening. She got out her violin. She went to the back corner of the living room, opened the window. She began with the short pieces, simple warm-ups, then tackled the complicated ones. She played everything she knew, far into the night. She played with fury, then abandon, and finally, with joy.