Marina had been practicing her violin whenever she pleased. Of course, she never got up before 10, but she did sometimes stay up till 2 or 3 in the morning, and she would play then, in a lost sort of way, practicing, trying to get the notes exactly right, then just feeling the music, giving it all the emotion she could. Hours would pass in this pleasant way. She would forget to eat, drink, go to the bathroom.

One evening there was a knock on her door. A man stood there, apologizing. He said he was the downstairs neighbor. She didn’t invite him in. His pants were a little too short and he hung his head, his face lost in the gloom of the poorly lit hallway.

Violin et verre, 1913
(Oil on canvas, 46 x 73 cm)
BY Juan Gris
Musée national d’art moderne, Paris

He pointed to his watch. “It’s nearly 10 o’clock.”

“Am I bothering you?” Marina asked.

“It’s late,” the man replied.

For the next several weeks Marina was aware of him, living beneath her. She stopped practicing late at night. She listened to the sound of her vacuuming, how she clicked down the hall in her heels. She winced when a book fell off her bedside table, when the cat pounced on his ping pong ball. It seemed that every movement was associated with a loud noise that traveled through the walls and floors.

The worst was how she began to play. Her fingers slipped tentatively over the strings, her bow slowed and popped. The music came out like a spoiled, whining child.

Gradually, however, over time, she began to forget about the man. She convinced herself that she was much quieter now. Her efforts had satisfied him. She relaxed. Her playing improved and when she practiced, she began to enjoy herself, as she had before, losing track of time until one night, again, there was a knock on the door.

He stood there, a little bolder this time. He looked her straight in the eye and pointed to his watch.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize.”

She held her violin by the neck, the bow in her other hand. After she closed the door, she walked to the bedroom and threw herself on the bed, bursting into tears. She stroked the violin next to her, the curves, the knobs and bridges. “Poor thing,” she said. “Poor sweet dear.”

Then she stopped. Could he hear her talking? Did he know that he had made her cry? She sat up in bed. It wasn’t even 9 o’clock. Why had she apologized? Now she was angry with him, this nameless neighbor, separated from her by mere inches. But even the anger didn’t loosen his hold on her.

She lived in dread of another knock on the door. She wondered what his habits were, when he was away from his apartment. Only then, she felt, would she be free. Did he go to work from nine to five? Or did he have an odd schedule, as she did? Mostly she worked from home.

She told the super about her troubles. He shook his head. He was sympathetic to a pretty young violinist. He loved music, especially the violin. Nothing like the soar of the heart strings.

“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.