I remember being handed to him for the very first time. I remember the way he opened my case, looked at me in admiration and lifted me out, gently, gently, so very, very gently. The way he put my mouthpiece to his lips, dry from lack of water. The way his long, agile fingers moved nimbly, brushing against me as if he truly thought I was one of his race or as a beautiful animal. I sang out pure joy at being touched and owned by him and I knew that, from that moment on, the bond of music was, and would always be between us. A bond that could never be broken once it had been formed. Even after his death, his spirit would remain to play me with softness, feeling, love and skill.
I believe in the soul. Does this mean I am a religious instrument? No. For good fortune and happiness is very far from being all I remember. I have seen and heard things that I simply do not believe could be allowed by anyone, much less an omniscient, omnipotent God.
You may be one of those who believe that an object such as me can have no feelings. No thoughts. No senses. No memory. But if you want to know the truth, turn over the page and read everything that happened to me, my master and his friend in those terrible times. If you do not, then close this book now and forget everything you have read here so far. But I will never forget as long as I am able to make music. I must not. I cannot. And neither should you.
If you have reached the end of this piece and of the book that Zeta has translated it to, I know that you are one of those who rightly believe that objects such as me have feelings. That we have thoughts. That we have senses. That we have a memory. And, most of all, a spirit just as you do. I am grateful for such people as you. If you did not exist, I would relive all that you have read and listened to every hour of every day: my story would not be known or understood. As humans do, instruments need to share their stories, their emotions, their fears. I could not bear it if I was unable to do so.
I now invite you to close this book. But, for the sake of my master, his friend and of me, never forget what you have read here. The world must never forget as long as it exists. That is why I decided to write this piece with the help of my master to share it; of his friend to translate it into your language, to help you understand. I did it so that what happened then will be forever immortalised in living memory. Now, the world will never forget. It must not. It cannot. And neither will I.
Alexia’s Novella is 40,000 words and that she hopes to publish it soon!