The Devil's Trill

The building which Mitch and I mutually inhabit was built before the Second World War, and, not surprisingly, sustained a fair amount of structural damage during the Blitz. According to the man in the poorly-fitting suit who came to assess the property before the actual owners left said that the building was ‘bowed’, basically meaning that the two halves are slumped together and holding each other up. It’s a fairly common condition, especially in Stoke Newington, part of which got blasted out of existence one autumn evening. It will be a bitch if anyone ever decides to knock down any of the houses on the street, as the general opinion is that when one goes, quite literally, so goes the neighborhood, and if one house is removed, the whole thing will cave in like massive mortar dominoes.

The less-dramatic meaning of all of this is that there are places in our building where the walls are very thin. Not so much so that you can hear the other person making a cup of tea, but with a little effort, your neighbor can hear you. So it was probably a good thing that Mitch and I were both single, I guess. But it also explains why he felt the need to call when he was practicing. The first time he started tuning his violin when I’d first moved in, I thought the walls had mice and was ready to turn around and move back out.

That morning, however, I wish mice were the worst of my problems. I was up, had managed to open the window, run to the other side of the bedroom to turn on the lights, and was halfway down the first flight of stairs before I realized that I was awake and that Mitch was at it again (for the record, I have no idea why I thought opening the window would help. Very little that I do when startles awake makes any long-term rational sense). Since I was halfway there already, I clumped down to the kitchen, grabbed the phone off the wall and pounded Mitch’s number with a great display of excessive force.

I could hear the phone chirping on the other side of the wall, and its echo in my ear six times before he picked up.

“Umm…hello?”

“What the fuck are you playing?”

“Oh! Do you like it?”

“It sound like you are dueling with imps from the deepest pits of hell. What is it?”

“It’s a new Kreisler piece,” he said, sounding a little deflated.

“You do know that it’s not even seven, right?”

“Umm…”

“Mitch, in the name of Stephen King and all that is holy, I beg you to never, ever play that in the morning ever, ever again. Ok?”

“Umm….ok. Are you awake?”

“I am now, you evil man!”

“Oh. Good. Well, put on the kettle.”

And he hung up.

And it’s impossible to be angry with Mitchell for long. He’s just doesn’t have the kind of intellect that could be intentionally cruel or hurtful. If I can fault him for anything, it’s simply of not thinking all that frequently, but if that’s the worst I have to put up with, I think I’ve got it pretty good.

I heard the bang of the broomstick while I was pouring water over two teabags and presently, the cellar door opened, wafting the smell of toast through the house. Mitch’s hair led the rest of him into the kitchen. I don’t know what he had or hadn’t done with it in the past two days, but it looked like a lazy cartoonist had taken a black marker and scribbled it into place. He had stubble on his milky-pale skin and Panic at the Disco shirt on over his sweatpants.

“Is that mine?” I asked, nodding at the shirt.

“Maybe. It was in the dryer.”

“Fair enough.” He clattered the plate down on the table and wrapped both hands around the mug of tea, breathing in the caffeinated steam with near-religious zeal.

“So what the hell was that thing?”

“What—the piece?”

“Unless you really were torturing demons over there.”

He grinned and sucked a toast crumb off his thumb. “I found it at the British Library the other day. You know they have music manuscripts there?”

I nodded.

“Oh. So anyways, there’s this piece called “The Devil’s Trill”, and what he did was—“

“It’s called the what?”

“’The Devil’s Trill’,” he sighed and ran a hand through the riot of hair near his forehead. “Ok, so it was originally written by this chap Tartini in seventeen-whenever. He had this dream that the Devil came to him and asked him to be his servant. And in order to test him, Tartini hands the Devil his violin and he goes to town. And when he wakes up, Tartini tries to write down what he heard and, of course, fails utterly. Though the piece is an absolute monster to even try to play.” He leaned across the table and wiggled his eyebrows. “It’s said that whoever plays owes Satan their soul ever afterwards.”

“Charming.”

“Anyways, so it’s a nifty little thing. And time goes on, la la la. And then Kreisler joins the army during the First World War—you know this part, don’t you?”

“I knew he was in the Army for—what, like two months or something? I have his book about it around here somewhere…”

“Yes, yes, well, I found this letter by him that talked about this utter nut-job he met during his army career. The guy was British and they met at a hospital or who-knows-what. The point is, according to Kreisler, this British chap was the greatest musician he’d ever met. Ever. Said he’d never believed in diabolical talent ‘til he met this guy. So he arranges the Tartini piece for this chappie, and adds a movement. That’s what that was,” he flipped his head back, as if the sound were still resonating through the walls.” And sends it to this chappie’s address in London, but never heard word one from him ever again.”

“So how did it end up at the British Library?”

“Damned if I know. But you haven’t heard the best part yet.” He dropped his crust back onto the plate and it made a little ceramic ping. “This chappie’s name? Was Lucifer.”

“What?”

“Honest to God, I swear it. That’s why Kreisler went on and on about devils and demons—and that’s why he picked that piece to arrange for this British guy.”

“That’s…that’s just weird.”

“I know! Isn’t it great?”

“I don’t know about that…who names their kid Lucifer?”

Mitch shrugged. “I didn’t copy the letter. I was too busy trying to get all the notes down. But he said that he’s never seen elegant hands or such dark eyes in a human head.”

“Weird.”

Mitch grinned. “It’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever seen.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a battered photocopy of some sheet music. The thing was, indeed, a riot of notes. Looking at it, I could follow the part I had heard Mitch play. Judging by the amount of ‘vibrato’ signs above the notes, the whole thing must sound like someone sobbing—or screaming.

“How can you play this with one violin? There are...these are four-note chords.”

I looked up and he was giving me the most manic grin I’d ever seen. “I have absolutely no idea. But I’m sure the Prince of Darkness will give me the aid I require.”

“Oh please, spare me.” I said, and swiped the last piece of toast. “With your luck, you’d get the ghost of some off-kilter First World War soldier with black eyes and skeletally beautiful hands menacing you in your sleep.”

“You are absolutely sick, you know that?”

I grinned back. “I have class this morning and work tonight. You off all day?”

He nodded and stretched in the chair, tilting it back until the headrest met the edge of the sink. “I love Mondays.”

“Bite me.” And I started sweeping the dishes and mugs into the dishwasher.