The Delicate Cello

The following is a short story written by Hill Regional Career High School student Amelia Stefanovics and republished from the student magazine Elm City Sage.

A quiet breeze stirred the beautiful silky white curtains that my papa always admired. We were at home, and I was getting ready for another semester at university. The air still smelled of summer. The salty aroma of the Mediterranean sea and the tantalizing scent of food from the market drifted into our ceiling-to-floor open windows. The sun was now above the horizon and the birds chirped in the windy air. The breeze blew at intervals, and in the still pockets of air, I could hear the cicadas churring. The warmth seeped into my exposed skin. It felt so wonderful to be there.

I was stalling, watching the views from my papa’s large villa on the edge of the town, where we could see the whole village and sea, just like an eagle in flight. The wind tugged at my blue-and-white striped shirt, as if calling me to go swim in the turquoise waters below. But I couldn’t. I had to prepare for my journey to university. It was my second year. As a music major, my fingers were sore every day, and I was warned of arthritis. I looked back at the serene, white floors with the white carpeting, and down at my large cello which I had set on the floor along with its open case and music sheets. The soft patter of my father’s polished, leather shoes on the nice, white floor signified that he had come home from the market. My father always kept up his looks, and his favorite color was white. He wore his starched, white army uniform and crisp, billed hat all the time when he went somewhere, even when it was inappropriate or awkward to do so. He was now standing at the doorway, radiant and authoritative. The effect was slightly ruined by a potato sack full of produce and meat.

“Luca!” he called. ​“Where are you? Staring out of the window again?” He sighed, exasperated. Walking across to the room I was in, he peered inside and I saw that flash of disappointment in those soft, brown eyes that reminded me of tiramisu cake. He gingerly picked up my large cello and I ran over to pry it out of his hands before he broke anything. I laid it in my case and snapped it shut. ​“Oh Luca, when will you learn? Where is your purpose?” My father groaned, bending over to pick up the music sheets on the floor. After the devastating world war, my father changed his lazy and laid back attitude for a focused, resourceful and purposeful one. Unfortunately, I am already so used to him being the way he is that now he seems alien to me, like there is an invisible wall between us and we don’t even realize it. He seems so insistent that every action and choice must be for my success and betterment.

“Mi dispiace, papa. I’ll clean everything.” I tried to usher him out of the room, but he just stood near the doorway with a frown and crossed arms, looking upon me as I tidied up. He never was quite satisfied with my work. I was never slapped or beaten before, and that hadn’t changed. I was always guilty when I saw tiredness or pity in my father’s eyes when he looked at me. No pride, joy or deep happiness ever penetrated his eyes. I wanted them to so badly.

“Let’s not stall long,” he said curtly. ​“We must go walking before you leave for school.” He left quickly before I could protest. I sighed and packed up my things for school, setting my old, dark green case with its handsome, red interior on the oaken dining table. Rushing out of the warm room, I made my way along through our light-washed house that faced the south. I put on my soft, flat, tan leather shoes and raced out of the house after my father. He was already making the climb down the wooden stairway built along the jagged red cliffs that our home was set on.

“Papa!” I gasped, trying to keep up. ​“Please go slower.” Without speaking, he slowed down and we walked side by side. I wanted to tell him about something I thought of over the summer. I hadn’t the courage to do so yet. I really wanted to travel the world. I wanted to see things beyond our small village and my university grounds. When I was younger, my father took me to Germany to frequently converse with his German ally, who was more than comfortable in his lavish home in Berlin. I made friends with his son, Karl. But in the dusk of the war, my father was suddenly overthrown, humiliated and punished severely. We switched alliances and ended on the winning side. I hadn’t seen Karl for a long time until he showed up again at our university. He himself had changed so much that it pained me to see him. He’d seen so many places and experienced so much. Now when the echoes of war were still resonating in the earth, we hadn’t moved out of the little village since. And I yearned to see the rest of the world. It was an unrest in me, an unrest that I hadn’t seen anything and I was already a man grown. I wanted — no, needed — to see and experience the world. ​“Papa, I…have to tell you something,” I mumbled.

“What?” He turned sharply towards me. Bad idea, I thought to myself. But it was too late; he expected an answer.

“Um…did you ever want to travel the world?” I asked cautiously. I was ready to be screamed at fully. But the response I expected didn’t come.

“Once in my lifetime,” he said slowly, looking up the street, not looking at me. ​“But not anymore.” We walked along the street, and fewer and fewer people were out, preferring to stay inside and watch us from the safety of their windows and screens. The shady, cobblestone street led directly to the sea.

“I would like to,” I suddenly said. I mentally slapped myself.

“To what?” he asked, for we didn’t speak so long that he had forgotten.

“To travel. I really do.” My father turned around and looked at me in surprise. Then, almost like a hyena would, he cackled. I didn’t know how to react — scared or offended.

“Oh Luca! You have school, mio figlio! How will you travel?” he asked me, still wiping tears from his eyes. ​“It’s very expensive, and nobody cooks for you or takes care of you. Planes, trains, automobiles…” He counted off all of the expenses on one hand. ​“Also, suitcases and luggage. You have to keep it somewhere. On top of all of that — planning. It takes months, you know.”

I sighed looking out on the harbor. ​“I know, papa.” He didn’t speak for a long time afterward. We walked on, though the streets, all eyes that remained were trained on us, hateful and pitying. The apartments steadily became better looking and soon we emerged to the boardwalk, where the town met the sea. Thick chains on posts guarded the edge of the walkway. Finally, my father spoke.

He took a stray pebble from the ground and threw it into the water. The stone skipped along the crystalline water and then disappeared down into the aquamarine depths, spreading ripples across the surface. ​“Good. Now don’t get any more stupid thoughts into your head.”

I bent my head now, in defeat. ​“Yes, papa.” It would be a long and hard time for me, then.

Elm City Sage is a new digital magazine published by New Haven Public Schools English teachers. The writers and artists featured in the magazine are high school students from schools throughout the district. The first edition came out on April 21. Read the full magazine here or here. High schoolers can submit their work at this website.

Read previous entries below.

• A Safe Nation For All
• We Are Not Caterpillars