Mounted on the dull-yellow staircase wall
like unframed pictures: three violins—Alf,
Faruolo or Roubas perhaps. (Call
them Stradavari if you want. They’re half
the story anyway. Without them this
triangle would never have formed.) Their bows
of pernambuco wood—dark catharsis—
flow like tear trails, aimed toward the steps below.
Bordering the stringed trio, heavy masks
of drama and comedy in fine-carved
teak, their classic, still mouths wanting to ask
why three humans have become so love-starved.
Upstairs, the conductor husband discovers
two concert artists: his wife, her lover.
Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2007
