Mr Phinolanius

The lesson room smelled of stale lotion, a scented salve never washed off and constantly reapplied. Two wood music stands stood lonely in the corner. They must have been favored at one time but had become quite dusty with lack of use. Landscape paintings filled the emptiest spots of the walls. And between the paintings were windows or doors. Gentle light squares decorated the floor from the window panes.   Mr Phinolanius entered through the left door. It creaked with age. The door creaked, not Mr Phinolanius. It was on a spring or lever of some sort, slowly sealing off the opening as he walked across the room. He had not taken new students for many years. Past students said he lost patience for the imperfection of a beginner.   The seat felt more uncomfortable after he entered. Shifting forward gave more of an impression of nervousness than discomfort, so it was time to tune the violin to maintain the upper hand. There was another seat, but Mr Phinolanius stood until the plucking of the strings stopped.   "I warn you, if you bore me, I shall take my revenge."   He knew too much. My grandfather went fishing with Mr Phinolanius on Sundays. They were inseparable but very competitive. Undoubtedly they talked about me. My grandfather likely declared me a prodigy. However, my grandfather nor his students ever won the grand prize on the performance stage. I suspect the pair concocted this audition as a way to both win in their own ways.   One long note to start. I don't memorize music, it won't stay in my brain that way. I memorize the story and then play the music. Footsteps were next, plucking at the strings. Then notes up and down on the scale, with two discordant tones at the end and back along that path. He winced, thinking a wrong note had been played, but it was a trick. As the melody came around, the tones appeared again. He did not wince the second time, he was hooked. Time to pick up the pace.   The chase began at the gates. The wheels of the wagon spun faster and faster over hill and stream bounding against rocks and once even a tree. The melody rose and fell with the contours of the landscape. The tempo held until the end of the verse. There was enough time to move into the bridge and to ease the dynamics before the breaks hit in the end.   "Very good. Now you may have fifteen minutes to figure out how to whisk me to the docks. I want to hear the planks under my feet."   He finished rubbing his hands, then stood and put the lotion back in his pocket. He returned to the door he had entered. The groan of the door again, like an old friend acknowledging him on the street. That is where I start.   I closed my eyes to plan out the next verse, planks under my feet.