The Venetian Violinist

By Marcio Goncalves

Drake Kingsley, widower and former best-selling writer finds himself afflicted with a terrible bout of writer's block. Despite his foul-mouthed agent and close friend Alice's best efforts, Drake just can't seem to escape the troubles that follow him as he tries to come to terms with his loss and rebuild his life. A brush with death lands Drake in hospital and his gardening-obsessed neighbour, Mrs Phyllis, advises him to go on a writer's retreat in Venice, the place where he had gone on honeymoon with his wife Anne. He goes, in the hopes that by reliving some of his happiest memories, he will be inspired to overcome the writer's block and move on with his life. Thus begines a journey that changes Drake's life beyond his wildest expectations...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marcio Goncalves
• Release date: Mar 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780620560214

Marcio Goncalves

My name is Marcio Goncalves, born in Johannesburg, South Africa on the 15th of May 1984 to Portuguese parents and currently ives in Cape Town. Lover of art, beer, chocolate and Jesus Christ. (Not in that order ) Non-lover of arrogance and everything that stems from it, music not made from actual instruments and pineapple.(In that order ). Lover of a good quote too, below are three of my favourites, that in some way or form shape who I am, while going through the inevitable fluctuations of life in the never ending fight with gravity: "Be yourself because everyone else is already taken."-Oscar Wilde. " For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart."-God. Jeremiah 29:11-13. The bible. "Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication." - Leonardo Da Vinci.

Book preview

Chapter One

Cemeteries, the places where death stored his precious collection of souls. The tombstones stood like soldiers in a platoon; each one with its own history of love, loss and everything in between. Enormous autumn trees stood bare under the moonlight, casting shadows on the ground as they guarded the resting place of the dead. An owl hooted as it stood perched upon one of the trees; it must have been confused at the sight of a man inside the white cemetery gates of Durbanville Memorial park. Drake Kingsley was seated cross-legged on the grass patch in front of a tombstone. He had a full head of unruly black hair that spiked into all directions, an eight-day old beard, torn blue jeans and a dishevelled t-shirt that barely clothed his gangly frame. Bottle in hand, every few minutes he would take it to his mouth and quench his thirst with big gulps.

What are you looking at? He looked up and waved at the owl, whose wide eyes looked like two round flames in the midnight sky.

Drake turned his attention back to the tombstone. The St Joseph lilies he had placed there days ago were wilted. I’ll get you some new ones, he said to himself and reached out to touch them.  I know they’re your favourite.

He took another sip of his bottle and felt a cold wind on his skin. The dried up leaves rustled in his ear as the breeze carried them back and forth. Drake’s mind wandered back to the accident; he still remembered how thick the adrenalin pumped through his veins as he charged through the night on his motorbike. But his train of thought was interrupted by the owl as it hooted once more. Drake looked up and saw it gliding away, wings spread into the moonlit sky, leaving him alone to process his grief. 

I miss you Anne. Tears welled up in his eyes and his chest tightened. He took one last sip and threw his bottle at the tombstone. It smashed against the concrete and sent glass shards spraying all around him.

What’s going on here? Drake turned around to see who was standing behind him and caught sight of the imposing figure of a man in a black security guard’s uniform.

Get that light out of my face. Drake held up his hand to shield his eyes against the intruding beam coming from the guard’s torch.

How did you get in here? Drake could hear the dry autumn leaves crack under the force of his boots with every step he took.

Obviously not in a coffin, Drake smiled and stood up. Through the front gate, which means that, you my friend, aren’t much of a security guard. You can’t even protect the dead, Drake said. The security guard failed to see the humour in his jibes, he felt the guard’s heavy hands grab onto his shoulders.

So you think you funny my bru? In one swift movement, Drake found himself face first on the ground and with the security guard’s knee on his back. You think you some kind of comedian?

Hey man, Drake said. I was just joking . . . chill out. He could feel cold blades of grass tickle his face as he spoke.

The security guard cuffed him and dragged him to his feet. Drake caught a glimpse of the guard’s face in the moonlight. He had a scar on his left cheek, black eyes that were filled with exhaustion and resentment.

We can do this the easy way, the security guard said, or the hard way . . . He swung a baton in one hand and his torch in the other. You choose. He flashed the torch in Drake’s eyes and blinded him for a few seconds.

I’m listening, Drake said, feeling the handcuffs dig into his wrists.

The easy way . . . The guard’s face glowed bright red as he put the torch under his chin, making the beam permeate through his cheeks. You give me three hundred bucks, I let you go and we pretend this never happened.

What’s the hard way? Drake asked, even though he already knew which way he was going to negotiate with his captor.

The hard way my bru . . . The guard sniggered. I call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing.

But for me to pay you, I need to get my wallet and for me to get my wallet, I need you to un-cuff me.

The guard spat, he obviously didn’t like Drake’s suggestion, but his greed for money prevailed and he freed Drake from his handcuffs. Drake reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. His slim fingers probed its folds as he realised that he had blown the last of his cash on the bottle of whisky that he threw at Anne’s tombstone.  Drake continued to fiddle in his wallet to keep the guard distracted, while he weighed his options:

A)Fight. Drake was no stranger to solving disputes with his fists, but when he considered how drunk he was and that his potential opponent was armed with a baton, a torch and undoubtedly some form of hand-to-hand combat training, Drake came to the conclusion that this wasn’t the best option.

B)Run. Running could be a very viable option; he remembered the movie Forrest Gump when Tom Hanks broke free of his leg braces just by running. Run? Possibly . . .

Well? The security guard said and flashed the torch in his face.

Got it, Drake just did the first thing that came to his mind. Here we are. Drake pulled some old lottery tickets that were stuffed in his wallet and folded them into his hand.

Drake saw the guard stretch out his hand and watched his mouth stretch into an anticipating grin. He dropped the roll of old lottery tickets into the guards hand and charged off into the darkness.

Hey!

Drake heard the rage boil up in the security guard’s voice as he ran. The wind seeped through his clothes and made them stick to his body as he picked up his pace. The white entrance gates came into sight as Drake dodged trees and jumped over tombstones, he looked over his shoulder for a split second and grinned when he noticed the distance between him and the torch-wielding security guard increasing. He turned back only to find a tree materialize in his path out of the darkness. He let out a slight yelp and sprinted left to avoid the tree. A sharp pain struck his ankle as he tripped over a tombstone and landed on the other side with a painful thud. Drake could hear the guard’s footsteps getting closer and closer. He tried to stand, but at the slightest pressure, the pain in his ankle flared up like a forest fire. Drake tried to limp away and closed his eyes in preparation for his immediate fate.

Thought you could get away hey?

Before Drake could turn around and answer the guard’s question, he felt a searing pain across his head and passed out.

Chapter Two

Drake woke up to the stench of piss and sweaty bodies after a shoddy night of sleep. He sat up in his bed and felt the bump on the back of his head as it throbbed from all angles. Drake looked around and noticed how the four walls around him were made of steel bars. There were three guys in the cell with him; they had enough tattoos between them to fill up a comic book, Drake thought with a wry smile. Their faces were drained of hope and their grins oozing malice.

Ons soek twakke my bra, the most muscular one of the three said.

I’ll get you cigarettes as soon as I get out . . . I swear.

Drake hoped their silence was a sign that they would wait to see if he would keep up his end of the bargain before laying hands on him. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. Thoughts of Anne filled his mind. What would she think if she had to see me in here?

She would be angry, then worried and then once everything had settled, she would be the first one to laugh about it. That was her nature. Besides her beautiful hazel eyes, long brown hair and crooked smile, it was this ability to see the bright side of everything that made Drake fall in love with her. His cellmates had turned their backs on him and Drake was left alone to stare at the ceiling, lost in his dreams of Anne once more. His mind floated back to his honeymoon, they arrived late at night in St Mark’s Square, via a water taxi. The breeze was cold.

The buildings towered above their heads, as if they were reaching out to touch the stars in the black sky above. There were clothing stores everywhere. Anne’s eyes lit up like the displays in the windows at the sight of them. Much to Anne’s chagrin, Drake had forgotten the itinerary in the water taxi; he remembered the name of the hotel but had no idea where to find it. They dragged their luggage back and forth over the tiny bridges and through the tiny gaps between the endless medieval buildings. He stopped a passer-by to ask for directions and the young Italian woman’s eyes filled with amusement as if she had never spoken to a lost tourist with a weak grasp of her native language. She pointed them in the right direction and after thanking her, they went on their way. Soon afterwards, they were in their hotel suite, sipping champagne in bed while toasting to a long happy marriage.

You look like shit.

The voice halted Drake’s nostalgic trip.

For once I agree with you. Drake looked up and saw a tall woman standing beyond the jail cell in black jeans and a white, long-sleeved polo neck top. Her jet black hair hung neatly past her shoulders. Alice, my female knight in shining casual wear, thanks for coming to save me from this shit hole.

Drake’s cell mates broke out in wolf-whistles, which prompted Alice to pull her sunglasses up to her forehead and show them a middle finger with a look of disgust on her face. They laughed at her, but went quiet as soon as a burly sergeant appeared behind Alice.

You’re free to go Mr Kingsley, he said and unlocked the cell door. The sergeant’s muscles bulged through his shirt as he swung the cell door open. Drake read the tag on his shirt. Sergeant Steenkamp.

Follow me, the sergeant said as he relocked the cell door and walked past Drake and Alice. His blue boots clopped on the concrete floor, the sound echoing as he walked through the corridor with Alice and Drake in tow.

They filled out the paperwork and left after Sergeant Steenkamp gave them the nod. Drake filled his lungs with the clean and crisp air of the sunny Cape morning that greeted him as he stepped outside. The smell of freedom. Drake took the passenger seat of Alice’s yellow VW Beetle and prepared himself for the inevitable tongue lashing.

What the fuck were you thinking? Alice smacked the gear knob of her car into reverse. Going into a cemetery at midnight and then trying to bribe a security guard?

You and I both know, that’s not exactly how it went down, Drake watched the police station shrink in the side mirror as Alice drove off.

You’re damn lucky I’ve got friends in high places Drake. Alice tapped her steering wheel as she manoeuvred past the slower moving cars on the road.

Yes Alice, Drake said, so very lucky that your friends can save me from the heinous crime of breaking into a cemetery.

Don’t get sarcastic with me Kingsley, she said trying to hide her amusement at his jibe.

Any chance I could get a ciggy out of you? He watched her glance at him through the corner of her eye and smile. Please?

In there. She pointed to her glove compartment. Help yourself.

Drake opened her glove compartment and amid the mixture of make-up and CD covers that rolled out en masse, he found a packet of cigarettes and helped himself to one of them.

So Drake, Alice said. Have you got something for me yet? She stopped at a traffic light.

I’m afraid not. Drake lit his cigarette and rolled down the passenger window.

Drake, we might be friends, best friends even. She took a deep breath and turned to face him, But I’m an agent, this is my job and I need to make a living man. What’s going on?

It’s still very much a work in progress. Drake blew cigarette smoke from his nostrils.

Oh for fuck sakes Drake, Alice said. So is my next shit, but it’s got to come out sometime. The light turned green and her tyres skidded on the road as she drove off.

In keeping with your digestive metaphors Alice, He sucked on his cigarette once more. I’m constipated.

Alice’s car skidded around the corners as she drove through Durbanville town centre, past the local bank until getting to Stockholm Street. Drake noticed the lush green lawns of his neighbour Mrs Phyllis and knew he was home. Her garden stood out so much because it was a direct contrast to his, which was as arid as the Sahara.

Thank you Alice, Drake said and opened the door.

Hey Drake, Alice grabbed his arm before he stepped out of the car. Drake looked at her, her blue eyes filled with concern. She’s gone . . . It’s time to move on, Anne would’ve wanted you to.

Pity she isn’t here to tell me that herself. Drake stepped out of the car.

Drake... He looked back and saw her head peering out of the window. You’re a writer, it’s in your DNA.

Drake waved at her and disappeared into his house. There were overflowing ashtrays, empty bottles and junk food wrappers all over the floor. The smell of stale tobacco permeated in the air.

Better clean this up. Drake said aloud and began picking up the trash as he walked to the kitchen.

Sometime after attempting to clean up the mess – which went as far as throwing away two beer bottles and emptying one ashtray – Drake lit a cigarette, grabbed a cold beer out of the fridge and resigned himself to his study. His computer table stood at the centre of the room like a relic from his once celebrated past. Bookcases filled with the classics from Fitzgerald to Plath stood on the shelves looking down on him. Drake sat down and switched on his PC. He looked at the photograph on the wall in front of him as he waited for the PC to boot up. The photo was of Anne and him on his thirty-first birthday three years ago. They had also been celebrating the success of his debut novel, Fallen Suns. Anne had her arms around him and her head rested on his shoulder. He remembered how she used to come and sit behind him whenever he wrote in this very room. Her long, lithe arms around his shoulders, the smell of her perfume, how her hair used to tickle his face and her warm breath as she whispered softly in his ear. Drake sucked on his cigarette and opened up Word. The blank page popped up and taunted him from the computer screen. Moments later he tried his luck and typed:

Tim looked out the window at the black sky and saw the hole in his soul.

Delete.

Tim drank the last sip of his bottle and looked through the bottle as if it had all the answers to life’s questions.

Delete.

Shit. Drake slammed his fist on the table. I have got to get out of here. He shut down his PC and walked out of the house.

He hopped onto his bike, turned the key in the ignition and twisted his wrists as the Yamaha 200 cc roared to life. The wind swept through his hair as he sped off into the horizon, it gave him a rush that helped him deal with the symptoms of his messed up life. Drake wasn’t sure where he was going and he didn’t care either. All he knew was that he had to get away from his reality for a while and numb the pain, just like he had been doing for the past two years.

Chapter Three

It was six o’clock ; the sun was retiring behind the mountains and painting the sky orange. Drake arrived at Eastwoods , an up-market pub, nestled between office parks in Bellville’s CBD.

He had ridden the whole afternoon through the Cape coast along Beach Road, filling his lungs with the fresh sea breeze and hearing the whisper of the rolling waves in his ears, taking in the sights of The Strand with its endless apartment blocks opposite the beach. Through Gordon’s Bay, where children frolicked in the white sand under the prodigious mountain which had the letters GB etched in white onto its rock-face, all the way to Muizenburg, where a flock of seagulls hovered in the sky and occasionally dipped to the ground in search of food. Their squawking echoed in the air as Drake had zipped past them on his motorbike.

Drake climbed the wooden staircase, the loud music vibrating in his ears. He was welcomed by clouds of cigarette smoke and a noisy crowd. Men and women, fat and thin, of age and under age, drunk and sober, all there with one common goal. To have a good time and forget the pressures and responsibilities of their kids, wives or husbands and jobs. Drake pushed through the multitudes till he got to the bar counter.

Hey Joe, he shouted.

Joe was the bartender, a short, fat and bald man who had spent most of his youth serving people with drinking problems in bars. A job he took as a Plan B ever since realising that a singing career was beyond his means.

Hey Drake, Joe shook Drake’s hand. What are you having?

The usual, Drake said and looked around at the busy atmosphere. Joe turned away for a moment and returned with a triple whisky on the rocks and a can of coke.

How’s the vibe tonight Joe? The can hissed as he opened it and poured coke into the whisky glass. He watched as the amber liquid diluted into a dark, gassy concoction.

Great if you’re single. Joe sighed as if he was the unluckiest man on the planet. Consider yourself lucky kid...My old bat is like The Beatles, never gets old! He chuckled and proceeded to serve his other thirsty patrons.

Drake smiled at Joe’s jibe and nodded. But he felt cheated; he would never know what it would be like to grow old with Anne. He remembered Joe’s words of advice to help him deal with the loss: Kid, she’s not coming back, no matter what you do. She’s gone. Now go out there and get drunk, get laid but don’t just stay down. He did try and follow Joe’s misguided advice, but his last two relationships since Anne’s death had ended in a total mess. First there was Sarah; it had been three months after the funeral. He was vulnerable and heavily sedated with whisky. They had met in one of those dodgy nightclubs on the outskirts of Cape Town, where Drake had found himself thanks to an unplanned road trip.

After complimenting him on the success of his first literary work of fiction, Fallen Suns, they engaged in some casual, flirtatious banter and a spot of tongue hockey. What had started as a promising evening for Drake ended with him crying on Sarah’s lap as he relived the moments when he lost Anne during a drunken stupor.

His second attempt at a potential relationship happened soon afterwards and ended in just about the same vein as the previous one, with a girl named Denise. All had been going well, she was falling for his charms and everything was pointing in the direction of a memorable evening for him. They whispered in each other’s ears and kissed as if time was something they had perfect control over, but then she took her clothes off and he unclipped her bra. The words rock and star tattooed on her breasts and then she promptly cuffed him to her bed, which sent shivers down Drake’s spine. It all went downhill from there. What the hell am I doing? – Drake thought, distracted by the skull that watched his every move from her belly. He apologised for his stage fright and retired to the safety of his home and the comfort of his whisky supply for the rest of the evening, watching videos of times he had shared with Anne, clutching at memories.

But much time had lapsed since then and Drake felt that maybe a night of passion with someone who wasn’t expecting a wedding ring or for him to change his relationship status on Facebook was exactly what he needed to get accustomed to this life he had been thrown into, a life without Anne. He was getting used to the noise levels in Eastwoods as he bought himself a fourth whisky on ice. The energy had died down and