of a gig.
‘It’s for a very private party, mind,’ Dominik established. ‘Would they be likely to object to wearing blindfolds?’
At the other end of the phone line, his interlocutor guffawed. ‘Damn! I think I’d love to be a guest at such a party!’ he replied. Then, more thoughtfully, ‘If they knew the piece they are hired to play and the money was good, I’m sure you could reach a satisfactory agreement. Maybe best not mention that particular requirement in the initial advertisement, though?’
‘I see,’ Dominik said.
‘Let me know how it goes,’ the other added. ‘I’m now eminently curious.’
‘I’ll keep you informed, Victor. Promise.’
The following day, he visited the music store he had been recommended. It stood halfway down Denmark Street in London’s West End, just off the Charing Cross Road. From outside, like most of the other stores on this street that had once been called Tin Pan Alley, they appeared to be doing a roaring trade in electric guitars and basses and amplifiers; no other instrument was on display in the window. Thinking that he been advised wrongly, Dominik took a tentative step inside and was quickly reassured by the presence of a bulky glass case with half a dozen violins on display.
A young woman behind the counter greeted him. She wore her jet-black, evidently dyed hair down to her waist, skinny jeans like a second skin, and her face was heavily made up with full crimson lips to the fore. A heavy piercing dangled from her nose, and her ears bore the weight of countless earrings made of a variety of metals. For a moment, Dominik amused himself by watching her and imagining the rest of the piercings she most likely sported. He’d always wanted to go to bed with a woman with a genital piercing of some sort, or a nipple-ring or two, but so far had only enjoyed navel adornments at best, which he felt sadly didn’t convey the right level of eroticism for his own sensibility. Surely there was something downmarket – nay, proletarian – about bellybutton piercings.
‘I’m told you also hire instruments,’ he said.
‘We do, sir.’
‘I require a violin,’ he added.
She pointed to the cabinet and its glass front. ‘Take your pick.’
‘They can all be hired?’
‘Yes, although we’d need a deposit secured either in cash or by credit card, and a proper form of photo ID.’
‘Of course,’ Dominik confirmed. He always carried his passport in his inside jacket pocket, an old habit he’d never lost. ‘Can I take a closer look?’
‘Certainly.’
The goth girl liberated a key from an assortment dangling from a long chain attached to the cash register and unlocked the cabinet.
‘I don’t know much about violins, I fear. This is for a friend I’m helping out. Mostly plays classical music, though. Do you know much about them, by any chance?’ he asked her.
‘Not really. I’m more a rock, electric sort of girl,’ she replied with a smile. Her lips were like beacons.
‘I see. Well, which of these is considered the best?’
‘I reckon the most expensive.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Dominik remarked.
‘It’s not a science,’ the sales assistant said with a flirtatious smile.
‘Indeed.’
She handed him one of the violins. It looked old, its wood brushed orange by seemingly generations of previous owners, burnished and shiny, catching a reflection of the store’s fluorescent strip lights.
Dominik pondered a while, all the time holding the violin. It felt so much lighter than he had expected. He reckoned its musicality would depend on whoever played it. He was momentarily annoyed at himself. He should have done some homework about violins before coming here. He must look like a total amateur.
His fingers stroked the side of the violin he had been given to hold.
‘Do you play anything?’ he asked the young woman with the jet-black hair. Her T-shirt had slipped slightly over her right shoulder and he saw the faint outline of a
‘It’s for a very private party, mind,’ Dominik established. ‘Would they be likely to object to wearing blindfolds?’
At the other end of the phone line, his interlocutor guffawed. ‘Damn! I think I’d love to be a guest at such a party!’ he replied. Then, more thoughtfully, ‘If they knew the piece they are hired to play and the money was good, I’m sure you could reach a satisfactory agreement. Maybe best not mention that particular requirement in the initial advertisement, though?’
‘I see,’ Dominik said.
‘Let me know how it goes,’ the other added. ‘I’m now eminently curious.’
‘I’ll keep you informed, Victor. Promise.’
The following day, he visited the music store he had been recommended. It stood halfway down Denmark Street in London’s West End, just off the Charing Cross Road. From outside, like most of the other stores on this street that had once been called Tin Pan Alley, they appeared to be doing a roaring trade in electric guitars and basses and amplifiers; no other instrument was on display in the window. Thinking that he been advised wrongly, Dominik took a tentative step inside and was quickly reassured by the presence of a bulky glass case with half a dozen violins on display.
A young woman behind the counter greeted him. She wore her jet-black, evidently dyed hair down to her waist, skinny jeans like a second skin, and her face was heavily made up with full crimson lips to the fore. A heavy piercing dangled from her nose, and her ears bore the weight of countless earrings made of a variety of metals. For a moment, Dominik amused himself by watching her and imagining the rest of the piercings she most likely sported. He’d always wanted to go to bed with a woman with a genital piercing of some sort, or a nipple-ring or two, but so far had only enjoyed navel adornments at best, which he felt sadly didn’t convey the right level of eroticism for his own sensibility. Surely there was something downmarket – nay, proletarian – about bellybutton piercings.
‘I’m told you also hire instruments,’ he said.
‘We do, sir.’
‘I require a violin,’ he added.
She pointed to the cabinet and its glass front. ‘Take your pick.’
‘They can all be hired?’
‘Yes, although we’d need a deposit secured either in cash or by credit card, and a proper form of photo ID.’
‘Of course,’ Dominik confirmed. He always carried his passport in his inside jacket pocket, an old habit he’d never lost. ‘Can I take a closer look?’
‘Certainly.’
The goth girl liberated a key from an assortment dangling from a long chain attached to the cash register and unlocked the cabinet.
‘I don’t know much about violins, I fear. This is for a friend I’m helping out. Mostly plays classical music, though. Do you know much about them, by any chance?’ he asked her.
‘Not really. I’m more a rock, electric sort of girl,’ she replied with a smile. Her lips were like beacons.
‘I see. Well, which of these is considered the best?’
‘I reckon the most expensive.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Dominik remarked.
‘It’s not a science,’ the sales assistant said with a flirtatious smile.
‘Indeed.’
She handed him one of the violins. It looked old, its wood brushed orange by seemingly generations of previous owners, burnished and shiny, catching a reflection of the store’s fluorescent strip lights.
Dominik pondered a while, all the time holding the violin. It felt so much lighter than he had expected. He reckoned its musicality would depend on whoever played it. He was momentarily annoyed at himself. He should have done some homework about violins before coming here. He must look like a total amateur.
His fingers stroked the side of the violin he had been given to hold.
‘Do you play anything?’ he asked the young woman with the jet-black hair. Her T-shirt had slipped slightly over her right shoulder and he saw the faint outline of a
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