Evil Eye by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

busy right now. My father may even be traveling. And me—right now—it’s just not a—not a good time.”
    My mother renewed the invitation another time, a few days later, but Desmond replied in the same way. I felt sorry for her, and unease about Desmond. Though when we were alone he had numerous questions to ask me about my family, as about myself, clearly he didn’t want to meet them; nor did he want his parents to meet any of us, even his dear soul mate Lizbeth whom he claimed to adore.
    It was near the end of October that Desmond brought his violin to our house and played for my mother and me.
    This magical time! At least, it began that way.
    In Desmond’s fingers the beautiful little instrument looked small as a child’s violin. “A little Mozart—for beginners.”
    Desmond bit his lower lip in concentration as he played, shutting his eyes. He moved the bow across the strings at first tentatively and then with more confidence. The beautiful notes wafted over my mother and me as we sat listening in admiration.
    We were not strangers to amateur violin-playing—there were recitals in Strykersville in which both Kristine and I had participated as piano students.
    Possibly, some of Desmond’s notes were scratchy. Possibly, the strings were not all fine-tuned. Desmond himself seemed piqued, and played passages a second time.
    My mother said, “Desmond, that’s wonderful! How long have you had lessons?”
    â€œEleven years, but not continuously. My last teacher said that I’m gifted—for an amateur.”
    â€œAre you taking lessons now?”
    â€œNo. Not here.” Desmond’s lips twitched in a faint smile as if this question was too naive to take seriously, but he would take it seriously. “I’m living in Strykersville now, not in Rochester. Or in Munich, or Trieste.”
    Meaning that there could be no violin instructor of merit in Strykersville.
    My mother lingered for a while, listening to Desmond play. It was clear that she enjoyed Desmond’s company more than the company of many of her friends. I felt a thrill of vindication, that my sister was mistaken about Desmond. I thought Mom is on our side.
    When my mother left us, Desmond played an extraordinarily beautiful piece of music—“It’s a transcription for violin. The ‘Love-Death’ theme from Tristan und Isolde .”
    Though Desmond didn’t play perfectly the emotional power of the music was unmistakable. I felt that I loved Desmond Parrish deeply—this would be the purest love of my life.
    Desmond lowered the bow, smiling at me. His eyes behind the gold-rimmed lenses were earnest, eager.
    â€œNow, you try, Lizbeth. I can guide you.”
    â€œTry? To play—what?”
    â€œJust notes. Just—do what I instruct you.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œYou’ve had violin lessons. The technique will come back to you.”
    But I hadn’t had violin lessons. I’d mentioned to Desmond that I had had piano lessons from the age of six to twelve, but I hadn’t been very talented and no one had objected when I quit.
    I protested, I couldn’t begin to play a violin! The instrument was totally different from a piano.
    â€œYou’ve had music lessons, that’s the main thing. The notes, the relationships between them—that’s the principle of music. C’mon, Lizbeth—try!”
    Desmond closed his hand around mine, gripping the bow, as he positioned the fragile instrument on my left shoulder.
    Awkwardly Desmond caused the bow to move over the strings, gripping my fingers. The sounds were scratchy, shrill.
    â€œDesmond, thanks. But—”
    â€œI could teach you, Lizbeth. All that I know, I could impart to you .”
    â€œBut—that isn’t very realistic. . . .”
    Sternly Desmond said: “Look. Playing a musical instrument requires patience, practice, and faith. It doesn’t