silent melody

Under the care of Pissendale and Scarlatti, Albinoni gradually recovered. "Recovery," that's what Limber's folks say, though both Pissendale and Scarlatti know that the old singing, soothing Venetian lad is never coming back.

Albinoni, with his casually dressed robes and casually arranged hair, wandered aimlessly in Limbo.He no longer sings, plays no more, composes no more, laughs no more, mourns no more.Lost character, lost personality, and no temper, the empty body moves silently.

The gate of Picpus/Picpus Hermitage, which used to be deserted in the past, is now bustling.In this place where Limber is closest to the port, the residents of Limber are whispering.Lin Bo's communication with the Association, which had been dusty for nearly ten years, has recently resumed. In addition to the necessary daily necessities, books and magazines, the association's envoys have sent news from private individuals of the Association.There are so many directors and contract administrators of the association... It is rare in history.

Just like a school of fish drifting with the current, Albinoni walked towards the beach where the crowd gathered.The excitement and chaos around him had nothing to do with him.

The envoys of the association were negotiating with the residents of Limbo, explaining that the almost unreasonable and arrogant negligence over the years actually stemmed from the helplessness of wartime rescue and post-war reconstruction; the residents of Limbo were full of anger, but were quickly dismissed by the recent The results of the correspondence subsided: those who were lucky enough to get the news of the people missed by the Association before they were wiped out read the letters on the spot (even though they may have been written years ago); Secretly weeping, because the recipient is no longer there.

Albinoni just watched indifferently.The joys and sorrows in the world have nothing to do with him; since he already knows his own destiny, why waste his emotions on it.

The personal items sent by the association were almost quickly taken away, no, to be precise, those who were lucky enough to be given away.There are still a large amount of supplies still quietly placed on the trolley of the association... The package that should have been readily claimed was forever missed due to the barrier of the war.

Residents of Limbo do not want to look at the names that remind them of the unbearable parting, and they stay away from the abandoned parcels.The envoys of the association are still waiting in vain by the cart...

Stepping on the swaying reeds in the port, Albinoni's feet imprinted imprints of emptiness on the soil.To the frozen birds in winter, he came silently and without will to these packages missed by fate...

A square parcel attracted him simply because of its odd shape and monstrous size.Several letters of different ages are bundled together with this square oddity, indicating that they are from the same sender.

Albinoni lost interest.He raised his head and walked away.

"Mr. Albinoni . . . is it Mr. Albinoni?"

A voice, loud and weary with eagerness, called to him.Albinoni looked back lazily.

Rousseau was watching him with concern.He was amazed at Albinoni's extraordinary indifference.

familiar faces.thought Albinoni.That's all.

"Mr. Albinoni, please stay. Here are letters and parcels from Mr. Johann Sebastian Bach to your friend..."

very familiar name.Albinoni took the package from Rousseau.Poker face.

"Please submit it to your friend Mr. Vivaldi..."

Still a very familiar name.Albinoni cast a cursory glance at the surface of the package.

ANTONIO VIVALDI

A familiar arrangement of several letters.He seemed to remember something.

"On behalf of the association, I would like to express my deep apologies. As you can see, these letters are actually from different times in the past 8 years. The most recent package was bound this week, and the earliest one is from the beginning of 1940..."

Albinoni ignored Rousseau's apology.Strange scenes from the past slowly emerged in his mind.In the distorted and tangled images, he felt more and more clearly that this man named Antonio Vivaldi was once his best friend in Limber, and that this man was so desperately waiting for Mr. Bach's reply , and exchanged more unanswered letters for deeper despair.

"As you just heard Mr. Newton, the chairman of the association, because of the extreme urgency of wartime rescue and post-war reconstruction, the association had to take terrible measures against Lin Bo during World War II and in the years after the war. policy of snubbing and ignoring . . . "

How long has it been since he saw his lovely friend, heard him play lovely music, saw his lovely smile... Since when is this friend no longer at his bedside, reading to him from his diary ; Since when, the orchestra has never heard the graceful and colorful piano sound of this friend...

"Therefore, Mr. Rousseau begs Mr. Albinoni and your friends to forgive the actions of the Association over the years. I apologize for the harm this action may cause you and your friends..."

Rousseau was still talking... but Albinoni stopped listening.It was already December 1947, and his friends had already lived in Limber's 12th year (generally, about 206 years from their death date, Limber's candidates would be forcibly eliminated).Can he see his friend again, the friend who infects and warms him with cheerful, enthusiastic, kaleidoscope-like music...

With the package in his arms, Albinoni left in fear and sorrow like catkins blowing in the wind.Puzzled by the initial indifference and the reluctance to say goodbye at this moment, Rousseau stood where he was; watching the thin and swaying background of Albinoni go away, a sense of déjà vu came to Rousseau's heart, it was the same winter day 8 years ago, When he passed the postcard to Pergolesi.

In the deep cemetery at the foot of the quiet mountain, he used to commemorate the dead with him; on the path beside the steep cliff, he used to sing for him; in the white church on the top of the green mountain, he used to pray for peace with the sound of his piano... …Now, everything is empty, everything is silent, from behind the altar to the rehearsal hall, there is no sign of his warm and lovely friend.

Albinoni's figure was strangely elongated in the lonely corridor of the monastery.Holding the last hope, he came to the priest's simple and dark hut.

The wooden door was unlocked and dust had accumulated on the door handle.In the small living room, the window glass was scratched in some blizzard.Shards of glass fell on the table in front of the window, on the unattended music score on the table. It was the manuscript of his priest friend, but the ink had been eroded by the wind and snow and it was hard to read.

The dead branches and leaves blowing in through the cracks in the windows made an uneasy and terrifying creaking sound under the footsteps of the visitors.Albinoni looked into the darkness in the depths of the cabin.The ghastly cold darkness of death.

He disappeared into the impenetrable darkness and pushed open the bedroom door.

In the dark interior of a gloomy winter day, dust, moisture and faint light froze together.

The scriptures that the priest never left his hands were piled up in disorder on the small table closest to the door.The dusty rosary was twisted in strange poses on the open Vespers.

"One day's tormented life

past

I'm waiting for work

also finished"

Sorrow and terror permeated the visitor's bone marrow from the cold room.Slowly, vigilantly, fearfully, Albinoni moved his gaze to Vivaldi's bed.

Pale, twisted.

His quilts piled up on the bed in a very weird and morbid fashion.Unable to be controlled by reason, Albinoni walked towards the weird and cold bed in fear but could not stop.

However, almost at the moment of reaching the bedside, almost when all the details of the disgusting and mysterious quilt were revealed to the visitor, Albinoni was disgusted, horrified, and shocked to find that his friend was still there. in the quilt.

Rotting and limp corpses, pus-brown limbs.Wriggling maggots, crawling crawlers.His familiar friends and no longer familiar gestures.

Albinoni almost teleports into reality.

The fear of suffocation... Albinoni turned and ran.

moment.

A cold, stiff object gripped the visitor's back tightly.Muscles trembling with fear twisted in lifeless claws.

"Tomaso...is that you..."

This voice... was not at all the voice of his friend in the past.

utter horror.

"I feel so cold...it feels so strange..."

Weak and deep into the bone marrow.

"Tomaso... don't leave me..."

"Tomaso..."

Already losing his mind, Albinoni ran away with his life instinctively.

There was a loud bang.He was dragged to the ground.

Kneeling on the ground, Albinoni felt a cold hand let go of his skirt.He turned his back to the ominous bed, and the package in his hand fell aside in fear.

Collapsing, he watched as a pale and lifeless hand like porcelain quietly took the stack of packages away from him.

"Tomaso..."

There is no other choice.

Albinoni turned away.

His friend, who was still wrapped in the weird bedding, was dragged directly off the bed by him.

Slender and pale hands peeled off the stack of packages, and the quilt covered in front of his eyes gradually slipped from his friend's head.

The shock was such that Albinoni forgot to scream.

The one in front of him...if it was still Vivaldi, then he had little resemblance to the old Vivaldi.

The wavy red hair disappeared, replaced by pale golden long curly hair, parted in the middle and hanging down to the chest; the once haggard, dull and slightly wrinkled face is now bright and smooth with a hazy atmosphere; perennial illness The marks left on his body have disappeared; the skin that was slightly vicissitudes and rough in the past has become as smooth as white porcelain.

Pale blonde almost pure white hair.There are transcription errors that often occur when the original relying on the rank climbing of the documents left by individuals in the world is transferred to the collective memoirs of mankind.

But what was revealed in the eyes staring at the friend who was almost out of his wits before him was the most familiar concern and the soft warmth deep in his heart.

"Tomaso...Tomaso...what's the matter with you..." Seemingly aware of the change in his voice, Vivaldi called out to the stunned Albinoni in panic and bewilderment.

Albinoni, who wished to remove the mirror from the bedside table beside him, threw the mirror directly in front of Vivaldi because of the stiffness caused by the shock.

Looking at himself in the mirror, Vivaldi couldn't accept it.He kept fiddling with his long curly hair, which was light blonde and almost pure white, trying to get back the red hair that had almost replaced him in the past.

Suddenly, Albinoni realized something.Although he has never experienced or witnessed it, he now has almost complete certainty.

"Antonio...you have become the embodiment of the memoir."

Vivaldi looked at his friend with the same disbelief.

When the eyes of the two returned to the strange square package that had just been opened:

record.Players LaScuolaVeneziana; IVirtuosidiRoma.

All recordings are of Vivaldi's works.

"Senior, at this moment, John is so scared, frustrated and guilty, I don't know if you can read this indecent letter. But please calm your anger and read the following text.

In the past ten years, I have been entrusted by the association to assist medical rescue on the European/European battlefield, and I have never forgotten to write letters for you. However, I am just an ordinary memoir materialized individual, and I cannot go to Linbo to deliver these letters in person. to your hand; the undeliverable letters piled up in the mailbox make me anxious.In the field medical treatment of the last few battles, the association suffered heavy losses, and many memoirs materialized individuals were directly hit by shells... Even if we have the ability to heal wounds close to infinitely, we are powerless under such direct torn damage.I was convalescing at the Society's hospital after World War II, and when my hand recovered, the first thing I thought of was writing to you.

I want to tell you a lot of good news, but I hope it's not too late.After the rediscovery of your manuscript in Turin and the music festival of the Chigiana Academy of Arts, European scholars have not forgotten you despite the cloud of World War II.At the beginning of this year, Italian musicologists Angelo Ephrikian and Antonio Fanna established the Italian Antonio Vivaldi Institute, and published a complete collection of your instrumental works published by Ricordi Publishing House edited by GianFrancesco Malipiero; recently a group of newly established chambers in your home country Orchestras are also starting to try to spread your music on both levels, from the traditional concert to the modern recording industry.You should have heard of this technique of canning music...from the concerto, your work reverberates in concert halls and airwaves around the world.If there is any regret in this, it is that the melody has been silent for two centuries...

Your John Sebastian"

****************************************************************************

The beginning of 1950.

The bitter cold wind howled from Lin Bo's ferry, but the interior of Picpus Hermitage was exceptionally peaceful and harmonious.The light from the hall of the hermitage illuminated the dark sea in front of it.

On this cold night, Limbo's small Italian orchestra performed as usual on Sunday.Everything was the same as usual, but not quite the same.

In the auditorium, little Maximilian leaned quietly in Lafayette's arms.The residents of Limbo were also the same as before, but some strange faces appeared in the back row.During the concert, these shadows crept in from the cold outside.They do not belong to Lin Bo.

The musicians played as usual.They wore the monastic gray-black robes, the shadows of their hoods making their faces even more obscure in the light.Tonight's track is more soft and nostalgic than ever before, and some parts even use mutes.

Purcell. Chaconne in G major.

Marcello. Oboe Concerto in D minor.

Scarlatti. Concerto in G major.

Vivaldi. Lute Concerto in D major.

Albinoni. Overture in G major.

After the concert, the second violinist hugged the first violinist.

This was the last cooperation between the two. When the song ended, one went to the association and the other stayed in Lin Bo.The two will never have the chance to meet again.

No matter how many words there are, there will eventually be a time for parting.Albinoni brushed his hand one last time across Vivaldi's face. "Antonio, although you and I will never see each other again, you must live happily, just like you did in Venice, because you belong to northern Italy, the sunshine and sea breeze there. When you arrive in Venice, no matter Where I was at that time, whether I existed or not, don't worry about it, because your arrival also means my arrival."

Facing his friend's petition, the priest refused.Holding the trembling hands of his friend tightly, Vivaldi kissed and blessed it, "No, Tommaso, I will wait, no matter when and where, until the time of reunion, until then we return to Venice together, return together To the arms of our homeland."

Albinoni wanted to say something, but the reality did not allow it.The black shadows behind the auditorium rushed forward, they were the envoys of the association who were about to take his friend away.Once he becomes the materialized individual of the memoir, he can no longer belong to Lin Bo.

Looking at the singer, the former red-haired priest reluctantly took off his gray-black monk robe, and his brand new pale golden hair fell down.Messengers of the Society are calling for their new members.

Albinoni, as well as the musicians of the orchestra, looked at Vivaldi.The look of longing and longing is so strong that people can't help but be moved.In the past 109 years, they lived, laughed and lamented together in Linbo, but now he is the only one who can escape the curse of fate.

Looking away sadly, Vivaldi turned away and never looked back.

The sea is so calm at night.

On the sea road from Lin Bo to the association, the fleet of the association sailed steadily, and the lights flickered and gradually opened up the darkness ahead.The cold moonlight in winter falls on the boundless sparkling waves, lonely and wide, and all other existences are insignificant.Just like the Grand Canal of Venice in Ivan Aivazovsky's painting, a bright moon hangs high in the blue night sky, and small and humble ships drift quietly at the junction of sea and sky.

Vivaldi was sitting on the swaying boat, and Limbardy's dark silhouette had disappeared into the night.The lights of the Association are faintly visible in the distance.

He had been looking forward to this moment so much.

He took out his old violin.

Soothing and melodious winter wide board. The second movement of Violin Concerto No.8 in F minor "Winter", Op.4/297, RV[-].

This melody depicting a cold and wet winter night, people reunited and warmed up in a warm room, was originally full of warm family memories.But now, even though everything in music and performance is the same as when it was created in Mantua, the composer can no longer recall those cold rainy nights in Venice, he and his family in a small and crowded hut The warmth of the fire.

He had looked forward to this moment so much, not only for self-realization, but also to repay his family.However, when this moment really comes, his experience and emotions as a human being have been worn out by time, leaving only his name, his music and himself who can only survive in those music.

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