silent melody

Embarrassed, restless, stiff.

A night spent in the reception room at the harbor in the association's backyard.

In the early morning of the next day, Vivaldi was ordered to wash his whole body and change into the clothes provided by the association: it seemed that the association did not want all Lin Bo's things to be brought in blatantly.

Then, Vivaldi, together with his own meager luggage, was stuffed into a strange metal box on wheels - the people of the association chatted rapidly in a language they could not understand - and the strange metal box moved quickly.

The association is located on a vast plain, scattered with hills and lakes, and the forest covers a single-family apartment with simple exterior style and modern interior equipment.The flat and wide road forks abruptly beside it, and occasionally it is a winding path, and occasionally it is a stone path.Sculptures, fountains, and other exquisite garden curiosities are dotted just right along the roadside.The memoir materializes individuals in this vast environment, either leisurely or busy, in twos and threes, speeding past the car window.

"That's a statue of Hypatia, one of the founders of the Association's European branch." Said the driving memoir incarnation as the car drove past a slightly larger fountain plaza.But the Venetians, who were accustomed to Lin Bo's gloomy and oppressive atmosphere, were stunned by the association's unprecedented broad and bright light.

The luggage and the violin were still on the car (the Venetian is not used to cars...he had only seen pictures of this great invention in newspapers and magazines delivered by the association), and Vivaldi was pulled down.

The association welcomes new members routinely.In the main building of the British Pavilion, the welcome speech of Isaac Newton, the president of the European branch of the association, and then the welcome speech of the curator of the Italian Pavilion (Vivaldi did not remember the name of this junior, for which he was very sorry); The Archives of the Society, where the administrators of the Covenant of Human Memoirs welcomed him (Vivaldi met the familiar Mr. Rousseau, but Rousseau did not seem to recognize him in appearance), and displayed the How the "dead files" in the book are either frozen or thawed, and the latter will be further promoted to the archives of the common memoirs of mankind; Valdi is not familiar with English; when he came to his residence in a branch of the Italian Pavilion, several members of the Italian Pavilion introduced to him the characteristics of life here, basic facilities and other matters.

At the end of a tumultuous day, Vivaldi found himself alone again, abandoned in his new bedroom.It was getting late, and he couldn't find candles or kerosene lamps; in the cold winter, he couldn't find a fireplace to light a fire.He sat shivering on his brand new spacious bed, staring blankly at a uniquely shaped white thing with a curly tail and numbered buttons on the bedside table.

Suddenly, the door of the room rang.A guy pushed the door and walked in. He looked around the dim room and pressed a raised button on the wall.There was no sound, and the room was instantly brightened; Vivaldi couldn't help but look up, only to find a dazzling long object on the ceiling—Lin Bo had never been powered on, and he was not familiar with electric lights.Then the guy came to the wall next to the window, where there was a row of white vertical pipes (radiators); again, he touched some mechanism, and the room gradually became warmer.

Vivaldi stared in amazement at this Italian guy who was dressed in the same 18th century as himself but seemed to know everything, and almost took out the cross and chanted scriptures to exorcise evil spirits.

"Senior Vivaldi... Please don't be prejudiced against my fellow countryman. As a writer, I may be used to exaggeration, and accidentally used my pen to caricature your image." The young man said. "But you are really 30 years younger than when I first saw you, so that I couldn't believe my eyes when you just brought your luggage in."

Looking at the puzzled and confused eyes of his new roommate, the young man added, "I am Carlo Goldoni—"Griselda"? Do you remember, sir, that in 1734 I cooperated with you to adapt this Musical, you hug me excitedly... If you have any questions, come to me in the study next door-there is milk and pizza in the refrigerator in the living room, and you can heat it with the gas stove in the kitchen if you need it; if you feel bored, You can watch TV... I'll go first."

When the young man left the bedroom, the embarrassed priest was still sitting on the bed at a loss.When the opera of the 18th century was entangled with the incomprehensible modern terms such as "refrigerator", "gas stove" and "television", he was flustered.

The uneasily pursed lips lined up with Lin Bo's old clothes.After living in Lin Bo for so long, he has lost touch with the real world, and is unable to understand and adapt to life in the association.

The new spring bed was very comfortable and unaccustomed.And that weird little box on the bedside table that seems to be called "Telephone"?

After spending the first night at his residence by the river, the following day, after being awakened by a trendy alarm clock that danced, Vivaldi was arranged to visit the association's music association.

Although he didn't stop caring about the development of the music industry during his time at Limbo, he was completely unfamiliar with these people in front of him.He might know the names of some of them, but he couldn't match the real ones either.

He wanted to meet Johann Sebastian Bach.

This desire has become stronger since I came to the association, and it has grown day by day.In the association, except for this German junior whom he had never met, he never showed his heart to anyone.Yes, he can ask anyone around him, and he may get the answer.But he didn't.Natural shyness, restlessness and insecurity are exacerbated when the surroundings are completely new.

Vivaldi stands in the hall of the Music Society, clutching his violin case.A light yellow vest, a purplish red coat, a beige ruffled bow tie, and long pale golden hair curled down to her chest.He hadn't worn such fine clothes for a long time, and the new appearance made him uncomfortable.Everyone in the hall seemed to know him, or expressed an interest in getting to know him; and he knew no one.Standing in the crowd, he shrank as much as possible, like a frightened sheep.

A man with a short stature and slightly disheveled hair came over. He is currently the president of the Music Association.He talked to Vivaldi about his future work and necessary training in a slightly louder voice.There may be other words, but Vivaldi, nervous and overwhelmed, has lost track of them.

Suddenly, the world is quiet.Vivaldi heard a beautiful and melodious music, only to realize that there has been a tall and handsome young man playing the piano in the hall, it seems that he is just entertaining himself.

Vivaldi turned to the president in front of him.He replied stiffly in half-baked English, "Thank you, nice to meet you."

But the man in front of him didn't respond at all.

Vivaldi was extremely embarrassed.

"Don't mind, Mr. Vivaldi," suddenly, a thin figure emerged from the crowd.The eccentric young man enthusiastically held his hand (Vivaldi felt even more embarrassed and blushed involuntarily), "He's hard of hearing. You can say whatever you want, not even as long as you lip-sync. That's fine - of course if you're going to speak it, it's more effective in German."

When the suddenly appeared young man (in bright red coat, silver tufted hair) was still holding his hand, a voice came from behind Vivaldi. "Your piano case... really makes me ashamed!"

Vivaldi turned around quickly.In front of him was a thin and tall man with a long black trench coat, a long pale face and long hair parted in the middle.Before Vivaldi could react, the man had already taken the piano case from his hand and opened it.

"Your violin...is very old, but not well preserved," he said, taking out the violin, and took out a small box of rosin from his pocket (he seemed to disdain to use Vivaldi's rosin), after basic preparations , he pulled a passage, "How can you use such a violin, Monsieur Tartini! The strings, the bow! It's outrageous..."

"It's Mr. Vivaldi, Nicholas." Beside the man in the black windbreaker, a young man with a slender figure and fingers reminded him softly.

"Thank you Franz." The pale man quickly returned to the topic, "Mr. Vivaldi, you shouldn't use this kind of violin, even if you have a fondness for it, you have to admit that it is basically dead. And, if you've seen Mister Tartini over there—I'm eager to fight him."

"Look who's the unlucky Devil's Fiddler. You're definitely a cut above in looks." From the youth known as Franz.

After the embarrassing and exciting visit to the Music Association came to an end, Vivaldi was able to return to his unfamiliar residence.He couldn't wait to change out of the overly bloated and complicated clothes that looked like scrambled eggs with tomatoes, so he opened the closet to look for them.

The Italian Pavilion and the Music Association obviously didn't want him to wear the shabby old clothes of Limber's time, so the old clothes he brought were quickly cleared out for various reasons (he still kept a few pieces, such as his monk clothes ).But the Association is responsible for the new clothes prepared for him...

——There are four identical sweaters in the closet, namely yellow-green, tree green, orange, and sky blue; four jackets in the closet are still the same style, yellow-green, tree green, orange, sky blue...

Does he like the Four Seasons series so much, why he doesn't know at all.

——a large coat like a nightgown (the same four colors).He was sure it was a coat and not a nightgown because he found four objects of the same shape, but lighter, lying on his bed.There are also shirts, all of which are missing a few buttons on the neckline, which makes him in a terrible state of topless all the time.

After thinking about it, Vivaldi couldn't think of what the Association judged that he liked to wear such invisible objects, until he saw the reprint on the bookshelf, his own on the title page of his Op.8. portrait.

Unbuttoned shirts and loose jackets.

But it was the heat of Venice...