The Cellist

My calloused fingers never played better than on this terrific night. In two months’ time, I would have been on a stage, performing with Ms. Baker. The lights would blind me, the cacophonous echo would ring, and the crowd would cheer. The performance was set for the day of my 21st birthday, it was going to be a joyous day.

I was a skilled cellist—the best in France, according to mamma. Through the years, my love for playing vanished before my eyes—inexplicably. My heart was not broken—it was lost.

That is what brought me to The Titanic. The promise of playing for a unique audience excited me. However, the dreary days passed and nothing. My seasickness was of no help, and the distance from my hometown was as agonizing as ever.

But in that moment, as I heard Hartley’s Violin crying in the brisk air, I felt my freezing fingers move and I came to the realization—my heart had never so passionately beaten, my fingers never so fluidly caressed these strings of mine; and as the silent tears fell, I fell in love with music once more.

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