Saint Nobody

Fantasy for Cello and Orchestra

86 Fantasy for Cello and Orchestra The cellist’s bow scrubs hard against the strings. They grumble in resistance; each bow-hair joins the others in brazen strokes. The strings— steel-wrapped gut pulled taut—defy the man with darkened fingertips. No coaxing here— he forces strings to moan until they sound as if they care for Villa-Lobos’ whims. How angry was the young composer when he named this scary thrash a fantasy? The blackened sound he cast would surely reach some lover, make her dance herself to pieces. The fantasy, too, quickly peels apart like waxy ribbons spilling in the wake of needle on cylinder in an old recording. The cellist spills his pressure on the strings, his bow still clutched, then loosed in turns, until at last the orchestra gains strength enough to swell and wash away the charcoal slashes that Villa-Lobos used to scar the page. A dancer could be soothed by these instructions: encouragement from French horn, flute and oboe, the lull of clarinet, and then a wavering of strings in harmony, like a cool cloth. The cellist and his gashing are forgotten and the dancer is relieved, allowed to sleep. ...