Page 29 of Hunger

Three octaves. I play the scale three octaves up and three octaves down. I don't sound good. I sound like a beginner. The notes are flat or sharp, the bow squeaks, the shifting is clumsy.

I don't stop.

I play it again, and then a third time. I play it slowly with the metronome in my head. By the fourth pass I've stopped wincing at every note. By the fifth pass I'm beginning to remember what the scale is supposed to sound like.

I move to D major, then to A. The fingerings come back. The intervals come back. The shifting comes back, halting and ugly but there.

I don't know how long I play.

There's a knock on the wall behind my bed.

I stop, the bow lifting from the string, and look at the wall.

Lisa's voice comes through, muffled. "I can hear you. It's fine. Just — maybe earlier in the evening next time."

"Sorry."

"No, I mean it. It's fine. Just maybe not at midnight."

It's midnight.

"Sorry," I say again. "I lost track."

"It's okay. I didn't know you played."

I don't know what to say to that.

"I'll keep it earlier next time."

"Okay. Good night."

"Good night."

I lower the violin to my lap and look at it. My fingers hurt. The calluses I built up over fifteen years are mostly gone, and the pads of my left fingers are red and tender. The skin on the side of my neck where the chinrest sat is raw.

I haven't felt anything in my body like this in a long time.

I loosen the bow, lay the violin in the case, and close the lid without latching it. I cross to the dresser, pull on a clean T-shirt and underwear, and turn off the desk lamp.

The room goes dark.

I get into bed and lie on my back. The window is closed and the curtain is drawn. The room is dark except for the thin line of streetlight along the top of the curtain.

The cool edge is in the air.

I know now. I'm certain. There's no air conditioning in the apartment and the heat is on — there's nothing in this room that should be cold. The cool edge is the cool edge of something that's in the room with me.

I don't move.

I don't turn on the lamp.

I lie on my back and I look at the dark ceiling and I say, quietly, into the room:

"I don't know who you are."

The room doesn't answer.

"I don't know what you are."