Dion

In a small mountain town in northern Italy, the sunset paints the city, now shrouded in darkness, with a thin, orange-red hue, as night begins to break. You sit alone in a café by the slope, seemingly a century old. Its cobblestone base is topped with light-colored wooden planks, softly illuminated by vintage chandeliers. The small space, though filled with tables and chairs, doesn't feel crowded, exuding a perfectly lively atmosphere. You've been coming here every few days since your first visit, for over two months now. You love the atmosphere, and the food is excellent—coffee, drinks, simple vegetable sandwiches to fragrant flatbreads, fries, and pizzas—not elaborate dishes, but with profound flavors. Sitting on the terrace offers a panoramic view, overlooking much of the city, watching the smooth, worn cobblestone streets shimmer like jewels in the sunset, flowing like a stream. In comparison, the interior seating seems rather cramped.

Even so, you always choose the seat at the very back of the shop, for no other reason. You look at the small stage not far away, perhaps just a slightly raised platform, and on it stands a person.

It all started on a night similar to today, when you were drawn to a similarly beautiful street, and somehow got lost in the winding alleys. After finally finding your way, relief and exhaustion made your stomach rumble unceremoniously. You wanted to hurry home to make dinner, but this shop stopped you. The warm lights and lively atmosphere drew you inside.

Although you wanted to stay outside, maintaining a proper distance from the crowd, the shop was exceptionally busy, packed to the brim, with no empty seats on the terrace. A waiter led you directly inside.

Then you heard him, accompanied by a light melody. The man stood on the stage, but his movements were unruly, like a dancer tapping his feet. He wore a crisp black vest and suit trousers, looking impeccably dressed. His pristine white long-sleeved shirt added a touch of refined elegance, shimmering under the lights. He held a violin, its antique yet radiant appearance clearly that of a cherished treasure. You almost mistook the violin for a graceful, alluring dancer, with him acting as her male accompaniment. The way he pressed the strings with his left hand was so tender and sensual, almost like caressing a lover. His right hand, however, drew the bow without hesitation, its movements vigorous and powerful, creating a lively melody that resonated with the applause of the patrons in the restaurant. He looked remarkably young, slender yet with a youthful face, beautifully framed by long, blond hair tied in a ponytail, making him almost feminine. Everyone in the café seemed captivated by him, swaying to his movements or holding their breath for his music. "One more song, bro!" "Encore! Encore!" He didn't respond to the jeers, his smile masking the silent shifting of the music, which seemed to brighten the restaurant. The melody grew lighter, like a little girl dancing, sometimes like a deep bass bell, sometimes like a beautiful woman frowning; his music was like a panorama of the world's myriad scenes.

From that moment on, you knew that this was a café filled with music.

Today, you came there again, ordering a simple sandwich, accompanied by the man's music. He still smiled faintly, gently playing a simple arrangement of Vivaldi's 'Winter,' as light as snowflakes and as sweet as cotton candy. You were amazed by his control over soft notes, his skill was superb, but because of this, the music almost blended into the noisy background of the restaurant, and you couldn't hear it clearly.

Crash! You heard the sound of glass shattering, followed by the sound of people arguing. In this lively place, fueled by alcohol, arguments were sometimes inevitable, but today it had gone a bit too far. A man who clearly looked like a thug stood with another burly man with a long beard. You'd seen the latter a few times; he was a regular customer, a bit rude but a straightforward and good person. Today he was wearing a dark pink polo shirt, his muscular arms bulging the short sleeves, his hairy forearms exposed. "Hey, what did you just say to me? You dare say it again!" You heard his gruff curse. Then came the thug's sneer, the sound of breaking dishes, followed by his hoarse, strained recitation of Italian.

A chill ran down your spine. The older man grabbed the thug by the neck, and in an instant, the screeching sound of tables and chairs being dragged filled the air. The situation was on the verge of spiraling out of control, you thought.

A sharp whistling sound ripped through the air, and the older man's fist stopped in mid-air. Time seemed to stand still in the store; the customers all craned their necks. The sound still hanging in the air was like the death rites of a banshee. A moment later, you realized it was the sound of a violin.

The bass notes rose in waves, like the footsteps of a death knight. The man, still in his black vest, began to play. 'Summer,' you initially thought. A chilling chant rose from the violin on the man's shoulder, the melody gradually quickening, the accents and undulating vibrato seamlessly connected. Although the arrangement was similar, you realized it wasn't Vivaldi. The lines gradually softened, and the pianist, who often partnered with the man, joined in, the harmonies blooming like flowers in the night. The man's violin playing remained at a steady pace, echoing the piano in a fugue-like harmony.

The thug being grabbed stared blankly at the man, mesmerized. "What the guy... what's he doing..."

The burly man maintained his upright posture, but his raised hand slowly lowered. "...Shut up, bitch." He too stared at the violinist with a fascination, his mouth agape. "It's because he's here, I won't argue with you. Don't you dare interfere with that person's performance..."

The man stood between the tables, a pitiful smile on his face as he looked down at the guests. Now, his eyes slowly closed, his head leaning closer to the trembling violin and bow. The music quickened, descending phrases paired with rising melodic lines, gradually lifting the audience's emotions and breaths like a fishhook being pulled up repeatedly.

Suddenly, the music and the breaths stopped abruptly.

The next instant, notes cascaded down like an avalanche. The violinist smiled, his steps among the surrounding guests seemingly dancing with the music, filled with genuine joy and delight. The pianist perfectly complemented him, the sound booming, yet as exhilarating as a summer thunderstorm. However, this was not an ensemble—the violinist, lost in the music, controlled everything, guiding its every step. He writhed in pain at times, then relaxed and expansive at others.

The final chorus seemed to make the world dance. Every eye in the space was fixed on the violin and the man; pounding hearts transformed into audible applause and stomping, echoing through the walls, with the man at the center playing the very essence of life—

The man's bow hovered in the air, the lingering notes of the music still resonating, his heart pounding like a drum. No one dared believe the music was over until the man opened his eyes as if waking from a dream, his handsome face glistening with joyful sweat.

The café was engulfed in applause. "BRAVO!!!!!" "Fantastic!!!!!" The shouts rose and fell. The man seemed to only then remember the audience, shyly lowering the violin before him, a bashful smile on his face.

You, standing beside him, though listening to the powerful melody, felt as if it were a reluctant requiem.

義大利北部的山邊小鎮，晚霞將沒入黑暗的城市鍍上一層薄薄的橙紅色暈邊，夜才剛開始被奏響。 你一個人坐在坡道邊的咖啡館，這裡似乎已有百年歷史，石磚為基底，其上再搭以淺色的木板，被復古的吊燈柔和的點亮，不大的空間雖然放滿桌椅卻不顯擁擠，呈現恰到好處的熱鬧歡騰。從第一次光顧開始，你隔幾天就來這裡吃飯，已經持續兩個多月了。你很喜歡這裡的氣氛，他們的餐點也非常棒，咖啡、酒水，簡單的蔬菜三明治到香氣四溢的烤餅、薯條、披薩，並非繁複的料理卻有深沉的滋味；如果是坐在街邊露臺的椅子上就能享有寬廣的風景，向下俯瞰大半市街，看被磨得圓潤的青石磚道像寶石般在霞色中閃耀，小河般順流而下，相比之下，店內的座位就顯得有些狹小了。

即便如此，你每次都選擇店內最深處的位置，原因不為什麼。你看向不遠處的小小舞台，或許只是個稍微凸起的踏台，檯面上站著一個人。

起因是與今天相似的某夜，你被同樣美麗的街道吸引，冥冥之中迷失在蜿蜒的小徑間。你終於找到方向後，安心與虛脫讓你的肚子不客氣地叫了起來，你想要快點趕回家做晚餐，卻被這間店停下腳步。溫暖的燈光和熱鬧的氛圍吸引你走進店裡。 雖然你很想待在店外，與人群保持恰到好處的距離，但當時店裡的生意分外之好，座無虛席，露臺上毫無空位，服務生直接帶你到店內坐下。 然後你聽到他，伴著輕快的旋律。那個男人站在舞台上，卻不規矩地、跳舞似地點著腳。他一身筆挺的黑背心配西裝褲，看起來儀表堂堂，雪白的長袖襯衫看起來清新脫俗，在燈光下折折生輝。他持著一把小提琴，古舊卻光彩照人的樣子分明是受到呵護的珍品。你幾乎把那把提琴錯覺成一位窈窕瀲灩的舞孃，他作男伴舞著，也因為那個男人左手壓弦的姿態，是那麼的柔情、性感，幾乎像是在愛撫情人一般。 他的右手拉弓卻毫不遲疑，動作猶勁，推拉往復之間，譜出充滿生氣的舞曲，與餐廳裡眾人的拍手聲應和著。他的外貌極爲年輕，身材苗條的同時臉龐也顯得極爲稚嫩，在一頭綁著馬尾的長金髮美麗襯托下，女子般動人。 咖啡廳裡的眾人似乎都成為了他的俘虜，每個人不是隨著他的動作搖擺，就是為他的音樂屏息。「兄弟再來一首啊！」「安可！安可！」他對起鬨不作回應，微笑間只有音樂默默的變換，餐廳裡彷彿明亮起來。旋律更加輕快，彷彿小女孩跳著舞般，時而如男低音的宏鐘，時而如美人蹙眉，他的音樂宛如森羅了浮世百景。

你從此知道，那裡是間響著歌的咖啡館。

今天你依舊來到那裡，簡單點一份三明治，伴著那男人的音樂。他依舊淡淡的微笑著，輕柔拉奏的是簡單改編的韋瓦第的《冬》，正宛若雪花般輕盈，也若棉花糖般甜美。你驚訝他對於弱音的掌控，功力極為了得，但也因此，音樂幾乎融入嘈雜的餐廳背景中，你聽不太清楚。 嘩啦，你聽到玻璃摔碎的聲音，然後是人們爭執的話聲。在這座熱鬧的場所，加上酒精推波助瀾，有時爭吵難免，但今天的情況也有點超過了。一個看起來明顯是混混的男人和另一位長鬍子的彪形大漢站著，你見過後者那位男性幾次，是店裡的常客，言行有點粗魯不過是個率直的好人，今天他穿著一襲暗粉色Polo衫，壯碩的手臂把短袖撐得鼓鼓的，長滿毛髮的前臂露在外面。 「喂，你剛剛說我什麼?你再說一遍啊?」你聽到他粗野的罵聲。 然後是混混的獰笑聲，杯盤砸碎的聲音，接著是他裂開沙啞的一段，你不堪入耳的義大利字眼。 你覺得背脊一陣發涼。那位大叔揪住了混混的脖子，一瞬間桌椅拖動的刺耳聲音響起，情況瀕臨失控，你想。

一陣尖銳的嘯聲劃破空氣，大叔揮出的拳在半空中停了下來。店裡的時間似乎靜止，顧客都仰起頭；還懸在空中的聲音，像是女妖的死告之聲。片刻，你才發現那是小提琴的琴音。

低音一陣一陣響起，宛若死騎的步伐。那個男人，一套黑褲背心依舊，開始了演奏。《夏》，你原本是那麼以為的。凜然的吟唱從男人肩上的提琴響起，旋律逐漸加快，重音與起伏的顫音無縫銜接，雖然是相似的編曲，但你意識到這不是韋瓦第。線條逐漸變得柔和，常和男人搭檔的鋼琴師加入了演奏，和聲彷彿在夜中開啟了花朵。男人的琴音速度依舊，與鋼琴一前一後，賦格式的應和著。

被揪著的混混看傻了眼，望著男人出神。「這傢伙……搞什麼鬼……」 粗獷的大叔維持著挺身的姿勢，但舉著的手逐漸慢慢垂下。「……閉嘴，婊子。」他也著迷似的注視著拉琴的男人，嘴巴張開。「因為他在，我才不跟你吵。你別有膽干擾那個人的演奏……」

那人站在餐桌間，露出哀憐的笑容俯視賓客，而現在眼睛緩緩閉上，頭也更靠向震顫的琴與弓。樂曲不斷加速，下行的短句，配上不斷上升的旋律線條，逐漸如一次次拉起的魚鉤一般，將觀眾們的情緒和呼吸都帶上高點。

頃刻間，樂曲與呼吸嘎然而止。

下一瞬間，音符如雪山崩塌般傾瀉下來。提琴手露出笑容，在圍繞身邊的賓客間移動的腳步，彷彿與音樂共舞，充滿真摯的歡欣和喜悅。鋼琴師也與其完美配合，琴音轟然，卻如夏日雷雨一般痛快。然而，這不是合奏――那個陶醉在音樂裡的提琴家掌握了一切，引領著音樂的腳步。他時而痛苦扭動，時而放鬆舒展。 最後一次的副歌，彷彿世界都為之起舞。空間裡的每一雙眼睛都照著提琴與男人，彭湃的心跳成了已能聽見的鼓掌與跺腳聲，在牆裡迴盪，中心是那個演奏著生命本身的男人――

男人手中的琴弓懸在空中，樂曲的餘音還未歇，如鼓的心潮依舊，沒人敢相信音樂結束了，直到男人夢醒似地睜開眼睛，清秀的臉上布滿喜悅的汗水。

咖啡館被掌聲淹沒。「BRAVO!!!!!」「太棒了!!!!!」的聲音此起彼落。男人似乎才想起觀眾的存在，害羞似地把琴放下到身前，露出靦腆的微笑。

你在一旁，雖然聽了澎湃的曲子，卻感覺像是言不由衷的鎮魂歌。