The Notes That Never Die
The men play, every afternoon, in a park in the city where men and women around them play dominoes and chess and try to ignore the tourists.
They play the erhus the way their parents and uncles and aunts and grandparents taught them, instruments which have changed only slightly since the barbarians brought them into China 1,000 years ago.
Oh, the bow has horsehair now instead of being a rosined stick, and the snakeskin stretched across the end of the qin tong is very nearly a controlled substance the way the government regulates it these days, but otherwise they play the erhu the same way their ancestors have.
It almost defines Chinese music. The erhu may be made of simple materials but music of unrivaled emotion is hidden within its depths, waiting to be released. Using nothing more than a bow and two strings, without frets or fingerboard, masters can imitate birds, humans and horses, or they can make audiences laugh, cry, yearn, or weep openly with hauntingly beautiful melodies.
Or, maybe, just fill the hats, bowls and open instrument cases in front of their park bench with cash.
There is no grand tradition or mythology of erhus being used to ward off or appease monsters or ghosts, not in any specific way or notable stories I’m aware of.
At least, not that have ever been written down.
But the men never miss a day.
I wonder what would happen, if they did.
