Excerpt: The Uncertainty Syndrome

And then this glum moment was torn asunder as someone scrapped mercilessly along a the strings of a violin, and the man who called himself Bill Ryan stepped out of the doorway of the next building over. He was now once again dressed in his weird folk clothes, which had bells sewn into the cuffs of his pants and at his wrists, among the copious embroidered motifs. The tiny, tinny bells sounded oddly like the click of chains, as if he was wearing some sort of prison shackle rather than the delicate chimes of a jester.

Having caught their attention, the tall man made the awkward, long legged sort of bow one gets from men who have instruments tucked under their chins, and played a melancholy little tune with appealing competence.

“So,” Antigone said, expressionlessly dull, “you can play that thing.”

“After a fashion,” Bill Ryan agreed. “It is remarkable what one can do if one has all the time in the world to practice. Of course, all the competence in the world won’t make me any good.” He savagely struck at the strings with the bow, making them whine horrifically.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, like someone already bored with the conversation, but too mired in it to pull away.

“I’m saying, I can play this instrument note perfect- and I can- but I will never be a fine musician, because I lack… passion. My best performances are too mechanical. I have put a great deal of effort into learning this instrument, but I will never be able to rise above mere competence; because no matter how much I practice, even for another few hundred years, I will never transcend my profound lack of talent.”

“Is that a parable? Something I’m supposed to take to heart?”

“No,” Ryan said, picking out a jaunty melody on his violin sulkily. “Just making conversation. Spare a penny miss?” he whined at a passerby, who quickened her pace and fled up the street.