Shome Dasgupta

A reckoning—when Bale Distefano played the fiddle—furious in movement, violent hands and maddened strings, her face so in focus that her eyes seemed to wander off into the air amid the melodies of her own instrument. Such precision—her gritted teeth and staunch neck, the way her lips remained motionless while she, herself caused such movement, dizzying her audience until the world became mute.

Even the Vermilion could glitter somedays under a kind sun in the morning—Bale sat on its bank, just under the bridge. The humidity hadn’t settled in yet, and the call of the owl could be heard from afar, drifting in and out between the wind and the traffic above. She was surrounded by litter—shoes, bottles, cans, paper bags, plastic bags, Popeye’s—the clutter didn’t bother her unless they were in her favorite spot, between two large shrubs which helped to shield her from the heat with a bit of shade. She saw the glimmer of the Vermilion, focusing on a piece of wood floating with the current. The river was bloated that morning, still healing from a week’s rain, causing flooding throughout Lafayette. Some homes and businesses were just recovering from the previous hurricane season, and they had to start all over again after record high rains.

“Cut,” Bale said. 

Bale, herself, was also healing after not making the cut for a spot in the local band, Fricassee, a group of musicians who were making the scene by opening for the Los Bayou Ramblers.

Again—“Cut,” she said.

It wasn’t so much that Bale didn’t get the spot that bothered her, though of course it did hurt a bit, but it was more so who became the fiddler for Fricassee that troubled her. Ami. Ami was the fiddler—a former boyfriend, a bad split. They were together three years ago, meeting at The Bizarre for an open mic event—it was Ami’s first live performance, while Bale had been a regular for the weekly series. 

“I haven’t seen you around,” Bale said.

Ami stuttered after taking a sip of his drink.

“It’s my first time here.”

Bale saw his fiddle case leaning against his leg.

“I play the fiddle, too,” “I just started playing about a year ago—you?”

“Since I was five or so—my Pa and Ma were fiddlers. It’s in the genes I guess.”

“My dad played, too—you know The Cajun Coo?”

Bale nodded, while looking around the room, studying the crowd.

“He used to play for them.”

“I’ve seen them a million times—I know who you’re talking about. He’s amazing.”

“Thanks.”

He looked around the room as well.

“Is the lineup set yet?” Bale asked.

She glanced at the wall where it’s usually hanging on a beaten up clipboard.

“I’m fourth,” Amie said.

Bale walked up to the list and counted.

“Eighth.”

Bale could tell that Ami was nervous, and though she wanted to talk to some of her friends and the regulars at the venue, she stayed with Ami so that he didn’t focus too much on his upcoming performance. She thought he was handsome and polite, sure, but that was all. It wasn’t until he got up on stage and started playing when she became attracted to him—the way he pursed his lips, tightened forehead, and how he moved his body as he played. 

Once he was playing, he didn’t look nervous to Bale, but in a place where he was supposed to be. They didn’t get a chance to talk after—he was surrounded by people wanting to congratulate him, and Bale didn’t want to be a bother. She sat and waited for her turn, occasionally looking at Ami, perhaps, to get his attention, but he was far too immersed in his conversations and drinks and having a good time. Bale finally got his attention when she went up to perform. Tapping her feet and sounding a rooster’s call before she played her fiddle, it was the one time she looked into the audience while playing, as usually she stared at the floor before her or up toward the ceiling, but never at the crowd. She caught his eyes and fell in love in the middle of the song, “The Morning Rise,” one of the few songs she had put lyrics to—about farm life and its morning chores. Singing in Cajun French and English, she bellowed as she had never done before, feeling her throat travel down to her stomach. Tears came down her face—all of her strength revealed through her song.

“Thank you,” she said, breathing hard.

The audience applauded and cheered her on, making Bale smile. Her plaid shirt was drenched in sweat. Ami approached her as she walked off the stage and hugged her as if they had been friends for years. Bale looked at his teeth.

“Mesmerizing,” he said. “I was taken away.”

Normally not shy, Bale didn’t know how to respond—she patted him on the shoulder and tilted her head forward, feeling grateful. As they played more shows at the same venues, whether it was at The Bizarre or elsewhere, Bale and Ami became close friends, and at times, they performed as a duo.  Their first kiss—after a show, outside on a humid night, both holding their fiddles—Bale knew that she was in trouble because it was the first time she felt this way about someone. She didn’t want to be in a relationship, only wanting to focus on her career, seeing if there was a way to make a living out of it while bussing tables at Randol’s Seafood Restaurant.

They moved into an apartment together on University Avenue—split the bills, shared groceries, washed each other’s laundry, had sex, drank together, listened to music—Bale had become more and more comfortable with Ami. Her family was welcoming, and the same with Ami’s, and Bale soaked in as much as she could from Ami’s dad, Amiot, in awe of his talent and experience.

Bale watched a turtle wade in the Vermilion as she thought about her time with Ami.

“Cut,” she said.

Those memories darkened as their breakup entered her mind. The gist of it? Ami loved someone else, and it wasn’t so much that he loved someone else that troubled Bale, but the pain came when she found out that they were affectionate with each other while she and Amie were still together—this was through a mutual friend who was also a musician. It was how it happened that Bale couldn’t forgive, especially as it was Bale’s first relationship, one where she gave it her all to someone else and opened herself up—a way of life she wasn’t used to before meeting Ami.

“I’m sorry, Baley,” Ami said.

They were on the balcony of their apartment.

“Don’t call me that,” Bale said. “No more.”

“What do you want me to say? Don’t be jealous.”

This had set Bale off to the point where she eventually couldn’t even speak even more. There were no tears, just anger, and remaining silent, she packed her belongings and drove 30 minutes home to her parents’ house. It was there where she let her tears out, crying on her mother’s shoulder while her dad rubbed her back in consolation. 

What made it worse was that Bale knew the other lady—the one Ami left her for, Fabienne—long before she had met Ami. They had gone to junior high together, and being the only Black student in the class, standing out from the rest of her classmates just by the color of her skin and her hair and her family, Bale defended her whenever she was being teased. She helped her with her classwork, too, and eventually became close friends until they parted ways for high school. Fabienne was a musician herself—the lead singer and guitarist for a local indie band called The Roux Roux Dolls who were well established by the time both Bale and Ami were emerging artists in the Lafayette circuit. Much like she was during junior high, Fabienne was the only Black singer among the indie pop bands in the city—her ripping voice and stage presence had immediately attracted the crowds, and it didn’t take too long for The Roux Roux Dolls to sign with a local record label, SoleilSoleil. 

Bale couldn’t help but to think that it was Fabienne’s connection with SoleilSoleil that led Ami to leave her in hopes of moving his career forward with his music, especially getting into playing the fiddle in non-traditional styles, such as with rock or pop music, something that Bale would never imagine doing. Bale had admired Fabienne, though, and they would watch each other play and casually tell each other hi, but that was the extent of it.

Was it her eyes, Bale thought—the back of her neck burning as the sun rose. Her pretty eyes—her body or her voice? All of those qualities of Fabienne came to mind as she wondered what was the reason why Ami left her for Fabienne.

“Cut,” she said.

She fiddled with the patches of grass around her, trying to get comfortable as the day became hotter. Even as it glittered, the Vermilion looked sad to Bale, and she held her breath, attempting to listen to its current—to hear if the river had words for her.

When Bale heard about the opening for Fricassee, she was excited—hopeful and confident about joining them. She knew the members of the group, and they had been cordial and welcoming. She restrung her dad’s fiddle and used his instead of her own for good luck, and put on her favorite shoes, which she seldomly wore. The audition was held at one of the band member’s house, which Bale had visited before for random parties and small shows. When she arrived, her mood changed as she saw Ami and Fabienne sitting on the stoop of the house. Ami was smoking a cigarette, which surprised Bale because he wasn’t a smoker when they were together.

“Fuckhead,” she mouthed, while trying not to look at them.

Both Ami and Fabienne stood up. Bale, knowing that there was no way of avoiding them, continued to walk straight, feeling the emptiness in her stomach.

“Hey Bale,” Ami said.

Fabienne waved.

Bale walked straight through, going between them, without saying a word.

“Oh come on, Bale,” Ami said.

“Let her be,” Fabienne said.

She stood at the front of the door, with her back to them, and knocked on the door. It felt like the longest 10 seconds to Bale, but eventually the door opened.

“Hey Roman.”

Roman was her favorite of all the members—kind and considerate, no ego. She walked in, and they went to the living room where all the equipment was set for the auditions. 

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

“I’m really excited about this—thanks so much for having me.”

She was trying to stay focused, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Ami and Fabienne. In the room was the Fricassee crew, along with a few other people Bale didn’t recognize—they were also here for the audition. Roman introduced them to each other, and she said hi to the crew, nervously. She pulled Roman aside.

“Wait, was Ami here for the audition, too?”

“Sorry, pal,” Roman said.

“Did he already go?”

“You’re the last one.”

He sat down on a plastic green chair, grabbing a piece of paper from the floor.

“Let’s just do a jam session for right now—just play along with whatever you feel, and then after that, we can try out a few songs.”

“Perfect,” Bale said.

“You’ll rock it out, for sure.”

Bale appreciated Roman’s welcoming nature, but inside she was burning with anger and frustration to the point that she had already started sweating. 

Why couldn’t he just join The Roux Roux Dolls with Fabienne? Fricassee isn’t what he was going for—so why?

“You ready?” Roman said.

Bale took in a deep breath and nodded. 

One of the guitarists—Cheyanne—started them off, and then came the drums—Carlos—and the bass—Henri. The second guitarist—Dominique—started to play, and Andre was on the triangle. Roman went up to the mic and started singing while playing on the keyboard. The room was shaking.

Focus. Focus. 

Bale started to tap her foot and move her head in rhythm—it didn’t take her too long to become hypnotized, and she played the fiddle as she had never played before. Normally, she would stand in one spot and play, but for the audition, she was moving around, maneuvering her body along with the music—she was taken away in the moment, not in reality, and it was all a blur to her. As she played, memories of learning to play drifted in as she herself in the backyard with her dad teaching her how to string the fiddle. Her mother, on the porch, slapping her knee with one hand while she’s singing to the chickens in the front yard. And Bale herself playing her first show, where there were only a few people in the audience. She played and she played and she played until she was out of breath. When she stopped and came back to reality—her breathing the only sound in the room, she saw everyone in the room looking at her.

An applause.

“Wow,” Roman said.

Bale tried to ease the movement of her chest. 

“You just went for 10 minutes straight after we stopped playing.”

“Really?”

She looked around, seeing Ami and Fabienne in the back of the room.

Did they watch me play? Damn. I hope not.

Fabienne was smiling—Ami, his mouth wide open.

“That was magical,” Roman said. “Why don’t you take a quick break—maybe go outside a bit, before we start playing a few songs or two.”

He patted her on the back.

“Well done, really.”

Bale went outside to gather herself, pacing back and forth in the front yard. Her heavy breathing finally slowed down—her shirt, still soaked. She heard the door open.

Please, not now.

She turned around—Fabienne had stepped outside, walking toward her with a huge smile on her face.

“You rocked it,” she said.

Bale didn’t know how to respond—she didn’t want to respond.

Walking in circles, she entered a vision of sitting next to Fabienne in the classroom, drawing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on each other’s arithmetic sheets. She remembered that Raphael was Fabienne’s favorite. She sighed.

“You think so?”

“No doubt.” 

“It’s still Raphael, right?”

“You know it—Donatello?”

Bale couldn’t help but to smile and nodded.

“I’ve been here since the first audition,” Fabienne said. “I would be shocked if you didn’t get it.”

Bale looked at the door.

“What about Ami?” 

 She laughed.

“He was good—but really, I don’t think anyone could top what you just did. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Bale was feeling a bit better about herself, and about talking to Fabienne—someone she thought she’d never find comfort from. It made her miss the days of when they were at school together.

“Why didn’t he just join Roux Roux? I don’t get why he’s trying for Fricassee. It would’ve been a better fit with you all.”

“I know,” Fabienne said. 

“He knew I’d be going for this spot.”

“I know.”

“So why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I know,” Bale said. “I definitely know the reason why.”

Bale thought about it for a second, wondering if she should get into it—she had switched to walking back and forth again, all within the length of four feet. 

“First, he cheats on me with you,” she said. “Then I break up with him, but he still finds a way to keep being in my life, and he shows up here, knowing full well that I’ll be here.”

“Oh—please, Bale. Wait—about us—-”

Before she could finish her words, Roman opened the door.

“You ready, Bale.”

“Sure.”

“Let’s do it,” Roman said.

Bale played better when she was angry—she didn’t care that Ami and Fabienne were standing in the back of the room while she auditioned with Fricassee. She would look up from time to time, seeing that he was moving his head to the music—making eye contact with her. The more she looked at him—the more he stood there in awe, angrier she became, and her performance became stronger and stronger with each song they played.

The audition ended, and Bale saw Fabienne give her a thumbs up.

“That was amazing, Bale,” Roman said, patting her on the shoulder.

The rest of the band agreed with him, but Bale couldn’t get herself to smile, though she thanked them for the opportunity. Roman hugged her and said that they’ll get in touch soon about the band.

“Thanks for showing up,” he said.

Without looking at Ami or Fabienne, she walked straight to the door, still breathing hard—trying to remember how she played on her way home, it was all a blur to her. Only snippets popped into her head, and she tried to mouth the words from Roman or Fabienne, trying to make herself feel confident about the audition.

Bale’s daydream of the audition, as she sat there in front of the Vermilion, was broken by a loud honk coming from the bridge above. She looked around to gain a sense of her whereabouts.

“Cut,” she said.

That was the word—“cut”—she couldn’t get it out of her head, hearing it from Roman the day before. That day, Bale made sure not to do anything—she kept the phone by her side at all times, basically staying in bed and watching TV at her parent’s home, knowing that the decisions were going to be made that day.

When the phone finally rang—around seven at night—after a day’s worth of impatience and anxiety, Bale put the TV on mute and immediately got out of bed. As usual, she started walking in circles in her room, making the wooden floors creak in rhythm.

“Sorry for taking so long,” Roman said.

“Oh it’s good,” Bale replied. “I know how it goes.”

“I’m so sorry, Bale, I really am but we—-”

She sat back down on her bed, the glow of the TV shining on her face, and the posture of her shadow against the wall sunk. The words sounded muffled to her—almost muffled, coming in bits as she stared at her own lap, fiddling with the blanket. It was so much that Roman was speaking unclearly—it was what he was saying that made her tune in and out.

 “Difficult—direction—sorry—Ami—future—maybe—thank you—-.”

There was a pause before Bale realized that she was supposed to talk—that he had finished speaking—that the conversation required her to respond.

“Oh. Okay. Thank you for the opportunity. Really.”

She felt sick and started to sweat—a different sweat from when she would be playing a show. She leaned back onto the bed and covered her face with her blanket trying to quiet her crying so that her parents wouldn’t hear. Taking deep breaths to soften the sounds, her chest in constant stress.

When it was all done—after her emotions flowed and diminished, she looked at her phone and saw a message from Ami. Sorry you didn’t make the cut, it read, and that was the last of her phone as she threw it against the wall. She watched the pieces splatter on the floor, and silence overtook the room as the bits of her phone stopped rolling around.  It was soon after when Bale’s dad walked in.

“What happened?” he asked. “Are you okay, sweet-pop?”

“Daddy,” she said.

And Bale tried to explain what happened, but the words became disguised in her anger and frustration—breaking down again. Her dad rushed over and hugged her, asking what was wrong—Bale dug her face into his chest, trying not to cry, but the harder she tried, the faster the tears came.

“It’s okay—it’s okay, sweet-pop,” he said, rubbing her back. “It’s okay, Bale, it’s okay.”

The tears stopped, and she turned her face, still against her father’s chest. He continued to console his daughter, rubbing her back and the back of her head. Bale lifted back her head and sat back—still sniffling, she explained to her dad what happened. He listened and emphasized.

“Would you like me to give some thoughts?” he asked. “Or did you just want me to listen, sweet-pop?”

Just by hearing his voice, she felt calm—she felt like she was just a child—so many times her face had been tucked into her dad’s chest.

“What are your thoughts?” she replied.  

“Knowing you, sweet-pop, I think this will lead to even better and stronger opportunities. This will just make you more determined. Stronger. And to be honest, that band made the wrong decision, and their wrong decision is the right move for you. I promise.”

“Ami,” Bale said. “His message killed me. Sorry you didn’t make the cut.”

“Well, sweet-pop,” he said.  “Fuck him—he shouldn’t even be a thought in your head.”

Bale looked at her dad’s face—he was grinning, and she smiled.

“There’s that twinkle,” he said. “Let’s go to IHOP and get some pancakes. I’ll tell Mom that we’ll be home late.”

Bale sniffled and used the blanket to wipe her face.

“I’ll be down in a bit, Daddy.”

It was hot, but Bale didn’t mind it, as she quietly laughed to herself thinking about that night with her dad at IHOP. They were there for two hours—he had seven pancakes and drowned them in syrup, butter, and whipped cream, along with hash browns, sunny-side up eggs, and bacon. She ordered her favorite—two sunny side up eggs, French toast, and a Belgian waffle. Her dad lied to the waiter and said that it was Bale’s birthday, and they were able to get a free ice cream sundae. She thought about how hard she slept last night—immediately drifting away as soon as she closed her eyes. 

Last night seemed forever ago to Bale, having gone through so many emotions. She listened to the river and picked up her fiddle, and she started to play—it was a slow song, a tempo she usually didn’t practice. With her head tilted—the Vermilion, diagonal across her vision, she closed her eyes and let the strings sing a sad song to the river. Drenched in sweat—the air, humid and heavy, Bale felt comfortable—in a dream or a lullaby, she felt at peace for the first time in a long time. When she finished, she opened her eyes and on the other side of the river, she saw a lamb looking at her.

“Best audience ever,” she said.

“Magical,” Fabienne said. “As always—that was amazing.”

Bale turned her head around—she was holding an acoustic guitar. She turned her head back around, not speaking.

“Can I sit with you?”

She didn’t respond.

“Please, Bale.”

Bale stood up and brushed the grass off and started to walk away, but Fabienne pleaded for her to stop.

“Donatello, please, wait.”

She stopped.

“What?”

“Come back, please—just sit with me.”

“Why? All you do is lie and cheat—literally.”

“That’s not fair, Bale.”

“Fair?”

She laughed in disbelief.

“What’s not fair? Fucking my boyfriend while we were still together? Oh. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you fucked my boyfriend while we were still together, and I wasn’t happy about it, and I didn’t support you and him cheating on me. I’m so sorry, Fabienne. I’m sorry about that, and that it’s unfair that I’m mad at you because you lied and fucked my Ami while we were still together. My apologies, Fabienne.”

“Wait—that’s not what I meant.”

“What’s not fair then?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I didn’t mean that. I know. I didn’t mean that you were being unfair.”

“But you meant to fuck Ami, right?”

Fabienne took a deep breath and sat in the grass, putting her guitar next to her. 

“You still got the grit don’t you,” she said. “Good. Always keep that grit, Bale.”

Bale heard her father’s voice in her head—the lamb across the river was chewing grass, and she felt calm again.

“I’m sorry,” Fabienne said. “For it all—I’m sorry for it all. I promise.”

Bale walked up to her, but she didn’t sit down.

“Why are you here?”

“Ami told me you’d be here—he said it’s your favorite spot.”

“Why are you here?”

“I want to play with you?”

Bale saw themselves playing on the swing sets at school.   

“Play.”

“I want to play with you,” Fabienne said. “Come sit. Please.”

 She continued to stand—overhead, a flock of birds were flying—they vanished into the sun, and the lamb was gone, but she could hear it bleating in the distance.

“I didn’t know,” Fabienne said. “I didn’t know that you and Ami were still together at the time. I thought that you all had broken up.”

Bale kept her distance, but she sat down.

“It wasn’t until later I found out,” she continued. “And I was mad at Ami—I went off on him.”

This made Bale feel better.

“But what we have is nothing big, Bale—it really isn’t genuine. I promise.”

“I get it,” Bale replied.

“And look—to be honest, I don’t expect this to last, and I’m sure he’ll find someone else or I’ll find someone else. It’s just for right now. He just wants to get his music label—that’s all he wants.”

Fabienne laughed.

“I’m bi, anyway—who knows, maybe we can get together and get back at him one day.”

This made Bale smile.

“I wanted to kill him,” she said. “This message he sent last night about not making the cut—-”

“I know,” Fabienne interrupted. “I saw it. I’ve already taken care of that.”

They were both drenched in sweat. Fabienne wiped her forehead.

“Don’t worry about Fricassee,” she said. “You need to form your own band. No group right now can handle you—you’re too good, too powerful. That’s all, Bale—they’re just scared.”

Bale couldn’t get herself to still be mad at her. It was even harder for her to remain angry as memories of them being friends at school flowed in and out. She moved a bit closer to Fabienne and picked up her fiddle and started to play the same song she had been stringing when Fabienne first arrived. She picked up her acoustic guitar and started to strum it—together, like they were Donatello and Raphael from years ago—they were in harmony, and the Vermilion River flowed and listened.