“Hands of a Matía,” she murmured out loud.
Then, Lucy paused.
Really?
Catalin Matía would smile whenever someone described great music as divine.
To him, that was nonsense. Great music is all about weakness, uncertainty, mortality—what does Heaven know of these?
In the same way, there is nothing transcendent about a violin. It is maple, spruce, ebony, an ounce or so of hide glue, some brushes of varnish.
Perhaps this why the violin fits the human soul fit so perfectly—only such a simple, mortal object can hold its fragility and turn it into a prayer.
Even without a player, a violin has music. Just as a painting artfully holds and reflects light, a violin shapes and glows with sound. A motorcycle passes. Someone vocalizes next door. The air conditioner hums. Even without a player—even without strings—the violin responds to it all.
Of course, not every piece of wood can manifest this music, just as not every pair of hands can create it. People pay thousands, millions of dollars to acquire such a violin.
Or $241 plus shipping.
Because this violin was trying. Faintly, and almost as if buried or bound. But Lucy was certain. In the quiet of the shop, even after all it had endured, this violin was trying, with all its soul, to sing.
What would Catalin Matía do?
Lucy didn’t need to imagine.
She remembered her grandfather insisting that Paganini’s il Cannone was just another sloppy Guarneri before Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume got to it. In fact, Vuillaume had crafted an exact copy of the instrument that not even Paganini could detect.
“Oh, Paganini is important, of course—but it took Vuillaume to shave a bit, cut a bit, move the support a little. We do not merely repair violins. We set them free!”
But Lucy was not Catalin Matía.
Besides, wasn’t it time to close shop? Tomorrow, Mr. Zacatecas’s violin would be completely dry. She would remove the clamps, put on a fresh set of Tonicas, and Mr. Zacatecas would be good to go.
As for this instrument in front of her? She had gotten very lucky with the bridge. Tomorrow morning, she would cover any scratches with a stroke or three of spirit varnish, and by lunchtime, the parts she’d ordered would arrive at the shop. Then she would make some quick adjustments, pop in the Milo Stamm, string with the Evah Pirazzis, give it a quick buff with a fresh microfiber cloth, and she’d be done.
The new components of course would improve the sound. And Shizuka Satomi would be a good contact to have. She might send a few more students, then maybe even refer another school or two.
Which would mean a bit more time to hope, hope to God that Andrew might inherit her father’s talent and bring Matía and Sons back from the dead.
Her mind made up, Lucy put on her coat, turned off the lights, and opened the door. The doorbell jingled.
No, no, no …
There it was again … like a child asking for water.
Could that student have heard this?
Lucy recalled the adjustment the girl had made to the sound post. How Shizuka said she had been playing a little sharp. And what she said at the end.
“Can you help—”
Not fix. Help.
Of course she knew. That girl had been doing everything she could to set her violin free.
Lucy took off her coat and put it back on the hanger. She picked up her phone.
“Miss Satomi? I’m sorry to call you so late. No, there’s no problem. It’s just that I found something unexpected. If you don’t mind, I’d like a little more time.”
* * *
“She said that she found something interesting with your violin,” her teacher said. “Don’t worry. As I said, it is in the best of hands.”
That was her teacher, Shizuka Satomi. Who had just talked to the person repairing her violin, a person who had worked on a Stradivarius.
Two weeks ago, Katrina had to sneak into a boba place, much like this, just to use the restroom. Today, Katrina got up and walked to the bathroom. Thank goodness it was gender-neutral and single-stall. But even if it weren’t, Miss Satomi would surely protect her. When she emerged, there was K-Pop on the screens overhead. Tables were full of people studying, chatting, playing cards.
And at her table, was Miss Satomi and a large kiwi bing sa.
This was not real. This could not be real. This was like being in an anime or a fairy tale. But there was no such thing, was there?
“Miss Satomi, what will this cost?”
“I’m paying.”
Katrina shook her head.
“That’s not what I mean. What will this cost?”
Shizuka had heard this question six times before. Six times, it was business, with nothing hidden, with everyone’s intentions clear. Shizuka had spoken to each ambitious prodigy of fame, virtuosity, acclaim, and how they might have all they wanted, if only they traded their soul.