Dr. Stevens drove them out one Friday afternoon. They’d made an appointment ahead of time. Jacob Fischer—“Call me Jacob, son, don’t call me Mr. Fischer”—was waiting behind the counter and came out to meet them in the middle of the showroom floor. A grizzled man with a tonsure surrounded by wild, wiry black-and-gray hair, a hooked nose, thin lips, a back hunched from years of bending over a worktable, he’d seemed daunting each time Ray had met him, and today was no exception. He shook both their hands, called Professor Stevens “young lady,” and was deferential to them both. This was a far cry from the music shop in the Georgia mall years before.
Fischer had heard Ray play several times. “Your Brahms A major sonata reminded me of Nigel Kennedy at your age.”
“Wow. Thanks, Mr. Fischer. That’s so nice.” Ray was getting better at accepting compliments.
“Jacob. And I mean it.”
Dr. Stevens explained that Ray would soon be making the audition rounds and needed a violin that was up to the task.
Fischer led them over to the violins that hung like hourglass-shaped jewels on the wall. “Try this one on for size,” he said to Ray, reaching for a tiger-striped, honey-colored beauty with mother-of-pearl inlaid pegs. He lifted it from its rack, extended it to Ray, who grasped it cautiously. Ray slid his bow across the strings, tuned the D string—it was slightly flat—and played an A-major scale all on the G string to get the feel of it. Then he launched into the third movement of the Mendelssohn Concerto, the vast sound reaching up from the ground and growing leaves and blossoms. The tone on the E string seemed to float from his chest, not from the instrument at all. He closed his eyes and let the violin serenade him.
“That’s what a high-level violin can do,” Dr. Stevens told him. “And that’s why you need one.”
Mr. Fischer—Jacob—nodded. “That sounded most impressive, young man. That’s the kind of instrument you should have.”
“How much is it?” He was afraid to ask. He wanted it desperately.
“This little beauty is thirty-six thousand dollars,” he said. “It’s a Eugene Lehman from 1959. It’s actually a steal at this price—in New York, you’d probably pay one hundred thousand for it.”
Ray swallowed. “That’s what I was afraid of.” Gently, he handed the Lehman back to Fischer. “It may be a bit much for me.”
“He needs something top tier, though,” Dr. Stevens said. “You can see how much talent he has. Audition season starts in May, and he has a shot at some very interesting possibilities. We need to find him something that’s more affordable but will showcase his skills.”
They spent the next two hours trying various instruments. Ray kept circling back to a 1997 Rinaldi. It was definitely a soloist’s instrument, with only two previous owners. The sound was as pure as light and easily filled the shop. At $5,200, it was a steal but still vastly more than he wanted to pay. He had just over $8,000 in his savings account. So it was possible. But that was money he planned to live off—to pay rent and to travel to auditions. He’d have very little left.
“Are we sure that mine can’t be fixed?” he said. PopPop’s fiddle still rested on the counter, where he’d deposited it when they’d come into the store. He’d long ago replaced the alligator-skin case with a lighter hard case that had much more padding as well as four bow compartments. The alligator-skin case he’d wrapped carefully in a garbage bag and stowed beneath his bed.
“Let’s take a look.” Fischer opened the case, pulled out PopPop’s fiddle, glanced at it. “This looks like early factory made, right off the assembly line. You’d be investing in a new fingerboard, new bridge, fitting the pegs. At the end of the day I don’t think it would be worth my time or your money.”
“It’s not factory made,” Ray said. “It’s been in my family for more than a hundred years. When I first got it, I had one repair job done. Maybe that’s what you’re looking at?”
“It’s a filthy mess,” Jacob said. Despite Ray’s best polishing efforts, the violin was still whitish from decades of unremoved Good Luck Dust. Jacob pulled out a bottle of solvent, dabbed a little on a cotton swab, rubbed it on the violin’s back, and the rosin magically disappeared. He dabbed the cotton swab in a few more places, front and back. He slipped behind the counter, into a back room, and returned with several tools—calipers, screwdrivers, magnifying glasses, a jeweler’s loupe. He examined the violin front and back, looking into the F holes with a portable light.