“You’re right, the craftsmanship is good. Very good. You see how the sides flare, and the feminine winding on the scroll? See the shape of the back, how it bows, and how it’s solid, not two pieces? Even underneath all the grime, it’s definitely Italian.”
Carefully he removed more built-up rosin. “Nice underlying varnish, actually. Maybe if it were cleaned up I could better assess it.” He pulled out a slender tape measure, took several measurements. “The dimensions…” He looked at Ray. “They’re very interesting. You might have something here.”
“Can it be brought up to a soloist level?” Dr. Stevens asked.
“I don’t know.” Fischer paused. “Maybe.” He turned it over and over. “Yes, maybe. I think it could be. You’re right and I’m wrong. It’s actually a nice instrument. There’s a bit of warping, but I think I can correct it. Whoever did this repair work”—he gestured—“did a terrible job, but that’s easily fixed. The question is whether it can really be restored to the way it should play.”
“How much do you think it will cost? To try fixing?” Ray asked.
“Once the top comes off I’ll have a better idea. I can tell you right now that the inside is really dirty, and the grime on the varnish alone is a job in itself. The sound post might need to be replaced.”
“And the bridge, and the pegs…” Ray said.
Fischer waved that away. “That’s just cosmetic. This old beauty needs someone to really pay attention to her, really clean her up and bring her back. That takes time. Let’s say fifteen hundred dollars.”
“Goodness,” Dr. Stevens said. “But we’re not even sure if it will be at the level of at least the Rinaldi when you’re done?”
“Correct.”
Ray took one longing look at the Rinaldi tempting him from the wall. There really was no question. A tiny figure in a pink housecoat, her hair in curlers and her hands on a walker, stood behind him, just out of sight. If he turned quickly enough, perhaps he’d catch a glimpse of her—perhaps he’d hear her “Ooooh, baby” again.
“Okay, let’s do it,” he said. “Do you need a down payment for fixing mine?”
“Ray, you sure?” Dr. Stevens asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure. If it can’t be fixed, maybe I can buy the Rinaldi instead.” He rummaged in the violin’s compartment for a pencil, wrote his name on the side of the fingerboard.
“Why are you doing that?” Jacob asked.
Even though she’d vouched for Mr. Fischer, Dr. Stevens had told him in the past about dicey violin dealers: “You can’t trust them. They appraise, repair, and sell instruments—huge conflict of interest.”
“This old fiddle is really special to me, even if it can’t be fixed. No offense, but I’ll feel more comfortable if I know I marked it. Better safe than sorry.”
* * *
—
He’d given Jacob the violin more than two weeks ago. Now, standing in front of the music building where Dr. Stevens had summoned him, he wasn’t sure what he’d agreed to. Around them the March wind blew raw and miserable, but Ray could barely feel it.
“Jacob Fischer called me this afternoon,” Dr. Stevens began.
“Why wouldn’t he call me? What’s wrong?”
“He called me because he’s known me for a long time and this is a very unusual situation.”
“Unusual? How?”
“Ray.” She took a breath. “He thinks the violin is eighteenth-century Italian.” Three families in Italy were renowned during that time for making the most exquisite, most expensive violins in the world: the Amatis, the Guarneris, and, most famous, the Stradivaris. These violins were worth tens of thousands of dollars—sometimes millions.
Ray waited for her to burst out laughing. She didn’t. “What are you talking about? You think it’s a Stradivarius?”
“It’s a serious possibility.”
The entire situation struck him as stupidly absurd. PopPop’s fiddle? Seriously?
He sat down on a bench along the path, put his forehead in his hands, closed his eyes. “Look, it’s cold out here. If this is your way of telling me I have to practice more, I get it.”
“I’m not joking. I’ve known Jacob for a long time. He called me to tell me that it might be something special. I want you to take it to a top appraiser. In New York.”