“Wha—no, we’d like it appraised,” Ray said.
“This is an assessment and appraisal,” Janice put in.
Rowland shook his head. “Fifteen. Cash.”
Fifteen thousand dollars could buy a lot of violins. Could pay travel costs for auditions. Could set him up on his feet. “I’m sorry,” Ray said, “it’s really not for sale.”
“Twenty-five and that is my very final offer.”
“It’s been in my family for years,” Ray said. “I’m not selling it. Ever.”
“Excuse us,” Janice said, pulling Ray’s arm. A few feet away, she said quietly, “You sure you don’t want to reconsider? This is a lot of money. Jacob can find you a great violin for that.”
Ray turned back to the man, took the violin gently from him. “I’m not selling,” Ray said. “I can’t sell my grandma’s violin. I’m going to keep this for the rest of my life and pass it down to my kids.”
Rowland nodded once. “I expected as much. Come.” With no further comment he turned, retreated up the red damask steps. They threaded behind the counter and followed him. At the top of the stairs, heavy metal doors glowered. Ray gripped the violin more tightly.
Rowland pulled out an elaborate key; when he turned it, a keypad with numbers lit up. He pressed a sequence and the heavy door opened smoothly. They found themselves in a room that ran the entire length of the building, the space filled with cases, instruments, worktables, tools, and what looked to be a well-equipped scientific laboratory. One table held the back of a cello with electrodes bored into it; on another, a violin lay on its side with six magnifying glasses surrounding it from multiple angles. Although it was just after 9:00 a.m., several people in white aprons seemed to be engaged in important tasks.
“Lay your violin here and take a seat.”
Ray placed his case on a table lined with maroon velvet. Rowland put on a pair of white gloves and opened the violin case. “Alexa,” he said to the room, “play old-school hip-hop.”
Within moments the Beastie Boys’ music pumped through wall-mounted speakers around the room.
Under bright lights, on the velvet-lined table, Rowland began his appraisal. Lamps suspended on pulleys from the ceiling lit the violin from every angle as he, jeweler’s loupe over one eye, focused on every inch, traced every curve, every corner, pulling down different colored lights, changing the lighting and the colors, flipping through dozens of magnifying glasses of different intensities. Every few minutes he’d pause, write down something, and then resume his examination.
Finally, at about 1:15 p.m.—Ray’s stomach was rumbling and he was just about to ask if they could order something from a local deli—Rowland abruptly stood up, violin in hand.
“It is done,” he said.
“It is? What do you think?” Janice asked. Ray braced himself.
Instead, unexpectedly, Rowland grinned. His blue eyes lit up. Ray couldn’t help smiling back.
“Now that I am done,” Rowland said, “I would like to ask permission to play this violin, since you will not sell it to me.”
That wasn’t what Ray was expecting, but he said, “Yeah, sure. Of course. Go ahead.” He and Janice looked at each other. Janice shrugged.
“Thank you, young man.” Rowland took out Ray’s bow and tightened it so it was just off the wood. “Alexa, stop.” From the speakers, Lil Wayne’s voice cut off.
Ray had seen videos of bohemian Gypsy and bluegrass players using very loose bows but had never seen it in person. Then Rowland busted out with an incredible display of virtuosity. His fingers flew up and down the fingerboard. Ray was astounded that someone with such large hands could move them so dexterously. The more he played, the more possessed he looked. He drew the bow in one final flourish, stared at the violin for a moment, and then handed it to Ray, bowed slightly. “Jacob Fischer did an exceptional job on this violin. Please pack your instrument away. I will meet you downstairs.”
“What—”
Rowland’s forefinger waved him silent, then gestured for him to return the violin to its case. Wordlessly he disappeared through a door in one corner of the room. Ray and Janice returned down the stairs.
After about twenty minutes, Rowland’s heavy tread resounded in the stairwell, and a moment later he appeared, carrying a leather-bound folder.
“Jacob Fischer is correct,” Rowland told them. “It is an Italian violin, constructed during the so-called golden age of violin making. This is, without question, one of the better examples. This varnish is exquisite. It cannot be duplicated. Even the fingerboard is well preserved. It is pure ebony. The shape of the body is unique and absolutely unmistakable. It is without question a Stradivarius. And a fine example of one. There is no label, however.”