His expression slowly changed from expectancy to sour disappointment. He passed the instrument back to Carlo. "It's a pretty little fiddle," said the violinist, "but not adequate for my talent."
Carlo never built another violin.
To make his humiliation complete, this outhouse sat behind the estate house just purchased by Porfino for his summer home. The great man had thrown Carlo a scrap of work in his usual condescending manner. "Every man has his place in the world." He had chuckled as he strutted away, pushing his big belly in front of him.
Carlo picked up his tool bag, but made no move to approach the building. Is life without purpose worth living? No, it wasn't, but Carlo could not find the courage to end it. Feet dragging, he crossed the remaining distance.
From his tool pouch, he took a pry-bar and went to work. He started on the seat, a wide commodious three-holer, and immediately ran into difficulty. The wood was so dense he could not pull the nails. Closer inspection revealed the seat had been shaped from one large billet of maple. When he finally succeeded in lifting the heavy seat off its supports and dragging it outside, the bright sun revealed a startling fact. Where generations of bare bottoms had polished the wood, he found the maple had a tight, curly grain, and no cracks. Carlo sucked in his breath. In all his time as a luthier he'd never seen a finer piece of maple.
Part of his pay included dunnage from the job, and this piece, in spite of the three large holes, was worth more than a few dollars. Taking care not to break it, he loaded the seat into the bed of his old truck
Next came the sides. Most of the planks were split or warped, but dutifully he stacked them in the truck. When he pried up the last floorboard, it came out straight and clean. Surprisingly, there were no breaks, knots, or defects of any kind.
He inspected the end grain, but the growth rings lay so close together he could not distinguish them. He opened his pocket knife and peeled off a shaving. For a moment his mind went completely blank. Finally his mental functions returned. Spruce, he thought, old growth, and the most consistent grain I've ever seen.
His hands began to tremble. Maple and spruce–the makings of a violin.
He finished the demolition his mind in a fog. That night, for the first time in ten years, Carlo opened his shop. He placed the seat and floorboard of the old outhouse on his workbench and scraped away a thick accretion of dirt and decay. At the heart of both planks he found perfect violin wood, and it had already been aged a hundred years.
Carlo never built another violin.
To make his humiliation complete, this outhouse sat behind the estate house just purchased by Porfino for his summer home. The great man had thrown Carlo a scrap of work in his usual condescending manner. "Every man has his place in the world." He had chuckled as he strutted away, pushing his big belly in front of him.
Carlo picked up his tool bag, but made no move to approach the building. Is life without purpose worth living? No, it wasn't, but Carlo could not find the courage to end it. Feet dragging, he crossed the remaining distance.
From his tool pouch, he took a pry-bar and went to work. He started on the seat, a wide commodious three-holer, and immediately ran into difficulty. The wood was so dense he could not pull the nails. Closer inspection revealed the seat had been shaped from one large billet of maple. When he finally succeeded in lifting the heavy seat off its supports and dragging it outside, the bright sun revealed a startling fact. Where generations of bare bottoms had polished the wood, he found the maple had a tight, curly grain, and no cracks. Carlo sucked in his breath. In all his time as a luthier he'd never seen a finer piece of maple.
Part of his pay included dunnage from the job, and this piece, in spite of the three large holes, was worth more than a few dollars. Taking care not to break it, he loaded the seat into the bed of his old truck
Next came the sides. Most of the planks were split or warped, but dutifully he stacked them in the truck. When he pried up the last floorboard, it came out straight and clean. Surprisingly, there were no breaks, knots, or defects of any kind.
He inspected the end grain, but the growth rings lay so close together he could not distinguish them. He opened his pocket knife and peeled off a shaving. For a moment his mind went completely blank. Finally his mental functions returned. Spruce, he thought, old growth, and the most consistent grain I've ever seen.
His hands began to tremble. Maple and spruce–the makings of a violin.
He finished the demolition his mind in a fog. That night, for the first time in ten years, Carlo opened his shop. He placed the seat and floorboard of the old outhouse on his workbench and scraped away a thick accretion of dirt and decay. At the heart of both planks he found perfect violin wood, and it had already been aged a hundred years.
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