For hours he simply sat there, staring at the wood. Then his mind retreated into a world that he'd almost forgotten existed, but his hands took on an intelligence of their own. Carefully he sharpened his tools. When his finger-planes took shavings finer then cigarette paper, and his chisels glowed like dull mirrors, he began to shape the wood.
He worked the first two days without sleep or food. After that, when exhaustion overtook him, he slept among the shavings on the floor of his shop. He ate only when he began to shake with hunger.
After six weeks he stopped working, dimly aware that the violin was finished. He curled up on the bare floor and slept for twelve hours. When he awoke, he climbed stiffly to his feet and pulled a stool up to the workbench. He studied the violin, the perfect curves, the deep glow of French polish, the opalescent sheen of fine wood. Working deliberately, he strung it and adjusted the bridge.
There was a knock on the door of his shop, but he ignored it. From a peg on the wall, he took his best bow, charged the horsehair with rosin, and drew it slowly across the strings. Sound, like a dirge to some ancient god, filled the room. Then lovers laughing, birds in full song, water singing its way to the sea, all those glorious sounds came from this small, curved box of wood. Tears ran down Carlo's cheeks in unchecked floods.
The door crashed open and in the frame stood Porfino, his eyes wild with excitement. "That sound. I have never heard such beauty."
The violinist came across the room, his gaze fixed on the instrument. He stopped in front of Carlo and reached out.
Drawing the fiddle back to his chest, Carlo shielded it with his hands.
"I must have it," cried Porfino. "It has the voice of a god, and makes my Strad sound like a cat in heat."
Carlo shook his head. "It is my great violin."
Porfino seemed to shrink. "Name your price," he said softly. "I will pay whatever you ask." His entire body seemed to be pleading. "At least let me play it."
For a moment Carlo didn't respond. Slowly, reluctantly he held out the instrument.
Porfino took the violin with the reverence of man receiving communion. "It is lovely," he said breathlessly. "Where did you obtain such fine wood?
He worked the first two days without sleep or food. After that, when exhaustion overtook him, he slept among the shavings on the floor of his shop. He ate only when he began to shake with hunger.
After six weeks he stopped working, dimly aware that the violin was finished. He curled up on the bare floor and slept for twelve hours. When he awoke, he climbed stiffly to his feet and pulled a stool up to the workbench. He studied the violin, the perfect curves, the deep glow of French polish, the opalescent sheen of fine wood. Working deliberately, he strung it and adjusted the bridge.
There was a knock on the door of his shop, but he ignored it. From a peg on the wall, he took his best bow, charged the horsehair with rosin, and drew it slowly across the strings. Sound, like a dirge to some ancient god, filled the room. Then lovers laughing, birds in full song, water singing its way to the sea, all those glorious sounds came from this small, curved box of wood. Tears ran down Carlo's cheeks in unchecked floods.
The door crashed open and in the frame stood Porfino, his eyes wild with excitement. "That sound. I have never heard such beauty."
The violinist came across the room, his gaze fixed on the instrument. He stopped in front of Carlo and reached out.
Drawing the fiddle back to his chest, Carlo shielded it with his hands.
"I must have it," cried Porfino. "It has the voice of a god, and makes my Strad sound like a cat in heat."
Carlo shook his head. "It is my great violin."
Porfino seemed to shrink. "Name your price," he said softly. "I will pay whatever you ask." His entire body seemed to be pleading. "At least let me play it."
For a moment Carlo didn't respond. Slowly, reluctantly he held out the instrument.
Porfino took the violin with the reverence of man receiving communion. "It is lovely," he said breathlessly. "Where did you obtain such fine wood?
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