Light From Uncommon Stars(30)

Simply put, the girl would not survive if she flinched every time her teacher rattled a coffee mug.

Her other students had been easy—they were vain, angry, jealous, ambitious. Such feelings lend a perverse, obsessive resilience. All Shizuka had to do was play to their emotions, and they would follow and endure without question. But this one? This frightened runaway?

How could Shizuka start forging a bond with her? And how would Katrina weather the training ahead?

“Miss Satomi?”

The girl’s voice shook her from her thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Katrina said quietly. “For back there. For telling them I was a girl.”

“Of course.”

What was this about? Of all the obvious things …

“Miss Satomi, don’t you care? About me being trans?”

“Katrina. In my business, one does not care about bodies. One is only concerned with souls.”

For a long time, the girl said nothing.

“When I was seven,” she finally said, “I took group lessons with the neighbors. My mother thought I could make friends. The teacher was very nice. She never yelled. She told my family I was the best player in her class.

“But my father … he’d yell at me. Hit me, like I told you. And one day, I was practicing, and my father threw a bottle at me. I turned to protect my violin, and I think the bottle hit me in the head, and right after, I started to shake, and my hands grew warm, as if they were on fire.

“Suddenly, I could hear my violin singing to me, singing to my soul, promising if I believed in her, I could fly away and she would fly away with me, too.”

“Is that the violin we’re repairing now?” Shizuka finally asked.

“No. It was the one my father smashed.”





11


Lucy waited until evening, when there was no chance of being disturbed, to work on the Chinese violin. She needed to be careful. Regardless of its value or origin, her client was the Queen of Hell. And there was also the matter of this glued-on bridge …

She took out her magnifier and looked more closely.

Superglue.

Just. Great.

Some of it had also dripped and run onto the faceplate. Which meant the violin would need to be at least partially refinished.

But first, the bridge.

There were different techniques to remove cyanoacrylate. However, each had drawbacks. A knife could catch on a clump of glue and cut into the wood. Heat would warp the wood itself. Chemical solvents could break down the glue, but they could do the same to the grain.

“Okay, come on girl. You can do this. Take your time.”

Quietly, her fingers probed around the bridge. They traced its top, around its edges, gently scratched its sides. Yes. They paused. What? Again. There it was again. Yes, the tiniest smallest gap, but it was there. Just a little movement. A quiver.

Yes. Right there. Again.

Then, as if on its own, her hand grasped the bridge, twisted, and— SNAP!

Lucy Matía reached for her stool and sat down. Her fingers shook, and she felt a little lightheaded.

But the bridge was in her hand, and the violin was free.

As strong as it was, superglue wasn’t meant for wood. Also, it had been carelessly applied, which meant there’d been a weak spot in the joint. Of course the finish was marred, but the wood underneath was fine. Her hands had been careful not to pull up the grain.

“Hands of a Matía,” she murmured out loud.

Then, Lucy paused.

Really?

Catalin Matía would smile whenever someone described great music as divine.

To him, that was nonsense. Great music is all about weakness, uncertainty, mortality—what does Heaven know of these?

In the same way, there is nothing transcendent about a violin. It is maple, spruce, ebony, an ounce or so of hide glue, some brushes of varnish.

Perhaps this why the violin fits the human soul fit so perfectly—only such a simple, mortal object can hold its fragility and turn it into a prayer.

Even without a player, a violin has music. Just as a painting artfully holds and reflects light, a violin shapes and glows with sound. A motorcycle passes. Someone vocalizes next door. The air conditioner hums. Even without a player—even without strings—the violin responds to it all.

Of course, not every piece of wood can manifest this music, just as not every pair of hands can create it. People pay thousands, millions of dollars to acquire such a violin.

Or $241 plus shipping.

Because this violin was trying. Faintly, and almost as if buried or bound. But Lucy was certain. In the quiet of the shop, even after all it had endured, this violin was trying, with all its soul, to sing.

What would Catalin Matía do?

Lucy didn’t need to imagine.

She remembered her grandfather insisting that Paganini’s il Cannone was just another sloppy Guarneri before Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume got to it. In fact, Vuillaume had crafted an exact copy of the instrument that not even Paganini could detect.

“Oh, Paganini is important, of course—but it took Vuillaume to shave a bit, cut a bit, move the support a little. We do not merely repair violins. We set them free!”

But Lucy was not Catalin Matía.

Besides, wasn’t it time to close shop? Tomorrow, Mr. Zacatecas’s violin would be completely dry. She would remove the clamps, put on a fresh set of Tonicas, and Mr. Zacatecas would be good to go.