The Violin Conspiracy(38)

“That’s what a high-level violin can do,” Dr. Stevens told him. “And that’s why you need one.”

Mr. Fischer—Jacob—nodded. “That sounded most impressive, young man. That’s the kind of instrument you should have.”

“How much is it?” He was afraid to ask. He wanted it desperately.

“This little beauty is thirty-six thousand dollars,” he said. “It’s a Eugene Lehman from 1959. It’s actually a steal at this price—in New York, you’d probably pay one hundred thousand for it.”

Ray swallowed. “That’s what I was afraid of.” Gently, he handed the Lehman back to Fischer. “It may be a bit much for me.”

“He needs something top tier, though,” Dr. Stevens said. “You can see how much talent he has. Audition season starts in May, and he has a shot at some very interesting possibilities. We need to find him something that’s more affordable but will showcase his skills.”

They spent the next two hours trying various instruments. Ray kept circling back to a 1997 Rinaldi. It was definitely a soloist’s instrument, with only two previous owners. The sound was as pure as light and easily filled the shop. At $5,200, it was a steal but still vastly more than he wanted to pay. He had just over $8,000 in his savings account. So it was possible. But that was money he planned to live off—to pay rent and to travel to auditions. He’d have very little left.

“Are we sure that mine can’t be fixed?” he said. PopPop’s fiddle still rested on the counter, where he’d deposited it when they’d come into the store. He’d long ago replaced the alligator-skin case with a lighter hard case that had much more padding as well as four bow compartments. The alligator-skin case he’d wrapped carefully in a garbage bag and stowed beneath his bed.

“Let’s take a look.” Fischer opened the case, pulled out PopPop’s fiddle, glanced at it. “This looks like early factory made, right off the assembly line. You’d be investing in a new fingerboard, new bridge, fitting the pegs. At the end of the day I don’t think it would be worth my time or your money.”

“It’s not factory made,” Ray said. “It’s been in my family for more than a hundred years. When I first got it, I had one repair job done. Maybe that’s what you’re looking at?”

“It’s a filthy mess,” Jacob said. Despite Ray’s best polishing efforts, the violin was still whitish from decades of unremoved Good Luck Dust. Jacob pulled out a bottle of solvent, dabbed a little on a cotton swab, rubbed it on the violin’s back, and the rosin magically disappeared. He dabbed the cotton swab in a few more places, front and back. He slipped behind the counter, into a back room, and returned with several tools—calipers, screwdrivers, magnifying glasses, a jeweler’s loupe. He examined the violin front and back, looking into the F holes with a portable light.

“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.