The Violin Conspiracy(39)

“Why are you doing that?” Jacob asked.

Even though she’d vouched for Mr. Fischer, Dr. Stevens had told him in the past about dicey violin dealers: “You can’t trust them. They appraise, repair, and sell instruments—huge conflict of interest.”

“This old fiddle is really special to me, even if it can’t be fixed. No offense, but I’ll feel more comfortable if I know I marked it. Better safe than sorry.”



* * *



—

He’d given Jacob the violin more than two weeks ago. Now, standing in front of the music building where Dr. Stevens had summoned him, he wasn’t sure what he’d agreed to. Around them the March wind blew raw and miserable, but Ray could barely feel it.

“Jacob Fischer called me this afternoon,” Dr. Stevens began.

“Why wouldn’t he call me? What’s wrong?”

“He called me because he’s known me for a long time and this is a very unusual situation.”

“Unusual? How?”

“Ray.” She took a breath. “He thinks the violin is eighteenth-century Italian.” Three families in Italy were renowned during that time for making the most exquisite, most expensive violins in the world: the Amatis, the Guarneris, and, most famous, the Stradivaris. These violins were worth tens of thousands of dollars—sometimes millions.

Ray waited for her to burst out laughing. She didn’t. “What are you talking about? You think it’s a Stradivarius?”

“It’s a serious possibility.”

The entire situation struck him as stupidly absurd. PopPop’s fiddle? Seriously?

He sat down on a bench along the path, put his forehead in his hands, closed his eyes. “Look, it’s cold out here. If this is your way of telling me I have to practice more, I get it.”

“I’m not joking. I’ve known Jacob for a long time. He called me to tell me that it might be something special. I want you to take it to a top appraiser. In New York.”

She sat next to him, spoke more gently. “Tell me everything you know about it.”





Chapter 11


    Grandma Nora


3 Years Ago

Everything that Ray knew about the violin came from Grandma Nora, of course. And the bulk of what he’d learned came from a few all-too-short weeks that Ray spent with her when he was a sophomore.

One rainy April evening his aunt Rochelle called to tell him that Grandma Nora had been diagnosed with lung cancer: “Typical Mama,” she’d said, voice thick with tears. “They’re saying she only has about six weeks, and I just wanted to let you know in case you wanted to come see her.”

He hung up and immediately booked the nine-hour bus trip to Atlanta.

When he arrived at his grandmother’s house, no walker, no pink housecoat, and no smiling face awaited him as he trudged up the path to the front porch.

He rang the bell and Uncle Larry answered, embraced him.

“How’s she doing?” Ray asked.

He shook his head. “She’s a tough old lady, but it’s not looking good.”

“Is everyone here?”

“Rochelle is coming in tonight. Everybody else is here.”

“My mom, too?”

“Yeah. She’s in the kitchen.”

As Ray edged past him into the foyer, Larry put a hand on his arm. “Ray, when you go in to see your grandma, know that she’s lost a lot of weight. I don’t want you to be shocked.”

Inside, everyone hugged him or rubbed his shoulders. Even his mom stood up and gave him a very fake, very tactile hug. “Go see your grandmother. Don’t stay in there too long. She needs to rest.”

Aunt Joyce, sitting next to the bed, stood up when she saw him. He took her place. Grandma Nora was a shell, the color drained from her face. There was no sparkle in her eyes. He wasn’t sure she even recognized him. Even if she did, Ray doubted she could muster the strength to even give him the hug he desperately needed. He sat down, took her hand, careful to be gentle. “Grandma?” the word caught in his throat.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. He tried again. “I came to see you.” He was losing the struggle not to cry. He kept blinking. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, baby, I don’t think Grandma is doing too good. They tell me I have cancer, baby.”

“Grandma…I’m so sorry. What can I do for you?” Ray gave up on trying to hold back his tears.

“All you can do is what you always do. You make me so proud.” She took a breath. It hurt to watch. “I’m happy to hear that you’re playing your fiddle good.”

“I’m doing my best, Grandma. Every day I’m trying so hard to make you proud.” His voice broke.

“I know you do, baby. Did you bring it?” A breath. “Your fiddle? You gonna take it out and play for me?”

“Of course.” He stood to retrieve the instrument case, which he’d left in the living room.

“I don’t think she means right now,” Aunt Joyce said softly from the doorway. He hadn’t realized she was still there. “Why don’t we let her rest for a little? You want to sleep a little bit, Mama?”

“Yes, baby, maybe I’ll rest a bit. And then Ray can bring up his fiddle for me.”