The Violin Conspiracy(43)

Rowland nodded once. “I expected as much. Come.” With no further comment he turned, retreated up the red damask steps. They threaded behind the counter and followed him. At the top of the stairs, heavy metal doors glowered. Ray gripped the violin more tightly.

Rowland pulled out an elaborate key; when he turned it, a keypad with numbers lit up. He pressed a sequence and the heavy door opened smoothly. They found themselves in a room that ran the entire length of the building, the space filled with cases, instruments, worktables, tools, and what looked to be a well-equipped scientific laboratory. One table held the back of a cello with electrodes bored into it; on another, a violin lay on its side with six magnifying glasses surrounding it from multiple angles. Although it was just after 9:00 a.m., several people in white aprons seemed to be engaged in important tasks.

“Lay your violin here and take a seat.”

Ray placed his case on a table lined with maroon velvet. Rowland put on a pair of white gloves and opened the violin case. “Alexa,” he said to the room, “play old-school hip-hop.”

Within moments the Beastie Boys’ music pumped through wall-mounted speakers around the room.

Under bright lights, on the velvet-lined table, Rowland began his appraisal. Lamps suspended on pulleys from the ceiling lit the violin from every angle as he, jeweler’s loupe over one eye, focused on every inch, traced every curve, every corner, pulling down different colored lights, changing the lighting and the colors, flipping through dozens of magnifying glasses of different intensities. Every few minutes he’d pause, write down something, and then resume his examination.

Finally, at about 1:15 p.m.—Ray’s stomach was rumbling and he was just about to ask if they could order something from a local deli—Rowland abruptly stood up, violin in hand.

“It is done,” he said.

“It is? What do you think?” Janice asked. Ray braced himself.

Instead, unexpectedly, Rowland grinned. His blue eyes lit up. Ray couldn’t help smiling back.

“Now that I am done,” Rowland said, “I would like to ask permission to play this violin, since you will not sell it to me.”

That wasn’t what Ray was expecting, but he said, “Yeah, sure. Of course. Go ahead.” He and Janice looked at each other. Janice shrugged.

“Thank you, young man.” Rowland took out Ray’s bow and tightened it so it was just off the wood. “Alexa, stop.” From the speakers, Lil Wayne’s voice cut off.

Ray had seen videos of bohemian Gypsy and bluegrass players using very loose bows but had never seen it in person. Then Rowland busted out with an incredible display of virtuosity. His fingers flew up and down the fingerboard. Ray was astounded that someone with such large hands could move them so dexterously. The more he played, the more possessed he looked. He drew the bow in one final flourish, stared at the violin for a moment, and then handed it to Ray, bowed slightly. “Jacob Fischer did an exceptional job on this violin. Please pack your instrument away. I will meet you downstairs.”

“What—”

Rowland’s forefinger waved him silent, then gestured for him to return the violin to its case. Wordlessly he disappeared through a door in one corner of the room. Ray and Janice returned down the stairs.

After about twenty minutes, Rowland’s heavy tread resounded in the stairwell, and a moment later he appeared, carrying a leather-bound folder.

“Jacob Fischer is correct,” Rowland told them. “It is an Italian violin, constructed during the so-called golden age of violin making. This is, without question, one of the better examples. This varnish is exquisite. It cannot be duplicated. Even the fingerboard is well preserved. It is pure ebony. The shape of the body is unique and absolutely unmistakable. It is without question a Stradivarius. And a fine example of one. There is no label, however.”

“Wha—” Ray’s mouth had gone completely dry and his head was pounding. “You were going to offer me twenty-five thousand dollars for it and it’s a Strad? That is fucked up!”

“I offered you this before I was certain,” Rowland said—a bit lamely.

“What’s it worth?” Janice asked.

Rowland shrugged. “For sale purposes, I believe it would fetch between 9.7 and 10.8 million dollars. For insurance purposes, I would value it at 10.1 million dollars.”

A sharp intake of breath from Janice.

Ray could only nod—his ribs couldn’t expand for him to take in breath. His body had grown cold.

“He needs to insure it, then,” Janice said casually.

“He does,” Rowland said. Twenty minutes later, a thin older woman, her graying hair streaked with blond, had sold Ray a month’s worth of insurance for $2,000. A year cost $22,000. Ray had no idea how he would pay for something like that. He slumped back in his chair. Between the insurance, Rowland’s appraisal fee, and the travel costs to New York, Ray’s credit card was maxed out.

Outside the office, Rowland was waiting for them. They thanked him again. “I am looking forward to hearing great things from you, young man. Now play.”

“Wha—what?”

“I want to hear you play. I want to hear from the great McMillian Stradivarius before the world knows its greatness.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Does not matter. You just play.”