The Guitar Maker – Part 2: Strings

The guitar was finished on a Friday.

She strung it herself, tightening each peg with a tuning key, listening to the strings rise from dull to clear. The finish gleamed, honey-gold. When she had finished, she wiped her hands on her apron and laid the instrument across his knees.

"There."

He did not move. He looked at it for a long time, the curve of the body, the pale line of the fretboard. Then slowly, almost fearfully, he laid his hand on the strings and plucked one.

The note rang out clear and warm, filling the workshop.

His eyes filled. "It's beautiful."

"Play it."

"I said I wouldn't."

"You said you wouldn't sing."

He bent his head. His fingers moved, unsure, then surer, and a slow, aching phrase came out of the guitar, older than either of them. Alma stood, hands pressed together, and let it wash over her. He played the whole soleá. When he finished, there was a deep, trembling silence.

"I can't sing," said Rafa, hoarsely. "But I can say it this way."

"Say what?"

"That you gave me back a voice."

Her throat was tight. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Rafa, a rough whisper. "And if you say stop, you must sing me the second verse."

"That's the nicest punishment in the world."

She kissed him, gently, a hand on his thin cheek, the guitar still warm between them. He kissed her back with all the care of a man holding something he had nearly lost. It was slow and tender, tasting of wood smoke and mint tea. Outside, a street musician took up the tune.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Alma. "Very green."

In June, a doctor told him that his voice might return in time, with patience. He came into the workshop and played for her, and she hummed along, and neither of them minded how long it took.

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