The Luthier – Part 1: Cracked Top

"Play something," said Joanne.

"It's cracked."

"I know. I want to hear what it says."

Camille looked at the cello in her hands, a century-old instrument with a hairline split down the front, and then at the woman across the workshop bench. Joanne, thirty-four, the luthier, wore a leather apron, wire glasses and sawdust in her dark hair. She held a tiny plane in one hand and was watching Camille the way she watched wood.

Camille sat, set the bow and played the first phrase of a Bach suite. The cello gave a thin, rattling sound, a little wounded, but underneath it the note was true. The workshop went quiet. Violins hung from the ceiling like sleeping bats. The air smelled of spruce and varnish.

"There," said Joanne, softly. "She's still in there."

Camille, thirty-eight, a professional cellist with the Montreal symphony, had not played properly for a week and had not slept properly for two. The cello had belonged to her teacher and carried a lot of weight. "Can you fix her?"

"Yes. It'll take six weeks. You'll have to come in each week so I can check the sound."

"I have concerts."

"I'll lend you one."

"I'll come," said Camille.

She did. Every Thursday she sat on a stool at the end of the bench with a thermos of tea, watching Joanne work with gouges, glue and clamps, while the cracked cello lay open like a patient. Joanne talked about wood, grain and the strange patience of a craft where nothing could be hurried. Camille talked about music.

On the fifth Thursday, the cello was whole again. Joanne tightened the strings and stepped back. "Play."

Camille played. The sound was deep, rich and warm. Joanne's eyes were bright behind her glasses.

"It's perfect," Camille whispered.

"It was always perfect. It needed a little help." Joanne wiped her hands. "Camille, would you play it for me? Just me? After hours?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – Private Concert.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Private Concert.