The Violin Maker – Part 1: The Crack

The crack ran down the cello's belly like a river on a map, and Marta stared at it in the hotel room with something close to grief.

It was ten at night. The concert was in two days. The only luthier the hotel could suggest was a workshop on Józefa Street, lit up, with a handwritten sign: Knock hard. I am usually working.

Marta knocked hard.

The door opened on a small woman of thirty, in a leather apron, her sleeves pushed up and a pencil behind her ear. Esther's eyes went straight past Marta to the case on her back.

"Cello," she said. "Cracked. I can hear it from here."

"You can't."

"It sounds sad. Come in."

The workshop was a cave of curled shavings and hanging violins, smelling of spruce and varnish. Esther laid the cello on a padded bench and bent over it, running her thumb along the seam with infinite tenderness.

"How long have you played?"

"Twenty-six years."

"Then you play too hard in the lower register," said Esther, without looking up. "She told me."

"She told you?"

"Wood talks. If you're patient." She glanced up, dark-eyed, and smiled for the first time. "I can fix it. It will take till Thursday morning. You will have to come and watch."

"Why?"

"Because she will want you here."

Marta sat on a stool. The lamp threw a warm circle on the bench. Esther worked with tiny clamps and a brush, humming softly under her breath, and Marta found she could not look away from her hands.

"Can I ask you something?" said Marta, after an hour.

"Yes."

"Do you ever play?"

"Only when no one's listening."

"I'm listening," said Marta.

Esther went still. Then, shyly: "Green?"

"Green," said Marta, startled and pleased. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Repair.