The Violin Maker – Part 2: The Repair

Thursday arrived without either of them noticing the night go.

The glue had set. The seam was clean and invisible, the varnish touched up so finely that Marta could only find the old crack by memory. Esther tightened the strings and tuned, bowing a long open note that filled the little workshop like warm water.

"There," she said. "Play."

"I couldn't. Not here, not yet."

"Please. For me. Nobody has played in this room since my teacher died."

Marta sat, and drew the bow across the strings. The sound was dark, rich, and astonishingly alive. She played the Bach sarabande, slowly, with her eyes closed. When the last note faded, there was a silence thick as velvet.

Esther was crying. She did not hide it.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Thank you." Marta set the cello gently against her shoulder. "I think she's better than she was."

"She is exactly as she was. You are better. You played softly."

Marta laughed, her own eyes bright. Dawn lit the window grey and gold.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Will you come to the concert tonight?"

"I would love to."

"And afterwards," said Marta, her heart thumping, "may I kiss you?"

Esther's face softened. "Why wait for afterwards?"

"Because I wanted to ask properly."

"Then yes," said Esther. "And if I say stop, you must play me the sarabande every night for a year."

"That is a very lovely punishment."

Marta put her bow down and kissed her, gently, a hand against Esther's warm cheek. It tasted of tea and varnish and sleeplessness, and it was slow, and absolutely certain. The workshop hummed with morning light.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Esther.

"Green," said Marta. "Very green."

That night, in the third row, Esther sat with her hands pressed to her mouth, and Marta played every note to her.

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