The Violin Maker's Widow – Part 1: Spruce and Maple

The workshop in Cremona had been silent for three years, and Silvia was tired of the silence.

She stood in the cool, scented room among the rows of half-finished violins, hanging like pale ghosts from the beams. Spruce tops, maple backs, scrolls carved and uncarved. The smell of wood and glue and varnish had not changed since her husband died. Neither had she.

"I need someone to varnish," she told the man in the doorway.

He was sixty-four, tall, stooped, with silver hair and large expressive hands, in a faded linen jacket. "Matteo Bellini," he said. "I was a cellist. At La Scala. Retired. I am told I have a steady brush."

"Do you know varnish?"

"I know violins."

"They're not the same."

"No. But I will learn."

She hesitated. Then she handed him an apron.

He worked patiently, dipping a brush in the warm amber varnish and laying it on in thin, even coats, stroke after stroke, working with the grain. The violin on the bench slowly deepened to honey. In the evenings the light slanted through the tall window, gold on the dust. He hummed under his breath. She found herself listening.

On the tenth day, a finished violin lay on the bench, glowing.

"Play it," said Silvia.

"I'm a cellist."

"You're a musician."

He picked it up carefully, tucked it under his chin, and drew the bow across the strings. The note rang out clear and sweet, filling the workshop like warm water. He played a slow Bach sarabande, a little rusty, aching and lovely. Silvia stood at the bench with her eyes shut, tears sliding down her face.

When he finished, there was a long hush.

"I haven't heard that sound in this room in three years," she whispered.

"I am sorry if it hurt."

"No. It healed."

"Can I ask you something?" said Matteo.

"Yes."

"May I come tomorrow?"

"Green?" she said, a varnish colour.

"Green," said Matteo, with a smile. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Resonance.