Read Online Fiddle Game by Richard A. Thompson - Free Book Online Page A

a rag from the bench top and used it to protect his hand while he poured boiling coffee into two battered mugs. I was surprised at how gritty it did not look, though it was certainly dark. He left about an inch of space at the top of each mug, and I was about to tell him that I didn’t take cream, when he produced a bottle of cognac from another cabinet and held it out inquiringly. I gave him my best “why not?” expression, and he topped off both mugs, adding a spoonful of sugar from a bag in another cubbyhole. Now we had all the major food groups: alcohol, sugar, caffeine, and fat. I blew on the hot liquid, took a sip, and remembered what it used to be like to believe in heaven. He bit into another roll and went on.
    “You say this violin is very old?”
    “All I said was ‘old,’ but it’s supposed to be four hundred years and counting.”
    “Supposed to be.”
    “It has an appraisal document”
    “Does it also have a label?”
    I shook my head. “I’m told it’s an Amati. I don’t know where to look for a label.”
    “Ah,” he said. He wiped his hands on a wet rag and passed it to me to do the same. “Come over here. I show you some things.”
    He selected a smallish, light-colored violin from his wall display and took it over to a bench, where he turned on an intense fluorescent drafting lamp.
    “This is a Roger Baldwin,” he said. “Not a great instrument, but certainly a very good one.”
    “So you’re a collector, as well as a maker?”
    “All makers are also collectors and repairers. That’s how one learns the possibilities of the art. That’s also why one locates in a city like this, with a famous chamber orchestra and a symphony nearby. It means there are lots of available examples. Now look at this one.”
    “Is this the same Baldwin as the pianos?”
    “It is not. This violin is from a one-man shop of some obscurity. It’s about a hundred and fifty years old.”
    “It’s sort of small.” That was as close as I could come to perceptive observation.
    “Very good. It is what was once called a knapsack fiddle. For wandering musicians, you see. Quite possibly, it was carried by some soldier in your Civil War. This one is better than most of the type, though. Look here.” He pointed out the little stripe around the edge of the top, which he called the “purfling,” and told me what kind of wood it ought to be made of, which it was. Then he talked about the arch of the top and back. “It’s like the curve of a beautiful woman’s buttock,” he said. “Every one is slightly different, a subtle variation on a timeless theme. But even so, there is good and there is not so good. A true connoisseur learns to feel the quality of the line, even though he cannot define it. This one has a fine, if somewhat flamboyant character. Now take a look inside.” He handed me a tiny flashlight and a little mirror on a stick, like dentists use.
    “What am I looking for?”
    “Just tell me what you see.”
    I slipped the mirror down through one of the f-shaped holes and panned it around. I really needed another set of tools and at least one more hand. If I used the mirror to direct the light, then I couldn’t get my eye anyplace where I could see what it was reflecting. I decided I was not on the threshold of a new vocation here.
    “What do you see?”
    “I see the dark, dusty inside of a very complicated-looking box.”
    “That’s a start. What else?”
    “Some kind of stick going between the top and the bottom.”
    “That’s the sound post, to keep the tension on the strings from collapsing the top. Ignore that. It’s most unlikely to be the original.”
    “They wear out and have to be replaced?”
    “The sound box changes shape slightly, with seasoning, and it needs a different size post.”
    “Good thing, since I can’t get a good look at it, anyway.”
    “Tell me what you can get a look at.”
    “There’s a piece of paper that could be a label, but I can’t make out any of the