The Violin Maker

New York City

December 1950

 

          Thomas Barlow squinted through a magnifying glass, a cylindrical tube outfitted in grey metal and spinning dials, and his heart leapt when the label inside the cello came into focus. It had turned brown with age, and the name stamped across it had faded, but was familiar all the same. Andreas Guarnerius. Excitement and doubt pounded through him, waves lapping at the bedrock of his intuition. His hand crept spiderlike along the surface of his workbench to pick up an awl. Labels could be changed, he knew this. But even so…

          He delicately inserted the long, thin metal tool through one of the f-holes, keeping the glass pressed firmly to his eye. Gently, very gently, he prodded the edge of the label with the point of the awl. And again, the merest brush with the ancient paper, hardly enough to be called a touch. Nothing underneath, not so far as he could see anyway. Barlow muttered something incoherent to himself and groped blindly in the air with one hand, until it collided with the metal arm above his workbench on which the lamp was mounted. He pulled it closer, flooding the inside of the instrument with light.

          The man standing on the other side of his workbench leaned closer for a better look, though he couldn’t see much of anything from where he stood, and for the moment that was how Barlow wanted it. The longer he studied the cello the man had brought for appraisal, the less sure he was about what he was really looking at. Barlow carefully withdrew the awl and raised his face, now sporting a slightly reddened ring around his right eye. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, frowning alternately at the cello and at the man towering over him. 

          There was something undeniably strange about the cello itself. It was beautiful, remarkable even. But studying it up close, Barlow had the impression of a jigsaw puzzle with a few pieces that had been forced into place on the pretext of being an almost-perfect fit, but not quite. And Barlow hated it when things didn’t fit the way they were supposed to. He had managed to survive his re-entry to society after the war by fracturing his life into separate pieces. Even more so than certain perplexing aspects of the cello, the piece that really didn’t fit into the post-war life that Barlow had built for himself was the man who had brought it. This man was not supposed to be here. He was a piece out of place.

          “What’d I tell you?” the man said smugly, flashing Barlow a lopsided grin. “Knew you’d want to see it. Well? What do you think?” 

          Barlow sighed, reached for his cigarettes and lit one, then extended his arm to offer the pack. 

          “Sit down, Jon,” he said, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the workbench. “You’re making me nervous.” 

          Jon laughed and lowered himself into the seat, folding his long limbs into improbable angles as he crossed one ankle over his knee. Barlow regretted this invitation immediately, as it brought Jon’s face on a level with his own, and he was doing his best to pretend to himself that man across from him was a stranger. This was harder to keep up when forced to look into his face, rather than at his navel.

          Barlow considered Jon for a long moment, framed by the filthy window and starting to show his age, but only just. The salt and pepper hair at his temples gave Jon a look of distinction which Barlow envied. He raised a hand and self-consciously ruffled his own light-brown hair, cut the same way it had been when he’d first met Jon at university. Barlow was suddenly overwhelmingly conscious of the age of his suit, its drab grey pinstripes and the scuffs on his shoes, the lightness of his frame and the way he knew Jon could push him over with one arm if the desire to do so struck him.  

          It hadn’t helped that Barlow had known he was coming. Any hope he had held out that forewarning would lessen the impact of Jonathan DeWitt’s arrival had been blasted apart the moment the man had strode through the door of Barlow’s fourth floor violin shop on West 57th Street. Almost unnaturally tall and exceedingly handsome, Jon was a difficult man to ignore, even when one has spent the last five years trying. The hard set of his jaw and cold dispassion in his gaze were just the same, and Barlow had found it much easier to avoid that gaze altogether and focus his attention on their awkward handshake instead, trusting that the haze produced by his cigarette would shield his own eyes from view.

          Two weeks ago, Barlow’s telephone had rung. When he realized that the voice on the other end of the line was Jon’s, Barlow had known, with a crystallized sense of certainty, that the scales of his life were about to tip. And in all fairness, perhaps he had welcomed the change. After all, he could have said no. 

           “Are you sure it’s my opinion you need?” Barlow asked, when Jon had filled him in on the purpose for his visit. 

          “You know it is,” Jon had answered encouragingly. Barlow hadn’t missed the faint note of – what? Resentment? Jealousy? – behind Jon’s words. “Go on,” Jon had nudged him. “You’re one of the foremost experts on the old Italian masters in the country. You know you want to see it.”

          Barlow had closed his eyes, twining his fingers through the tightly wound phone cord, but when no lightning bolt struck him with the inspiration he was seeking for a way out of it, he had to admit that Jon had a point. His professional curiosity had won out.

          Now here they were, a reunion that Barlow would never have imagined in a thousand years, seated on either side of Barlow’s workbench as though they had just met for tea.

          Barlow’s workshop was small, Jon himself seemed too large for it. There was room for Barlow’s single L-shaped bench, which effectively cut the room in half and made it difficult to maneuver around the end that jutted out from the wall, in part due to the large vice clamp that clung barnacle-like to its edge. Barlow was in the habit of snagging his pocket or belt loop on the clamp, which more often than not sparked a string of expletives that irritated his assistant, Hilary, who worked in the sales room on the other side of a flimsy wood door, painted a depressing shade of brown. 

          The walls were lined with shelves, each of which held an array of tools and supplies specific to the trade of luthiery. Bottles of pigments, spirits and gums for varnishing. Boxes of sandpaper, cleaning rags, and spare bits of wood. It smelled of sawdust, distilled alcohol and something indefinable that is unique to old things. Instruments awaiting repair hung from wire loops near the ceiling, or, in the case of the cellos, stood uniformly upright in a rack crammed against the wall behind the door. 

          On the morning of Jon’s arrival, the sounds of a cold New York morning squeezed through the gaps around the single grimy window that looked down on West 57th Street. The hiss of the steam radiator thankfully drowned out most of the street noise, though it added its own considerable racket to the cacophony. Barlow was keeping his eyes fixed on the instrument while he made notes, but suddenly found it unbearable to stay where he was any longer.

          “Coffee?” Barlow offered, rising to his feet and moving towards the door that led to the salesroom before Jon had the opportunity to respond. 

          “Great,” came the answer, as Barlow pulled open the door and leaned through.

          “Hilary?” he called. “Two coffees, when you get a moment.”

          Barlow shut the door but remained standing, smoking and pacing the perimeter of the workbench on the pretext of examining the cello further. As far as he was concerned, the fewer words exchanged with Jon the better. He was already regretting allowing the man to breach the hard-won denial he had been practicing since the two men had parted ways after their deployment overseas had ended. 

          The door to the workshop opened and Hilary shouldered her way into the room, bearing a heavy tray. Barlow saw Jon’s eyes travel appreciatively over her smart tweed pencil skirt, kitten-heeled pumps and dark shining hair, bouncing slightly in its stylish waves, before he sprang to his feet to offer help. Barlow got there first, shooing Jon back to his chair. As he took the tray from Hilary he could feel his thoughts wandering down an overgrown path in the far-flung dusty corners of his mind. He was not in the habit of acting on impulse. He didn’t trust his, and he certainly didn’t trust Jon’s. He took his time pouring coffee, hoping his discomfort would abate. When it didn’t, he rejoined Jon at the bench and passed him his coffee without looking at him. He cradled the warmth of his mug between his palms and sat at his bench, working desperately to quell the urge to keep pacing. At last he cleared his throat and met Jon’s opaque grey eyes over the top of the instrument.

          “Where did you get it?”  

          “Maas’s widow consigned it to me.”

          Barlow let out a low whistle. 

          “This is the Maas cello?” he asked in wonderment, referring to the legendary Belgian cellist who had collapsed and passed away backstage following a concert on the West coast the year before. The story had made headlines all over the country, and especially in New York, where Maas had got his start in the U.S. after finally escaping the war in Europe.

          “It is. Couldn’t believe it when she walked through the door of my shop and told me she wanted to sell.”

          “You have showings lined up?” Barlow asked, though he already knew the answer. Nothing but the prospect of a major sale would have brought Jon across the country from California, not in the winter with a valuable instrument in tow. 

          “A few, after the New Year,” Jon said airily, waving a hand dismissively but returning it to his warm mug in short order. Outside snow had begun to fall again, spitting tiny splinters of icy sleet that flecked the window like grains of sand. “An Andrea Guarneri will go quickly. Especially in this condition.” 

          Barlow tilted his head, conceding that the cello was in excellent condition for its age.
          “The scroll is superb,” he said, and Jon nodded encouragingly at him. This was what he had come to hear. “And the varnish…” Barlow trailed off, the frown returning. “…Perfect,” he said under his breath, almost to himself. 

          Too perfect. A rich red-orange on a yellow ground. Stunning. Barlow narrowed his eyes again, straining to see more clearly what the sense of uneasiness in his spine was already telling him. 

          “What?” Jon asked sharply. 

          “Nothing!” Barlow quickly rearranged his face. Jon raised his eyebrows, set his coffee down and leaned back in his chair, waiting. Underneath the jovial expression Barlow thought he detected a flicker of something less congenial. A curtain lifting for an instant in a passing breeze, then settling back into position, smooth and unruffled. 

          “Nothing,” Barlow repeated, more assuredly this time.  “Listen, Jon. I’m honored you sought my opinion. Truly. But if I’m to give it to you honestly, I need more time.” Barlow risked a glance across the bench, but when Jon merely shrugged he went on. “Your appointments aren’t until after the New Year. Why don’t you leave it with me while you head up to Lenox? Enjoy your time off for the holidays, and I’ll get you my appraisal when you get back. What do you say?” 

          Jon smiled broadly and clapped his hands down on his thighs. 

          “Barlow, you’ve got yourself a deal. Saves me having to buy an extra seat on the train.” He rose to his feet, swinging his dark wool coat off the back of the chair and around his shoulders in one fluid motion. He wrapped a charcoal scarf around his neck and settled a fedora on his head, adding a few additional inches to his height. Barlow’s eyes flicked to the window where he caught his own reflection, staring back at him with an expression rife with self-judgment. Next to Jon, he looked like a child. Average height, slender build, boyish hair flopping over his eyes. Instinctively, Barlow sat up straighter. 

          “Cheers, Barlow. Got to get on. Take good care of her, will you?” Jon grinned cheekily, giving the top of the cello a gentle pat before extending his hand. “When I get back we’ll have a proper chat, catch up like old times, eh?”

          Barlow felt something inside him shift, as though he stood on the deck of a ship and needed to steady himself before a wave sent the entire thing listing sideways in the water. His misgivings about prolonging their encounter were strong, but it was too late to back out now. And he was curious about the cello. That scroll… 

          “I’ll give you a ring when I’m back in the city. Wouldn’t say no to another cup of coffee.” Jon grinned again, this time giving Barlow a conspiratorial wink and a meaningful glance at the closed door. 

          Barlow stood to shake Jon’s hand, then stood hovering as Jon took his leave. He had to duck under the doorway to exit the workshop. He bade Hilary a polite albeit mildly suggestive farewell on his way out of the shop, then the front door shut with a snap and Barlow let out his breath. Before the need to say anything to Hilary could arise he retreated and closed the door to his workshop. Pieces settled back into place. He was alone, with only the cello to remind him that the whole fragmented picture of his life had just shifted irrevocably in the wrong direction.