Luthier's Apprentice, The (4 page)

His workshop was filled with fascinating tools. Emma had memorized all their names since she was a child: hand drills, compasses, cutting gauges, dial callipers, saws and scrapers, flat chisels, files, peg-hole reamers, dental mirrors, and many others. She remembered how she’d pestered him to know how they were used and why they were needed.

There was a big square wooden table in the center of the room. Against the wall were blocks of wood split into wedges; young spruce for sound boards and fronts, maple for ribs, backs, heads and necks, ebony for fingerboards, tail pieces and pegs. But the best thing about the workshop was the smell—a mixture of fine wood and oil varnish. It was rather harsh, but over the years Emma had gotten used to it and grown to like it.

Emma knew everything there was to know about violin-making, which was unusual for a girl. Throughout the ages, violin-making had been a man’s job. There were few women violinists compared to men violinists, but there were even fewer women luthiers.

One night, Grandpa had explained to her how each violin had a soul, a distinctive spirit like no other. Not two violins could ever sound alike, just like two singers, no matter how similar their voices, could ever sound alike. His voice had been so mysterious… The violin had a body, and within the empty space of that body, lay the sound post, or soul, the delicate piece of wood that transmitted vibrations and made the whole sound box resonate. Since that night, Emma had been hooked forever into the world of violins.

Now, sitting quietly at the small kitchen table with Grandpa, eating an early dinner of canned vegetable soup and ham and cheese sandwiches, Emma remembered all this when he suddenly asked her, “Did you do your homework?”

It was only a little after five, but Grandpa never had his meals at regular hours. Working on the violins made him forget the time, so he ate only when he got lightheaded or when his stomach grumbled.

Emma nodded, chewing her food. “Uh-huh.”

“I haven’t heard you playing yet,” he observed critically. He spoke good English and also a bit of French, both laced with a strong Italian accent.

“I was just going to. I like to eat first. Helps me concentrate.”

“
Ricordati
, you’ll have to work extra hard now that your teacher isn’t here.”

Emma nodded.

“
Buono
,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Dupriez after all the time he’s spent with you this year working on the concerto. Afterwards, you might as well join me at the workshop,” he added grudgingly.

Emma sighed. She didn’t understand why Grandpa always seemed so hostile about violin-making and her apprenticeship, even though he obviously loved the craft and she had become such a skilled assistant. She did everything he demanded and more. She always pushed herself that mile further. But nothing she did brought out words of encouragement. At times she had an eerie feeling that he hated having her in the workshop. But if he did, then why persist on training her? Why insist on her becoming an expert luthier? What was his problem? She just didn’t get it.

Grandpa lifted his sandwich to his mouth and his hands caught her attention. They were thin and large and marred with age spots, bulging veins, and scratches. He worked so hard from dawn till dusk. Grandma had died thirteen years ago and he had no friends that Emma knew of. He was always alone, slaving over the violins in spite of his tortured back.

“Grandpa… What do you think happened to Monsieur Dupriez, and to all the other violinists?”

Grandpa poured himself some coffee. Lifting it to his mouth, he took a sip, looking at Emma over the rim of the mug. Finally, with a small thud, he put the mug on the table. For a moment his dark bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Let me share a little
segreto
with you, Emma,” he said. “This isn’t the first time violinists have vanished, never to be seen again. Violinists have been disappearing since the time of Paganini, in the early eighteen hundreds.”

Emma stopped chewing. “Really?”

“It hasn’t happened every year, only a few times in each century, but it has happened.”

“Wouldn’t the police know this?”

“Oh, I’m sure they eventually will… if they haven’t figured it out already. It’s not something you would find in all the history books, you see, only in a few selected memoirs written by old violinists.”

“But what does it mean? Is it some kind of a curse?” Emma couldn’t help a twinge of fear. After all, both Grandpa and she played the violin.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said. “Nothing will ever happen to you… or to me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

A sudden, subtle sound came from above. Startled, Emma lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “What was that?”

“
Ratti
. It’s an old house. You need not concern yourself with those noises.”

Rats? It didn’t sound like rats.

He quickly changed the subject. “Don’t expect your mother to call anytime soon. She will be busy with your aunt.”

Emma caught an edge of resentment in his voice. He had stressed the word aunt as if he found it unpleasing.

“What’s wrong with Aunt Lili?”

He finished eating quietly. He stood and carried the dishes to the sink. “I guess we’ll know when your mother comes back,” he finally said.

What was wrong with him? It seemed unnatural for a father to talk about his sick daughter with such aloofness. But then, Grandpa hardly ever expressed affection. It’s as if he had become embittered by something a long time ago. But what?

“When did you last see Aunt Lili?” Emma asked.

“Years ago. She’s a recluse and chose that way of life.” His voice was taut, his movements stiff as he rinsed off the dishes and put them in a rack. Dressed in an old flannel shirt, faded, rather oversized jeans and work boots, his tall lanky frame, back slightly hunched, reminded Emma of a scarecrow. Though not in a bad way.

“Mom said her heart is very weak, that she may die.”

Grandpa muttered something.

“Excuse me?” asked Emma.

He turned from the sink and stared at her. “
Niente
, nothing.
Ricordati
, I want you in the workshop after your violin practice.” With that, he walked out of the kitchen.

After feeding Blackie, Emma did half an hour of scales, another half an hour of etudes for her right and left hands, and finally a full hour of the concerto. Normally, now that she was preparing for the competition, she practiced three to four hours a day. But this changed when she worked with Grandpa. And anyway, she had trouble concentrating. She couldn’t stop thinking about what Grandpa said, and about the noise coming from the attic. Sitting in bed while Blackie hopped about, she dug into her pocket for her cell phone and speed-dialled Annika.

“More developments.” In a few words she told Annika about the missing violinists throughout the ages.

“How weird is that,” Annika said, clearly puzzled. “This case is fit for your dear Sherlock Holmes.” She knew how crazy Emma was about Sherlock Holmes.

“Tell me about it, Watson,” Emma said wryly. “I’m not sure, but I have a feeling Grandpa knows a lot more than he’s telling me.” Actually, now that she thought about it, she
was
sure of it. Her new abilities told her so. “I have to get him to talk.”

“Be extra nice to him,” Annika suggested. “Does he keep a journal or something?”

“I don’t know.”

“Poke around, Sherlock.”

“Good idea, Watson,” Emma said without humor. “And you know what? While we were eating, a noise came from the attic.”

“I told you! Now do you believe?”

“I do. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before. I’m sure Grandpa must have heard it too, but he said it was rats. It didn’t sound like rats. It sounded like… I’m not sure. A tremor?” Then she added, changing the conversation, “There’s something else. I must find a way to get into Monsieur Dupriez’s study, but the windows are blocked with crime-scene tape and Madame Dupriez keeps a close watch inside the house.”

“I don’t like her,” Annika said.

“Tell me about it.”

“You must find a way to break in when she’s out.”

“That’s partly why I’m calling you. Saturday’s the open market at Stockel. She likes to do her shopping there. I have an idea. Madame Dupriez loves those roses to death, doesn’t she?”

“Roses?”

“On her front yard. She’d
kill
if anyone did anything to those roses,” Emma said.

“Really?”

“Are you kidding me? She’s mental.”

“What do you have in mind?” Annika asked.

“Listen up...”

T
HE WOMAN SAT ON A THRONE
in a stone terrace overlooking a clearing and, beyond, the edge of a huge forest.

As always, it was twilight. The sun never shone on these parts, nor was there ever night. From the woods came the endless, faraway sound of violin playing.

“Sometimes I wish they would shut up,” the woman said, glancing toward the distant woods with distaste. “More wine, Niccolò.”

The gaunt servant obeyed, his movements slow and dragging.

The woman wore a purple velvet tuxedo embossed with hundreds of tiny diamonds. From her ears dangled golden violins studded with amethysts. Her ash blonde hair was loose and fell down her shoulders in glossy lavish curls. As always, her face was heavily made up, her arched brows set high above her eyes, her lips full and shimmering with gloss. Her feet were shod into black leather boots with abnormally high stiletto heels.

Her loyal beast, Stradivarius, sat at her side. She patted him on the head.

“If they shut up, you wouldn’t be here,” Niccolò mumbled.

“Hah! That is what you think. I am so powerful now, I can do almost anything. Nothing can stop me. Besides, who asked your opinion? Your job is to serve me and to shut your mouth.” Her expression turned sweetly cruel. “I am sure it must be quite a shock, to have to live like this after having been such a great, admired figure in your time. But remember, it was
you
who decided to sell your soul to the forces of darkness in order to fool the world.”

“I’m paying for my mistake… We all have to one day.” His voice was icy, devoid of life.

“Niccolò, Niccolò, I am so bored with your blues. Always whining. Always talking in riddles. If I let you go now, you would burn in hell. Have you forgotten that?”

“I’m already
all’inferno
.”

“You call this hell?” She made a wide gesture with her hand toward the woods. “Music! Continuous violin music. Forever and ever. What more could you ask for?” She took a scone from a silver platter and fed it to Stradivarius, who gobbled it up greedily. “Have you started making the preparations for All Hallows Eve? I want everything to be perfect. If anything goes wrong because of you, I swear I will feed your heart to my dog, and the rest to the wolves.”

As if to prove her point, Stradivarius growled to display his fangs. In the distance, a wolf gave a long, mournful cry.

The woman’s lips spread into an icy smile. “You see. Already they can feel the excitement approaching.” She threw Niccolò a sharp, suspicious look. “What did Dupriez whisper to you the other night?”

“He asked who I was.”

“Did he recognize you?”

Niccolò shrugged. “That’s always a possibility. There are drawings of me in books. So?”

“And ugly drawings, if I may say so. I do not like Dupriez. I hate his accent, and I hate French food. It is incredibly overrated.”

Niccolò sighed.

“Bring him to me,” she commanded. “I want to see the stupid look of shock on his face when he sees where he is. Just like the other three.”

Stradivarius licked his lips. Niccolò turned on his heels and stepped out of the cool twilight and into the castle.

T
WO DAYS LATER ON SATURDAY MORNING,
Emma and Annika met at Van Ketts’ Kiosk and from there watched the Dupriez home. Since the shop was directly across the street from Dupriez’s, Emma often came here to get a soda or gum after her violin lessons.

The open market—or
marché
, as they called it here—was only a few blocks away in Stockel Square. The sky was crystal clear and the air chilly. The streets were lively with shoppers. It was one of those perfect October days, beaming with the yellows, oranges, and browns of falling leaves.

“Let’s go,” Emma said, glancing at her wristwatch. “It’s almost ten thirty.”

“I’m ready. Are you sure she always leaves at ten thirty?” Annika blocked the sun’s glare from her eyes with her hand. Her mane of red hair shone like a bonfire.

“Totally. She’s always saying that.”

Annika grinned evilly. “Do you really think she’ll go nuts about the roses?”

“You’ll see.”

From the back of the little shop, Van Ketts called, “Do you need something, girls?”

“Look busy,” Emma whispered. She glanced over her shoulder at Van Ketts. “We were just looking at these magazines. We’re leaving now.”