on a workbench, naked without strings or a soundboard. There’s a lathe, a row of tools laid out neatly, the smell of wood and varnish and rosin. The air feels warm and alive. He’s been here before, when he brought the cello in for small adjustments and repairs.
“Come on.” Phee leads the way into the showroom. “Remember the first time you came here?”
“A lifetime ago.”
He feels dizzy, disoriented, caught between two realities. The room is dark, shadowy, mysterious. The instruments take on nearly human shapes, and he can hear their voices, a faraway music that would have words if he knew how to listen properly.
When Phee takes his hand, he doesn’t resist, lets her lead him through the shop to the front door and turn him around to face the display as if he’d just walked in.
“You came in here, with your mother. My grandfather was there . . .”
Braden drops directly into the memory.
An old man stands behind the counter, thin and bald, a long white beard growing down over his chest. A young girl sits on a high stool behind the counter, re-hairing a bow. She looks up from her work, staring at him with curious eyes.
He fills himself with air that smells like music, his eyes caressing a row of violins hanging on display. He’s only played a few different violins in his life, but he knows that each of them has a different soul, a different voice.
Once his teacher put her instrument in his hands. The violin, aged and beautiful, belonged to her and didn’t want him, and it was his teacher’s music that he played, not his own.
Maybe one of these violins could be his, would play his music if he asks, but he knows he won’t get to choose. Mama will pick one for him. It will be about price, because money is tight, and although she thinks she knows all about Braden and his music, she really doesn’t understand at all.
She bustles over to the counter where the old man seems to see everything with his dark, watchful eyes and begins chattering to him about violins, pointing at the one on the far right.
Braden prays, Please, let it be a violin I can love.
And it’s then, at that moment, that it happens.
A phrase of music vibrates through his entire body, not high and bright like a violin but deep and sonorous. His mother doesn’t notice, but the old man does, and so does the girl. Braden sees their focus shift, away from his mother and the violins, away from Braden, to the far side of the store. And then he sees the cello, and understands that even though nobody is playing and the strings are not moving, the cello is the source of the music.
His feet carry him closer.
The cello is beautiful. Her wood is luminous. His hand reaches out to touch, but then he snatches it back. An instrument like this must be expensive, is certainly not for the likes of him.
But when he glances up, the old man, still watching, nods permission. His expression is intent, almost hungry. Braden lays one hand tentatively on the cello’s burnished shoulder.
Feels her shudder beneath his touch, sigh. “At last,” she sings to him. “All this time I have waited for you.”
“Braden!” His mother’s voice is sharp, and he knows the words she’s not saying by heart. Are you five? Can’t you keep your hands to yourself?
The heat of shame rises through his body.
“No harm.” The luthier shuffles over to him. Up close, the old man’s eyes are almost black, glittering. “You like this instrument?”
Braden lets his hand stroke up the cello’s neck, just skimming the strings. A whisper of music floats into the room. Mama shuffles her feet and clears her throat, impatient, but she seems far away. The cello is immediate, already becoming his own personal universe.
“She likes you. She has invited you to play,” the luthier says.
“We’re here to talk about violins.” Mama has her no-nonsense voice on.
“Yes, yes. The violins. But first, five minutes to play the cello. She wants to be played, and we always must do what she wants. She is the boss of us, yes? Not the other way. Here. Sit.” The old man motions Braden toward a chair.
Mama tsks disapprovingly but doesn’t interfere.
If Braden looks at her, she’ll shake her head and pinch her lips to signal no. He sits.
The old man lifts the cello with a little grunt. “She’s full size. Not a child’s instrument, but