The Violin Man

It was before metal-rimmed glasses came back into fashion. They were seldom seen then, even on very old people.

If I ran Mother’s errand, I was sure to get caught in the five o’ clock traffic. The boulevard was already full, the whole mass of vehicles lurching to a stop at every frequent red light, and the sun blazing at my left tempted me to turn around, use some excuse and go home.

But Mother seldom asked for my help, and there was no reasonable excuse except the small inconvenience.

I certainly didn’t mind picking up the violin. I just felt uncomfortable about asking favors for people and that is what this amounted to, her calling him and asking to have it ready by three, so Evan could go to his rehearsal. She had insisted on the phone, and it embarrassed me to hear here pushing him like that.

Besides, I had never met him and I had gotten the impression that he was odd in some way. He lived alone, and kept his shop. I had a fear of strangers, always hated to meet people for the first time. “Such an interesting place,” mother had said to encourage me, as she signed a check for me to fill in and give to him.

I really thought I would be too late when I glimpsed the place. I passed it and had to make an awkward turn to go back. It was in a small house with an unobtrusive sign, “Schmidt and Son, Musical Instruments.”

There were no cars parked near by and the shop seemed closed. However, an “open” sign leaned against the window glass and I felt obligated to try the door.

A bell jangled as the door opened, but no one was there. The room was not a store, but a workshop, and smelled of turpentine and woods. It was remarkably cluttered in a personal way, the owner seeming present in his things, I felt a strong sense of intrusion.

A partially finished instrument lay on the workbench, perhaps a lute, beautifully formed. “Handmade,” I thought at the time. Several violins, I different states of repair, were there as well. Cans of finishing materials, tools, rags, even clothes were strewn around the room. It all seemed to be the color of wood and a trace of sanding dust was perpetually suspended in the air. He took me by surprise, coming in from the back, looking very interrupted, and then shy. He was a big man, with sparse light hair combed to one side, and he wore those glasses, as they were his father’s before him. I was afraid of him for some reason. He was younger than I expected and very pale, and I wished that another customer would come in. He seemed so timid and that made me nervous.

“I came for Evan Keller’s violin,” I said, “I’m his sister.” It seemed foolish to add that.

“Keller.” Then he motioned to the side door.

I hesitated, until I realized that it was a second part of the shop. He went behind a dusty display case that held a few brass instruments and another of the beautiful lutes. It had a gleaming finish and delicate inlay on the front. I wanted to ask if he had made it. I would like to have touched it.

He looked through a shelf of violin cases, found Evan’s and wiped it with his apron. He opened the case and examined the instrument, handling it carefully. Next he glanced at a slip of paper tucked under the strings. “The bow needs new hair,” he said. “Just a minute.” He stuttered slightly when he spoke. He took the violin and went into the other room, looking back at me.

I wished that he would hurry and for a second I thought of going back to the car to wait. Instead I examined the contents of the display case. How beautiful the lute was. I wished I knew something about it and imagined the sad medieval music it would make.

“Do you play?” he asked. I moved aside to let him pass even though there was plenty of room and I saw that I had embarrassed him.

“No,” I answered his question. “I wish I could.” I thought about saying something about the lute, but instead I asked him what I owed him.

There seemed to be no place to write so I balanced the check on my purse, and wrote in the amount he muttered.

“How shall I make it out?”

“Henry Schmidt,” and he spelled it out loud as if everyone asked him to do it. The fee was almost nothing yet he seemed embarrassed to take it; he timidly stuffed it into a pocket.

I thought again about mentioning the lute, wishing I could put him at ease, but he said, “Don’t forget to tell Mrs. Keller about the bow. I didn’t have time today and I haven’t an extra one to loan.”

I remembered mother and the telephone conversation and tried to thank him, but I found myself leaving, and noticing how he seemed to blend into the gold color of the place. I looked at the unfinished lute as I went through.

He handed me Evan’s violin, being very careful not to touch my hand. He opened the door for me and looked at me through those bland little glasses.

“Thank you, very much,” I said, thinking how he must love the lutes. He must tire of repairing second-rate violins for careless school boys. There was a small place in the world for a craftsman who made lutes and I was sorry for the fears I had before.

The bell rang again when the door closed.

I had to drive forward and back up twice in order to get out of the driveway, and he watched through the window.

I wondered if he ever played the violins, making clear, strong chords in the solitary silence of his shop. Or whether in the evening he strummed his lute, carefully and alone.

I thought about it during the long drive home in the hot traffic. I never saw him again.