Luthier's Apprentice, The (7 page)

“We…we heard a noise, Grandpa,” Emma said.

“I’ve told you
not
to get close to that room. Why do you have so much trouble with such a simple request?”

“I’m sorry—it’s just—”

Grandpa glanced at his watch. “It’s almost three. I want you to continue work on that scroll. Come on,
sbrigati
.” His eyes moved to Annika. “I’m sure Annika will understand.”

“Sure, Mr. Donatelli.”

Emma sighed. “Okay,” she mumbled. “Let me at least walk her to the door.”

Down at the front door, they said goodbye. “I’ll call you later,” said Emma.

After Annika left, Emma trudged to the workshop and worked for the next couple of hours. She had already planed the fingerboard face of the scroll block, marked out the shape with a pencil and started sawing it out yesterday evening.

Under Grandpa’s stern supervision, she finished sawing out as accurately as possible, then bevelled both sides to the pencil line and tidied the outline with chisel, gouge and files. It took a long time. The job demanded precision, stamina and concentration. Usually, she would get so much into it that the hours would fly like seconds. But today was different. Her mind kept straying to the attic, to the mark on Monsieur Dupriez’s floor... and to Corey. On one occasion she hurt her finger with the gouge, on another she dropped the file.

“Where’s your head today?” Grandpa snapped from across the worktable.

“Sorry.” She sighed.

After another half hour Emma had the final outline for the scroll. She smoothed out the curves with her fingers. She smiled. It looked pretty neat.

She looked at Grandpa only to realize that he had been watching her for some time. The expression on his face surprised her. The usual harshness in his eyes had totally vanished, and in its place lay only a profound sadness.

But it didn’t last long. Grandpa blinked, as if waking up from a trance, and reached over for her scroll. He inspected it, his eyes narrowed and critical under his bushy brows.

Emma held her breath.
Say something nice, please.

His expression was grim again. “You’re too good for your own good,” he muttered.

What was
that
supposed to mean?

At that moment the shop door bell chimed.

“Get started on the pegbox,” Grandpa said. He gave her back the scroll and wiped his hands on his working apron. He headed to the shop through the connecting door and closed it behind him.

Emma rose from the bench to stretch her back and legs. Her neck was sore. She opened and closed her hands, stretching her fingers. Even though she was used to it, she still got sore muscles if she overdid it.

She reached for the pencil compass and began marking out the pegbox on the front and back of the scroll. While she worked, her mind drifted again to this morning. And to Corey. Her heart quickened. She remembered his Holmes impression and in spite of herself, she smiled. She wished she’d brought her
Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes
here. She would have looked up some clever quotes to throw at him the next time they met.

From the shop came the sharp edge of Grandpa’s voice arguing with a customer.

Emma froze and listened.

“It is exactly as you requested,” Grandpa said. “To the last specification. No more, no less.”

“I’m not satisfied,” a woman’s voice said. “She promised...” The woman lowered her voice and Emma couldn’t catch the words.

Emma put the scroll and compass on the table and stepped closer to the door.

“I’m paying a small fortune here, Mr. Donatelli,” the woman said. “I will not accept something I didn’t request.”

Grandpa answered back, but he must have kept his voice low because Emma couldn’t get what he said.

“Well, maybe you should go back and get some other wood then.” The woman’s voice was icy. “My next concerto is in one month. Do you understand? One month. And I will not play with this one. I want what I was promised!”

“Will you please keep your voice low? My granddaughter is inside.”

Emma felt the thud of steps approaching the door. Quickly, she ran and jumped on the bench where she had been working.

The door opened and Grandpa peeked in to check on her. His brow was furrowed and his eyes sparked with suspicion.

Emma pretended she was adjusting the compass. She looked up and smiled. “Oh, hi, Grandpa. Is something wrong?”

His lips pressed together, he shook his head. “I think you have worked enough today, Emma. Why don’t you go upstairs to your room? Or better yet, take a bit of fresh air outside?”

“Now?”

“
Sì
,
adesso
. Come, you can go out from the shop.”

Curious to see who the woman was, Emma followed him into the shop. An elegant lady with high cheekbones and red hair stood by the glass counter. Her haughty expression was heightened by the luxurious, silver-grey fur coat that covered her. On the counter lay a violin. Its varnish, like red wine, glowed with warmth and mellowness. For a second, Emma thought the woman looked familiar.

“Hello,” Emma mumbled as she crossed the shop to the door.

The woman remained silent, offering Emma a secretive smile. “Is she your helper?” she asked him.

He nodded. “She is just leaving.”

“So you have a little apprentice! How sweet,” the woman’s tone mocked Grandpa.

Grandpa didn’t look pleased by her comment. He shot Emma a warning glance. “Be back in fifteen minutes.”

Emma rolled her eyes and groaned inwardly. The bell tinkled as the door closed behind her. She hoped her mom would return soon. Living with Grandpa felt like being in the army.

She glanced at her watch. It was not yet six but already dark. A few people were busy walking their dogs. As she trudged down the street, she glanced over her shoulder at the shop. Through the windows she could see them talking. She wondered why the woman had not been satisfied with the violin. A perfectionist to the end, Grandpa almost never had complaints from customers.

She was thinking of Corey—angry at herself for not getting him out of her mind and toying with the idea of inviting him to tomorrow’s Halloween party—when, suddenly, someone came flashing by and put something in her hand.

Startled, she saw Corey speeding away on a skateboard.

“Hey, wait!” she called after him, but he seemed to be quite an expert at the skateboard, and in a matter of seconds was a block away and disappeared round the corner.

Emma looked at the note in her hand:

Tervuren Square

Tomorrow, 2:00 pm.

L
ATER THAT NIGHT IN HIS ROOM,
Corey sat at his desk and placed Monsieur Dupriez’s notebook on it. His thoughts drifted to Emma and what had happened inside Dupriez’s study this morning. Some of the excitement still lingered. His heart had skipped a beat when she surprised him in that pantry.

She was
gorgeous
. Unusual, exotic like. Maybe it was the way she put on black eyeliner, an ultra thin line on the upper lid that flipped a little upwards at the corners. It deepened the color of her warm brown eyes. Her long hair was dark. At first he thought it was black, but when she’d stood under the light it’d glowed with reddish highlights. Her skin was pale and flawless, her lips naturally pink. A modern Snow White with a cool side fringe and tight black jeans. And from the looks of it, a smart fledgling detective, too.

Her wild guess about the notebook had been a bit...weird. How had she guessed that’s what he was looking for? He’d caught Monsieur Dupriez writing feverishly on the notebook twice in the past month before the lesson. Of course, there was nothing unusual about writing on a notebook, but his teacher’s expression had been so serious and intense. But then, perhaps Emma had seen him writing on the notebook, too.

He ran a hand through his hair and tried to toss away thoughts of Emma from his mind.

On a corner of his desk, next to the lamp, were two silver-framed photographs: one of a golden retriever, the other of a tall, dark-haired man wearing an aviator’s jacket standing next to a small plane. Corey stared at the man’s picture. His lips tightened. He reached for the picture and stared at it for a long time.

I miss you.

He sighed, and put the photograph back on the desk. He was about to open the notebook when someone knocked on his door.

“Can I come in?” his mother asked.

“Sure,
mama
.” Corey shifted slightly on his chair so he could face her.

“Hi,
lapushka
.” She walked over to him. “I heard you come in. How did it go at Madame Dupriez’s this morning? Did you finish cleaning her windows?”

“Pretty much.”

“I don’t know what came over you, offering to do that. You won’t even clean your room except under threat of torture.” She seemed half suspicious, half amused.

Corey chuckled.

Posters of airplanes and other flying paraphernalia covered the walls. Books and manuals about airplanes and other types of aircraft, as well as space exploration, astronomy and music crammed the bookcase. One section of it was reserved for detective novels. A bust of Sherlock Holmes rested on his night table. His violin was propped inside its case against the wall, next to a music stand and a table stacked with etudes and music scores. The room was messy with clothes, socks, shoes, more books and sheets of music scattered here and there.

“Poor Madame Dupriez,” his mother said sadly. She shook her head and leaned against the edge of Corey’s desk. “How is she doing?”

“She looked okay.”

She stroked his hair, smoothing the black waves away from his forehead. “You need a haircut.”

“
Mama
, I’m working,” Corey said, though not unkindly.

“All right, all right. I’m leaving. Are you hungry?”

“No way. I had a
durum
at the pita place on my way back.” Then he asked, “Was Madame Dupriez a violinist?”

She looked thoughtful. “I think she used to play in an orchestra until she met Monsieur Dupriez. She stopped playing when they got married.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know how it is sometimes. It’s hard for a woman to balance a home and family and a musical career at the same time.”

“Doesn’t seem fair.”

She looked at him curiously. “Why do you ask?”

Corey shrugged. “Just wondered.” After a moment, he said, “What do you think happened to Monsieur Dupriez?”

His mother sighed. “I don’t know. But it’s awful… simply awful.”

“I’ll have to keep practicing for the competition on my own.”

“Let’s look for another teacher—you know, in the mean time.”

Corey shook his head. “No way.”

“I know you admired him very much.”

After a moment of silence, Corey asked, “Doesn’t it bother you? To see me playing?”

“Oh,
lapushka
.” She took his hand between hers. “Please never think something like that. Seeing you playing is a source of great joy for me. All the terrible things I’ve told you about my childhood, about my mother, would never affect my feelings about your playing.” She gestured to the framed photograph of the pilot. “I’m sure your father would have been so proud to listen to you play so beautifully. You were born with a gift. Not everybody is. I wasn’t. My mother could never accept that. That was my downfall.”

Corey nodded. He glanced at the notebook on the desk. He was anxious to read it. “I have to study,” he said.
Just a little white lie.
“I have a test this week.”

“Oh, sure. On what?”

“History.”

His mother grimaced. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She kissed the top of his head. “I’m serious, Corey. Your hair is getting quite long. Don’t you think it’s time to cut it?”

“Jesus had long hair.”

“So you keep saying.” She shook her head hopelessly. “See you later. I’m going to read a bit. If you get hungry, there’s macaroni casserole on the stove.”

“Okay.”

As soon as his mother left the room, Corey turned his attention to the notebook. It was a common, regular-looking notebook like the ones students used at school. Maybe that’s why it had remained unnoticed by the cops. Opening it, he skimmed through the pages to get a better general idea of its contents. In Monsieur Dupriez’s study, he’d only had time to look through a couple of pages. Glued to some of the pages were copies of old newspaper clippings. Clearly Monsieur Dupriez had been doing some research at the library. He had been on to something.

As Corey studied the notes and newspaper articles, he was stunned. His heart began to pound with excitement and another strong emotion he wasn’t able to identify.

Unreal. This was more than he’d hoped for.

M
ONSIEUR DUPRIEZ’S HANDWRITING WAS DYNAMIC AND
strong, with firm long strokes and letters in black ink tilting to the right: