Before I turned to retrace my steps to my hotel, I noticed the window of a small shop on the right where faint gold letters spelling “lutnik”or “violin maker” caught the light. Several unfinished instruments were visible through the smudged glass and hung above a work area covered with wood shavings, carving tools, and a glue pot. I closed my eyes and savored the memory of pungent wood aromas laced with glue from the time I once spent attending to the repair of my own instrument.
When I opened them again, the air was cooler still, and I saw a beam of late sunlight reflecting off windows higher up as it fell upon a battered cello leaned against one wall in the obscure interior. Something stirred in my chest as I watched the ray of sunlight flare like a lantern and travel across the burnished soundboard at the f-slot and wrap around the worn varnish along its side panel, revealing scrapes that testified of a long career.
When I opened them again, the air was cooler still, and I saw a beam of late sunlight reflecting off windows higher up as it fell upon a battered cello leaned against one wall in the obscure interior. Something stirred in my chest as I watched the ray of sunlight flare like a lantern and travel across the burnished soundboard at the f-slot and wrap around the worn varnish along its side panel, revealing scrapes that testified of a long career.