My Life Among the Apes by Cary Fagan Page A

such images of their past on constant display.
    He began to walk, his guidebook concealed in the pocket of his cloth overcoat so that he would not look like a tourist. The Germans were a well-dressed people, but then they had grown rich after the war, with the help of America. He would have liked to start a conversation with an actual Berliner, but he had never been the sort of person who could speak to strangers, not like Ida.
    He strolled along the River Spree, wide and pleasant, then turned into the small streets. He passed a marionette theatre, several German restaurants, an internet café. He came to a window with a few old carving tools displayed behind it and, peering through the doorway, saw a man in a leather apron working at a bench. On the wall hung violins, their varnish gleaming. A few were unfinished, the bare wood almost white. He’d never paid music the slightest attention but so charmed was he by the sight that he stepped inside.
    The man said something in German without looking up and went on with his work, using a small gouging tool to shape the scroll on the end of a neck. Bernie saw piles of roughly cut tops and backs, smelled wood dust and varnish. The gouge hissed softly.
    The man in the apron straightened up. He had a large, peanut-shaped face. There was sawdust stuck to his glasses.
    â€œDo you speak English? You do beautiful work.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œMy grandson plays violin.”
    â€œAh, so.”
    â€œAre they very expensive?”
    â€œNot so, I think.”
    The man turned and lifted one of his violins off the wall. He held it out for Bernie to take. It was surprisingly light, an egg shell, and looked both new and antique at the same time. He wondered how a person even judged a violin.
    â€œThis is very good wood. Spruce from Bosnia. The rest, maple from Switzerland. I polish it for many hours. No one else is doing this but me.”
    â€œYou mean that you are the only builder in Berlin?”
    â€œNo, no, there are others. I mean, no one else touches this one.”
    â€œI see. How much is it?”
    â€œThree thousand, five hundred Euros. With case and bow.”
    In dollars that was perhaps five thousand. Of course he had no intention of actually buying it, but he continued to stand there with the instrument in his hand.
    â€œI can sell for maybe a hundred Euros less.”
    He told himself to give it back to the builder, but it remained in his hands.
    WALKING THROUGH THE STREETS of Kreutzberg, he held tightly onto the handle of the violin case. Perhaps he would be mistaken for a musician, on his way to have a little coffee before a rehearsal at the Philharmonic. He felt giddy for having spent so much money so impulsively; foolish, certainly, but also triumphant. Music, after all, was the best thing that the Germans had given the world. Who knew, maybe the violin would change his grandson’s life. An impulsive gesture could do that.
    He fished in his pocket for the address that Sarah had given him, and when he couldn’t find it, his heart had a panicky flutter. But no, there it was, lodged between the pages of the guidebook. He looked at the map, found that he was only a block away, hurried now, caught sight of the awning, the small wooden tables and café chairs stacked up. Inside it was crowded and humming with voices, clouded with cigarette smoke. There were music posters on the walls, and handbills at the counter. Nobody in the place looked older than twenty-five. He saw Sarah and moved between the tables towards her, holding up the violin case so as not to smack anyone with it. Only as he got closer did he see that she was sitting with a young man. Wire glasses, a loose sweater of indeterminate colour, with a scarf around his neck. They were speaking quietly. Sarah did not see him until he was by the table.
    â€œZeyde,” she said, getting up to hug him, more warmly than on their first encounter, although he wondered whether she