it's coming out that those guys soaked the wood in brine and it altered the molecular structure.”
“Salt water,” Sam said thoughtfully. “That makes some sense. Some of the stuff we find while we’re diving, well, you wouldn’t think it’d have lasted so long. Leather, and even some wood.”
He turned to Raines. “You should see it down there. One spot sand, washed clean as a whistle, and right next to it’ll be some little fragile clay pipe or something, so perfect it's like it’d just got put there. And things we find that should’ve rotted.”
“Well, but a lot of that is the peat,” Maggie pointed out. “The effect of it, I mean. They shipped it in the old days from the port, and I guess they must have spilled lots,” she explained to Raines.
“The acid in it preserves things,” she went on, “and if it collects in the sort of backwater places that the tide doesn’t wash out, whatever got buried in it seems to last forever.”
She frowned. “But not always. Remember that leather sack we found, Sam?”
“What was in it?” George asked interestedly, returning for the cups and glasses.
Maggie shrugged. “We don’t know. We touched it and it just fell apart, like it was dissolving.” She turned back to Raines. “When the silt cleared, whatever was in it had just”—she made a presto! gesture with her hands—“washed away.”
Sam nodded, letting her talk, wearing a patient expression that reminded me of my ex-husband. I didn’t enjoy it and Sam looked a lot like his father anyway, with his green eyes, lantern jaw, and dark, curly hair. And it didn’t help any that Sam had been acting like such a knucklehead about Maggie: as if when he wanted her around, well, naturally she would always be there for him, and if he didn’t, she wouldn’t.
“It's the tone that would have made Jared Hayes want one,” Raines said. “A Stradivarius. I don’t play, myself. But musicians say it's not a matter of degree, the difference between them and any other violins. They say that it's like playing a whole other instrument; the music flies out. Like,” he finished, “the music was just in there, waiting to be released.”
Behind him on the gold-medallion wallpaper the tiniest spot of red appeared suddenly, like a droplet on a pricked fingertip.
Or didn’t. When I blinked and looked again, it was gone.
Maggie nodded dreamily, thinking I suppose of the music just flying out, and she and Sam got up together. They’d made a small business of selling things they’d discovered underwater, listing the items on the Internet via Sam's computer: old china, coins, those clay pipes. Just now they were selling a clay Schweppes jug, and the proceeds from it would buy Sam's books for the fall semester.
“We’ll do the dishes, Mrs. Tiptree,” Maggie said graciously, “and thanks for dinner.” Sam, looking put-upon but with no good way to escape, followed her out.
“So it's not just hype, then,” Ellie said when the two had gone. “People thinking that because the violins are so rare, there must be some special something about them. Some mystery.”
Raines shook his head as the happy blare of a Cajun dance tune came from the kitchen; Sam was a fan of distant sports-radio programs we could sometimes pull in on clear nights, but Maggie liked the Montreal stations.
“No,” Raines said. “The specialness is real.”
As he spoke, an odd look crossed his face: one part heartfelt longing, another part rationally assessing. But in the next instant it was gone, as George returned to rest his hand briefly on Ellie's shoulder, waiting to say something.
“There were only eleven hundred or so Strads ever made,” Raines went on musingly. “I say only, but it's a big number, really; the old man worked practically until the final moment of his life. Into his nineties.”
The music from the kitchen cut off and a man began talking about a batting streak that somebody was having.
“And this was when?”
“Salt water,” Sam said thoughtfully. “That makes some sense. Some of the stuff we find while we’re diving, well, you wouldn’t think it’d have lasted so long. Leather, and even some wood.”
He turned to Raines. “You should see it down there. One spot sand, washed clean as a whistle, and right next to it’ll be some little fragile clay pipe or something, so perfect it's like it’d just got put there. And things we find that should’ve rotted.”
“Well, but a lot of that is the peat,” Maggie pointed out. “The effect of it, I mean. They shipped it in the old days from the port, and I guess they must have spilled lots,” she explained to Raines.
“The acid in it preserves things,” she went on, “and if it collects in the sort of backwater places that the tide doesn’t wash out, whatever got buried in it seems to last forever.”
She frowned. “But not always. Remember that leather sack we found, Sam?”
“What was in it?” George asked interestedly, returning for the cups and glasses.
Maggie shrugged. “We don’t know. We touched it and it just fell apart, like it was dissolving.” She turned back to Raines. “When the silt cleared, whatever was in it had just”—she made a presto! gesture with her hands—“washed away.”
Sam nodded, letting her talk, wearing a patient expression that reminded me of my ex-husband. I didn’t enjoy it and Sam looked a lot like his father anyway, with his green eyes, lantern jaw, and dark, curly hair. And it didn’t help any that Sam had been acting like such a knucklehead about Maggie: as if when he wanted her around, well, naturally she would always be there for him, and if he didn’t, she wouldn’t.
“It's the tone that would have made Jared Hayes want one,” Raines said. “A Stradivarius. I don’t play, myself. But musicians say it's not a matter of degree, the difference between them and any other violins. They say that it's like playing a whole other instrument; the music flies out. Like,” he finished, “the music was just in there, waiting to be released.”
Behind him on the gold-medallion wallpaper the tiniest spot of red appeared suddenly, like a droplet on a pricked fingertip.
Or didn’t. When I blinked and looked again, it was gone.
Maggie nodded dreamily, thinking I suppose of the music just flying out, and she and Sam got up together. They’d made a small business of selling things they’d discovered underwater, listing the items on the Internet via Sam's computer: old china, coins, those clay pipes. Just now they were selling a clay Schweppes jug, and the proceeds from it would buy Sam's books for the fall semester.
“We’ll do the dishes, Mrs. Tiptree,” Maggie said graciously, “and thanks for dinner.” Sam, looking put-upon but with no good way to escape, followed her out.
“So it's not just hype, then,” Ellie said when the two had gone. “People thinking that because the violins are so rare, there must be some special something about them. Some mystery.”
Raines shook his head as the happy blare of a Cajun dance tune came from the kitchen; Sam was a fan of distant sports-radio programs we could sometimes pull in on clear nights, but Maggie liked the Montreal stations.
“No,” Raines said. “The specialness is real.”
As he spoke, an odd look crossed his face: one part heartfelt longing, another part rationally assessing. But in the next instant it was gone, as George returned to rest his hand briefly on Ellie's shoulder, waiting to say something.
“There were only eleven hundred or so Strads ever made,” Raines went on musingly. “I say only, but it's a big number, really; the old man worked practically until the final moment of his life. Into his nineties.”
The music from the kitchen cut off and a man began talking about a batting streak that somebody was having.
“And this was when?”
Similar Books
