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wonder:
Where did you come from?



4
    Venice, Before the War
    On the day that Professor Alberto Mazza discovered a tiny crack in the face of his beloved violin, a family heirloom made in Cremona two centuries earlier, he knew that only the best luthier in Venice should repair it, and so he headed at once to Bruno Todesco’s shop on Calle della Chiesa. With sculpture knife and woodworker’s plane, Bruno was known to transform spruce and maple into instruments that came alive with the stroke of a bow across strings. From dead wood he conjured voices, and not just ordinary voices; his instruments sang with such beauty that they were played in orchestras from London to Vienna.
    When Alberto stepped into the shop, the violinmaker was so engrossed at his worktable that he did not notice that a new customer had entered. Alberto watched Bruno sand the carved surface of spruce, massaging it as if it were a lover, and noted the fierce focus with which the luthier worked, his whole body craned forward, as if trying to breathe his own soul into the wood so it would come alive and sing for him. An idea suddenly bloomed in Alberto’s head, something that had not even occurred to him until this very moment. Here, he thought, was a true artist, devoted to his craft. By reputation, Bruno was a man of temperate habits, industrious, and never known to be in debt. His attendance at synagogue was irregular, true, but he did make the occasional appearance and he never failed to nod deferentially to his elders.
    As Bruno labored over the delicate shell of spruce, still unaware of his customer, Alberto slowly perused the shop. A row of gleaming violins hung suspended by their scrolls, all of them fitted with bridges and strings and ready to be played. Beneath the spotless glass countertop were neat rows of rosin boxes and spare bridges and string packets. Against the back wall of the workroom were boards of seasoned spruce and maple, waiting to be carved and shaped into instruments. Everywhere he looked, Alberto saw order and discipline. It was the shop of a man who was not prone to sloppiness, who valued his tools, and who could be relied upon to care about the important details in life. Although Bruno was not yet forty, his hair was already thinning at the crown, his height was merely average, and he would never be considered handsome. But he did have one indispensable qualification.
    He was not married.
    Here was where their interests aligned. Alberto’s thirty-five-year-old daughter, Eloisa, was unmarried as well. Neither beautiful nor homely, she had no suitors in sight, and unless something was done about it, she would die a spinster. Industrious Bruno, laboring at his workbench, was oblivious to the marital net about to be tossed over his head. Alberto wanted grandchildren, and for that he needed a son-in-law.
    Bruno would do nicely.
    —
    At the wedding eight months later, Alberto brought out the venerable Cremona violin that Bruno had repaired for him. He played the joyous tunes of celebration that his own grandfather had taught him decades before, the same tunes that he later played for the three children born to Eloisa and Bruno. First born was Marco, who came into the world squalling and kicking and punching, already angry at life. Three years later there was Lorenzo, who almost never cried because he was too busy listening, his head turning to the sound of every voice, every birdcall, every note that Alberto played. Ten years later, when Eloisa was forty-nine and certain there would be no more babies for her, little Pia the miracle daughter slid into their world. Here were the precious grandchildren that Alberto had longed for, two boys and a girl, all of them far more handsome than he’d expected, considering their utterly average-looking parents.
    But of those three children, only Lorenzo showed signs of musical talent.
    At two years old, after hearing a melody only twice, the boy could sing it, so deeply etched was it into his