Heartstrings

By Rich Amada

A violinmaker in the Italian city of Cremona puts his very heart and soul into creating the perfect violin and, in so doing, creates an instrument that transforms into his ideal woman.

This fantasy romance tells the magical tale of a man’s love for the girl he literally created; a female whose body is flesh and blood but who maintains the musical voice of the wooden instrument from which she sprang.

Fearful of what might happen if others uncovered the girl’s secret, the man tries his best to keep her hidden from the outside world. However, the magnificence of the music emanating from her mouth cannot be silenced, and soon all of Cremona is clamoring to hear her “sing.” Among her admirers is an amorous cellist who has more than just music on his mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scarlet Maiden
• Release date: Jun 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370236725

Rich Amada

Rich Amada is an award winning author of stories and plays. He’s also an actor, which he believes gives him a sense of drama, something he incorporates into his writing. As a former Emmy winning TV news reporter, Rich has met and interviewed thousands of people, all of whom had interesting stories to share. Drawing inspiration from that experience, he now shares his own imaginative tales.

Book preview

Heartstrings

by

Rich Amada

Copyright © 2016 Richard Amada. All rights reserved.

Published by Scarlet Maiden, a trademark.

Distributed by Smashwords.

This is a copyrighted work. The scanning, uploading, copying, and/or distribution of this story without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property and a violation of copyright law. No part of this story may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the publisher. This prohibition does not extend to a reviewer who may quote brief passages as part of a review.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Contents

1. The Luthier

2. The Instrument

3. Violetta

4. The Sensation of Cremona

5. Alfredo

6. The Festival

7. Stranger in the Mirror

8. Where All Roads Lead

9. Encore

1. The Luthier

Pietro the luthier wasn’t famous. Not even amongst his fellow violin makers. Or even amongst the citizenry of Cremona, a town that falls all over itself in its adoration of stringed instrument manufacture. In Cremona it took more than just the ability to carve, mold, and assemble a violin if you wanted to achieve renown. This had been, after all, the home of such illustrious luthiers as Amati, Guarneri, Stradivari. Long dead, the mere mention of their names could still bring an awed hush about a crowd. By comparison, speaking the name of Pietro Caravella barely caught anyone’s attention.

It wasn’t that he lacked talent. As violin making went, he knew his craft. Beginning in the late 1840s he’d apprenticed as a teenager to a respected local luthier who taught him well the intricacies of fashioning a fine stringed instrument. Over the course of his life he developed his skills such that it could well be said Pietro was a worthy craftsman. However, it could also be stated that, in Cremona, violin makers were a dime a dozen. Distinguishing oneself among them wasn’t easy.

In Pietro’s case, it couldn’t be said that a shortage of distinction was the result of a lack of trying. He devoted himself so thoroughly to violin making that he paid little attention to anything else. That included women. He’d never married, never had a real girlfriend. On occasions, when he was younger, he’d accept the terms of the girls who bartered their sexuality in the streets. That served its purpose but was hardly emotionally fulfilling. Now that it was about a half-dozen years into the twentieth century and he was past the age of seventy, he couldn’t help but be struck with a sense of having missed out on an important aspect of life. Where once his work fully consumed him and blocked out everything else, he was now feeling empty and experiencing long overdue pangs of loneliness.

He prayed in the cathedral for guidance. Surely, a man who’d devoted himself to his work, and sacrificed so much to bring the world the glorious sound of music, deserved some reward. A companion perhaps? Was that asking too much of God? Maybe it was at this late stage. He felt as though the time for courtship was well behind him. If he had wanted romance, he should have pursued it years ago instead of lavishing all his passion on wooden instruments.

With heavyhearted resignation, he came to accept that he had given every ounce of himself, body and soul, to his violins, violas, and cellos. They were the only things in his life he’d really cared about, the only real recipients of his adoration.

When he was fashioning an instrument, how delicately he would handle the neck and body, using only his fingertips, as though the wood could sense his very touch. How gently he would carve out the little f-holes—so named because they resemble the script letter f—easing his file along the edges of the openings so as not to crack or chip the wood. How patiently he’d apply the varnish, one lustrous coat after another as if he were dressing a lady in the finest attire. Yes, his instruments were his only genuine obsession. They were his true lovers.

If God was listening to his prayers, He didn’t make it known in any manner Pietro could interpret. The man left the cathedral and returned home, which also served as his workshop, to contemplate what he should do. Deep inner reflection led to one conclusion. He wasn’t a lover and had little hope of changing that. But he was a fine luthier, and he’d like the world to know the quality of his instruments. He wasn’t sure how many more years he’d have on this planet, or how much longer he’d possess the dexterity to create a fine violin. So, if he was going to make his mark on the world of music, he needed to do it right away.

There was a man named Umberto De Fiore who was regarded as one of Italy’s premier violinists of the day. He lived in Milan and travelled to Cremona periodically to have maintenance done on his valuable instruments. There was word about town that he was coming Monday to see one of the area’s most exalted luthiers.

Pietro got up extra early that morning and waited at the railroad station. He wasn’t sure which train De Fiore was coming in on, but he didn’t want to miss him. Shortly before noon, a light drizzle began. The luthier wore an old brimmed hat that had seen better days. It did a less than adequate job of keeping the wearer’s head dry, and he’d neglected to bring an umbrella. So, to keep from becoming fully drenched, he ducked within the stationhouse. From within, he listened and peered out the door each time he heard a locomotive arriving.

Finally, he saw him step off a train. De Fiore looked just like the photos of him Pietro had seen. He was in his early 40s, tall and robust, wearing a long black coat and a gray hat. From his right hand he carried a violin case. In his left hand was an umbrella to shield him and the case from the rain that had now intensified.

Signore De Fiore! Pietro rushed into the rain to intercept the musician.

Please, no autographs. De Fiore didn’t stop to talk.

I’m not here for an autograph, Signore, said the luthier. I’ve come to offer you a proposition.

What kind of proposition?

I’m Pietro Caravella, violin maker. And I’d like to make you the finest violin in the world.

The musician rolled his eyes. He must have been approached a thousand times by people who claimed they could provide a better instrument, a superior way