Marco

The Luthier's Apprentice

Chapter 19: Marco

Marco's hands were the hands of a man who had spent six years holding tools. The calluses had developed in the specific locations that the tools demanded: the web between thumb and forefinger, where the gouge rested during carving; the tip of the right index finger, where the knife pressed during cutting; the heel of the right palm, where the plane pushed during planing; the pads of the left fingers, where the wood was held during shaping. The calluses were not uniform, not the general toughening that manual labor produces, but a topography, a landscape of thickened skin that mapped the tools and their positions in the hand the way a river delta maps the courses of the water, the calluses forming where the pressure was greatest and the contact most frequent, the skin responding to the work the way the work responded to the skin, the relationship reciprocal, the hands shaping the tools and the tools shaping the hands.

His fingers were stained. The varnish had entered his skin at the molecular level, the pigments and the oils and the resins penetrating the epidermis, embedding themselves in the cells, the staining not on the surface but in the surface, the surface itself changed, the skin carrying the color of the work the way the wood carried the color of the varnish, and the carrying was permanent, or nearly permanent, the stains fading slightly between projects but never disappearing entirely, the fingers always carrying a faint amber tint that was the badge of the luthier, the mark of the craft written on the body.

Marco Benedetti. Thirty-two years old. Born in Brescia, an hour east of Cremona by train, the train that he took every Sunday to visit his parents and his two sisters and the niece who had been born in September, the niece whose arrival had softened something in Marco that Nadia had noticed, a softening visible not in his manner, which remained quiet and focused and reserved, but in the small things, the way he checked his phone during the lunch break for photographs, the way he smiled at the photographs with a particular tenderness that the workshop did not usually see, the tenderness of an uncle who has discovered that the love of a child is a different kind of love from the love of the craft, the two loves occupying different chambers of the heart.

He had come to Giovanni at twenty-six. The same age Nadia was when she left Cleveland, the same age, the coincidence unspoken but present, the number twenty-six marking the beginning of a new life for both of them, though Marco's beginning was not preceded by a loss, Marco's beginning was preceded by a training, the training at the Scuola Internazionale di Liuteria, the violin-making school in Cremona where students spent four years learning the fundamentals of the craft, the fundamentals that the school taught in classrooms and workshops, the fundamentals that were necessary but not sufficient, the school providing the foundation and the master providing the building, and the building was the apprenticeship, and the apprenticeship was Giovanni's workshop, and the workshop was where Marco had been building for six years.

He did not talk about the school. Nadia noticed this the way she noticed the things that people did not say, the silences that surrounded certain subjects, the silences that were more informative than words. Marco did not talk about the school the way a graduate student does not talk about the undergraduate program, the earlier training superseded by the later, the later more rigorous, more demanding, more real, the school's workshops clean and well-lit and equipped with modern tools, Giovanni's workshop old and dim and equipped with tools that predated the school, and the old and dim and predating were not deficiencies but qualities, the qualities of authenticity, of continuity, of the tradition that the school taught about and that Giovanni practiced.

Marco worked on his viola. The viola was his project, his own instrument, the instrument he was building under Giovanni's supervision, the supervision that was not constant oversight but periodic assessment, Giovanni coming to Marco's bench once or twice a day to look at the work, to touch the surfaces, to tap the plates, to nod or to point or to make the small corrections that were the master's contribution to the apprentice's education, the corrections delivered without explanation because the explanation was the correction itself, the correction showing what was wrong by showing what was right, the showing more efficient than the telling.

The viola was larger than a violin. The body length 410 millimeters instead of the violin's 356, the proportions different, the arching different, the graduation different, the viola a different instrument with a different voice, a darker voice, a deeper voice, the voice that sits between the violin and the cello in the orchestra's string section, the voice that is often overlooked and that is essential, the viola providing the harmonic middle, the bridge between the brightness of the violins and the depth of the cellos, and the bridge-ness was Marco's attraction to the instrument, the viola appealing to a temperament that preferred the middle to the extremes, the supporting role to the solo role, the accompanying voice to the leading voice.

Nadia watched Marco work. She watched him the way she watched Giovanni, with attention, with the intent to learn, but the watching was different because Marco was a peer, was an apprentice like her, was a learner like her, and the watching of a peer is different from the watching of a master, the peer's work showing not the destination but the journey, not the perfected skill but the skill in development, the work of a person who is better than you but not yet at the level of the master, and the better-but-not-yet is instructive because it is achievable, is within the range of the possible, is what Nadia might become if she continued, if she stayed, if she practiced.

They did not talk much. The workshop was a quiet place, a place where concentration was the primary form of communication, the silence not unfriendly but functional, the silence the condition that the work required, the condition that the hands required, the hands needing the mind's full attention, the attention that talking would fragment, the fragmentation the enemy of precision. But within the silence they communicated, they exchanged the signals that people who share a space and share a practice develop, the signals that are not words but gestures, not sentences but looks, the look that says: how is it going, the nod that says: well enough, the raised eyebrow that says: look at this, the wince that says: I made a mistake, the quiet bene that says: that is right, that is how it should be.

The quiet bene. Marco said it, and Giovanni said it, and the saying was the evaluation, the one-word assessment that was the workshop's primary form of praise, the praise that was not effusive, was not encouraging in the American sense of the word, was not the good job or the nice work that Nadia had grown up hearing from teachers and coaches, but was more valuable than any of those phrases because it was earned, was specific, was delivered only when the work merited it, and the meriting was rare, and the rarity was the value, and the value was the bene.

Nadia had received her first bene from Marco in January. She had been planing a practice plate, the thumb plane moving over the spruce, the shavings curling, and the shavings had been thin, had been translucent, had been the correct shavings, the shavings of a hand that was learning, and Marco had looked up from his work and looked at her shavings and said bene, and the word had entered her chest the way the word dystonia had entered her chest in Cleveland but in the opposite direction, the word rising rather than sinking, the word light rather than heavy, the word the sound of acknowledgment, of recognition, of one craftsperson seeing another craftsperson's work and finding it acceptable, and the acceptable was the beginning of the good, and the good was the destination, and the destination was the bene.

Their working friendship. It was built on shared space and shared silence and the particular companionship of people who spend their days doing precise work with their hands. The companionship was not the companionship of conversation, was not the companionship of shared opinions or shared histories or shared interests, was a companionship of proximity and practice, the companionship of two bodies working in the same room with the same tools toward the same kind of goal, and the sameness of the goal was the bond, the bond that did not require articulation, that existed in the doing rather than in the saying.

They ate lunch together. This was the daily social moment, the break from the work that the body required and that the tradition sanctioned, the Italian lunch break, the pausa, the hour in the middle of the day when the tools were set down and the hands were washed and the aprons were hung and the workshop became, briefly, a kitchen, Giovanni's kitchen being accessible through a door at the back of the workshop, the kitchen where Lucia had left prepared food, the food simple, Italian, the pasta and the bread and the cheese and the salad and the fruit that constituted the midday meal, the meal eaten at a table in the kitchen, the table small, three chairs, and sometimes four when Lucia stayed for lunch, and the eating was the time when the talking happened, the talking that the workshop's silence suppressed during the working hours.

Marco talked about Brescia. About his parents, who ran a hardware store on a street near the castle, the castle being the medieval fortress that overlooked the city, the castle that Marco had grown up beneath, the castle a presence in his childhood the way the Torrazzo was a presence in Cremona, the tall structures that children grow up under, the structures that are the first geography, the first architecture, the first understanding of the built world. His father sold tools. Nails and screws and drill bits and hammers and saws and all the implements of construction and repair, the implements that Marco had grown up surrounded by, the tools of the general trade, the tools that build houses and fix faucets and hang shelves, and the tools were in Marco's blood, the familiarity with tools, the comfort with the object in the hand, the understanding that the tool is an extension of the intention and the intention is an extension of the person and the person is the maker.

He had found luthiery through a school trip. At fifteen, his class had visited the Museo del Violino in Cremona, the museum that housed the instruments of Stradivari and Guarneri, the instruments displayed in their glass cases, lit from within, the varnish glowing. Marco had stood before a Stradivari from 1709, the instrument called the Viotti, and he had looked at it and the looking had been the event, the moment that redirected his life, the way Nadia's hearing of the violin at age four had redirected hers, the moment of recognition that is not a decision but a discovery, the discovery that the thing before you is the thing you want, the wanting arriving complete, the completeness overwhelming.

He had told his parents that he wanted to make violins. His father, the hardware man, had understood, had recognized in his son's wanting the same wanting that had led him to open the hardware store, the wanting to work with tools, the wanting to make and fix and build, the wanting that is the maker's wanting, and the maker's wanting does not distinguish between the violin and the house, between the gouge and the hammer, between the craft and the trade, the wanting is the same, the wanting is the hands wanting to hold tools and the tools wanting to be held and the holding is the work and the work is the life.

Marco had enrolled in the Scuola. Four years. He had learned the basics, had made a violin and a viola and a cello as student projects, had learned the theory and the history and the chemistry and the acoustics, had absorbed the education that the school provided, and then he had sought a master, had sought the apprenticeship that the school could not provide, the education of the workshop rather than the classroom, the education of the hands rather than the mind.

He had found Giovanni through a teacher at the Scuola who knew Giovanni, who had trained with Giovanni's father Carlo, who had maintained the connection across the generations, the connection that was the network, the web of relationships that the Cremonese luthiers maintained, the web that was the tradition's social structure, the structure through which the knowledge traveled, the knowledge that was not in books but in hands, and the hands were connected to other hands through the web, the web that extended back through the generations to the original makers.

Giovanni had accepted Marco. The acceptance was conditional, was probationary, was the six-month trial that Giovanni offered to every potential apprentice, the trial during which the apprentice demonstrated not skill but temperament, not ability but patience, not knowledge but the willingness to learn, and the willingness was the thing, the thing that Giovanni assessed during the trial, the thing that determined whether the apprentice would stay. Marco had stayed. Six years.

In six years he had learned the craft. Not mastered it — Marco would not have said mastered, would not have used that word for himself, the word reserved for Giovanni and for the makers whose instruments hung in the Museo, the word that described a level of attainment that Marco recognized as distant, as aspirational, as the destination of a journey that he was in the middle of — but he had learned it, had absorbed it, had internalized the skills and the knowledge and the patience that the craft required, and the internalizing was visible in his hands, in the calluses and the stains and the sure movements, the movements that no longer hesitated, that no longer wavered, the movements of a man who knew his tools the way a musician knows their instrument.

Nadia and Marco. They worked side by side. Her bench and his bench separated by a meter of space, the meter bridged by the shared air and the shared light and the shared sounds of the tools and the shared silence of the concentration, the meter a distance and a connection, the distance providing the space that each worker needed and the connection providing the companionship that each worker wanted, the wanting not spoken, not acknowledged, but present, the presence of another person in the room, the presence that changes the quality of the work the way the presence of another musician on the stage changes the quality of the performance, the presence that is not collaboration exactly but accompaniment, the being-together that is not working-together but working-alongside, and the alongside is the companionship.

She watched him carve the scroll of his viola. The scroll was the decorative spiral at the top of the instrument, the curl of wood that served no acoustic purpose but that was the luthier's most visible expression of carving skill, the scroll a pure exercise in the shaping of wood, the functional irrelevance of the scroll freeing the maker to focus on the aesthetic, on the beauty of the form, and the beauty was the standard, and the standard was the Cremonese scroll, the scroll that Stradivari carved and that every subsequent maker has aspired to match, the spiral tight and even, the volute deepening with each turn, the chamfer — the flat border around the edge of the spiral — smooth and consistent, the whole form emerging from the block of maple with the inevitability of something that was always inside it, waiting to be revealed.

Marco carved with the gouge and the chisel, the tools removing the maple in small cuts, each cut deliberate, each cut planned, the scroll emerging slowly, the spiral tightening, the volute deepening, and Nadia watched the emergence and the watching was the seeing, the seeing of the craft in action, the craft performed by a person who was not the master but who was skilled, whose skill was real, whose skill was the product of six years of daily practice.

She thought about her own six years. In six years, if she stayed, if she continued, if she committed to the apprenticeship the way Marco had committed, in six years she would be thirty-four and her hands would be calloused and stained and sure, her hands would be the hands of a luthier, her hands would have made instruments, would have shaped wood, would have carved scrolls and cut f-holes and bent ribs and fitted bass bars, her hands would have found their new purpose, the purpose that was not the old purpose, the purpose that was not the violin but the making of the violin, and the distinction was the life, the life she was choosing.

But six years was a long time. Six years in a workshop on Via Palazzo. Six years of standing at the bench. Six years of the tools and the wood and the silence and the espresso and the bene. Six years of being far from Cleveland and far from the orchestra and far from the music that she had trained to make, the music that the emails from Jennifer and David and Sarah described, the music that continued without her.

She looked at Marco. Marco was carving. Marco was absorbed. Marco was in the state that the workshop produced in its inhabitants, the state of focused attention that was the craft's gift, the gift that compensated for the difficulty, the gift that repaid the patience, the state that psychologists called flow and that the workshop called work, the work that absorbed the worker, the work that dissolved the self into the doing, the doing becoming the being, the being becoming the work.

Marco looked up. He looked at Nadia. He saw her watching him. He did not smile, because smiling was not the workshop's idiom, the workshop's idiom being the nod and the bene and the raised eyebrow and the look, and the look he gave her was the look of recognition, the recognition of one worker by another, the recognition that said: I see you, I see you working, I see you learning, I see you here, and the here is the thing.

He nodded. The nod was Marco's nod, different from Giovanni's nod, Marco's nod carrying the particular weight of a peer's acknowledgment, the weight that is different from a master's approval, lighter but not less meaningful, the nod of a colleague rather than a teacher, and the colleague-ness was a new relationship, a new category in Nadia's life, the category of the fellow craftsperson, the person who does what you do, who understands what you do, who shares the daily life of the doing.

She nodded back. The exchange of nods, two nods, the communication complete, the communication saying everything that needed to be said, which was: we are here, we are working, the work is good, the day is the day, the workshop is the workshop, and the being-here-together is the companionship, and the companionship is enough.

Marco returned to his scroll. The gouge entered the maple. The shaving curled. The spiral deepened.

Nadia returned to her work. The thumb plane on the practice plate. The shaving curled. The surface smoothed.

The workshop held them. The northern light held the workshop. The craft held the light. The silence held the craft. And in the silence, the companionship, the companionship of shared labor, the labor of the hands.

Marco was making his instrument. Nadia was learning to make hers. Giovanni was making his last. Three people in a workshop, three sets of hands, three different stages of the journey, the journey that was the craft, the craft that was the tradition, the tradition that was the city, the city that was Cremona.

And Cremona held them all.

And the holding was the thing.

And the thing was the work.

And the work was the bene.