the old violin man's house

Meeting people like him, half restores a bit of faith in the Chinese. He was completely and refreshingly nice; no sneakiness, no suspicion, devoid of that conniving attitude that somehow the Chinese feel they can pride themselves on.

He was like one of those old grandpas you dream about, who would play with you all day long and smile all day long.

He lived in a wonderful house.
I would have loved to grow up there.

He had renovated it himself, skillful with wood from making violins. He had lined the inside of his house completely with smooth varnished wood. He had two rooms, one a storage room and the other his working room.

His working room had a large old brown table, with a half constructed violin lying like a patient on the operating table. And the walls were lined with rows and rows of violins; old, smooth, shiny, beautiful.

And the other room was slightly dusty, slightly neglected in that mysterious forest way. Inside stood silent giants of cellos and double basses, ancient and quiet; a forest of an accumulation of experience, wisdom, power and magic.

Those two rooms really did feel like it had magic, a powerful unspoken one which lay in the instruments crafted by his soft hands.

"Beautiful!" he pronounced each violin, as he effortlessly scraped the beginning of Massenet's Thais from each masterpiece.
"Why are your fingers so thin?" he demanded.
"These youngsters," he said, shaking his head, "all with thin fingers. Look at mine! They could be double your little fingers!"
"Thin fingers," he said, "but strong."

2010-07-06
8:19 p.m.
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