All in all, it was an excellent example of the luthier’s art. And it was a living instrument with signs of use on it, but nonetheless lovingly cared for. Veraldi’s pride in it was obvious.
“Very fine lute,” Atwood said, handing it back.
“Thank you,” came the response. “It was made for me by Master Matteo Sellas, of Venice. The Sellas family are the finest luthiers in Italy.”
“It is a fine instrument,” Atwood repeated. “Would you like to see the rest of mine?”
Veraldi nodded with eagerness, wiping his hands on his pants.
Atwood started pulling cases out of the stack and opening them up in the tables. “Steel string guitar, twelve string guitar, and of course,” opening the final case with a flourish, “the Gibson Les Paul electric guitar.”
His guest looked around with a dazed look on his face, not understanding what he was seeing.
“Sit, sit,” Atwood said, pointing to the stool. Veraldi sat. The up-timer picked up the classical guitar, and thought for a moment about what to play. After a moment, the perfect song came to him. He wrapped himself around the guitar, and played the opening bars to “Hotel California.”
Veraldi was intent, watching Atwood’s fingers, drinking in the sound. The delicate tapestry of the music wove through the air of the small room, seeming to bring light with it. Atwood stopped at the place where the vocals would have begun.
The Italian sighed. Then he pointed at the other instruments. “Please?”
Atwood smiled. “Sure.” He set the classical back in its case and picked up the steel-string guitar. He settled back onto the stool, then played the same piece of music. Veraldi’s eyes widened at the difference in timbre between the two instruments, so similar in size and shape.
The performance was repeated with the twelve-string guitar. This time Veraldi’s eyes closed, but Atwood could have sworn he saw the man’s ears twitching in time with the music. He smiled a little at the thought.
Once again the excerpt drew to a close. Atwood set the twelve-string back in its case and turned back to his guest.
“You will not play the other guitar?” Veraldi pointed to the Gibson.
“Later,” Atwood laughed. “That one takes a different song. But there is one more for you to see.” He closed a couple of cases, then set another on top of them and opened it. “This is a banjo.”
Atwood picked the banjo up and handed it to Veraldi, whose eyebrows immediately shot up to their limit at the sight of the round flat body. He turned it this way and that, peering at it closely as he took in all the details. After several minutes, Veraldi sat back. “I do not know what I expected to see, but it was not…this. This almost looks like the bastard child of a vihuela and a tambour.”
“You’re not far off,” Atwood laughed. He took the banjo back, and cradled it in his arms. He’d already decided what to play here, so he took off with “Herod’s Song” from Jesus Christ Superstar. The rollicking beat made it a fun song to play.
When he finished, he looked up to see Veraldi smiling. “Yes,” the Italian said, “that is what I heard through the radio in Magdeburg. That sound; that very unique sound. How can I get a banjo? I must take one back to Italy with me.”
“Well,” Atwood replied, “I won’t sell mine. And there’s not very many of them in Grantville. However, Ingram Bledsoe might have one or two. I’ll check with him tomorrow.”
“Then may I return tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, certainly. Say, middle of the afternoon.”
Veraldi stood from his stool and held out his hand. “I will return then,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Herr Cochran. It was very good to meet you.”
Atwood ushered his guest to the front door, where they shook hands again and exchanged good evenings.
“Well,” Lucille said, coming out of the dining room, “dinner’s ready. What did your Signor Veraldi want?”
“Mostly to talk about instruments,” Atwood said. “I have a feeling that we’re going to be seeing a lot more of him. I suspect he’s going to want to drain me dry of everything I can tell him.”
Giouan muttered to himself all the way back to the hotel. Mother of heaven, what he had just discovered. The banjo alone would be a prize to take back to Italy, but the up-time vihuelas! The sounds they could make. He knew he had had only a taste tonight. He must hear more. He must learn more. He must find a way to take these things home with him.
The next day, Sunday
Atwood opened the door. “Signor Veraldi, come in.” He led the way to the studio. He turned the stereo down, then waved at one stool as he took his seat on the other one. “So, how has your day been? What do you think about banjos now?”
“My day has been good,” Veraldi responded. “And I would very much like to have a banjo. Have you been able to speak to your friend Herr Bledsoe?”
“Yes, I have. The good news is that he has two banjos, a four-string and a five-string. He says he might be willing to sell the four-string. The bad news is it’s somewhat beat-up and he wants three hundred dollars for it.”
“Three hundred dollars.” Veraldi pulled at his mustaches. “How much is that in pfennigs or groschen?”
Atwood thought for a moment. “About a hundred and ninety pfennigs, maybe. You’d have to convert them at the bank to find out for sure.”
The Italian’s mouth twisted. “He is proud of his banjos, Herr Bledsoe is.”
“To be fair, I was surprised he had any. As of right now, I only know of four in the entire Ring of Fire. I have one, Bucky Buckner of the Old Folks Band has one, and Ingram has the other two. There might be one or two more in closets in town, but I wouldn’t count on it. Banjos weren’t very popular up-time. People thought they were hard to learn to play. Ingram’s going to keep one to be a model for the designers and workers in his factory, so that leaves exactly one to sell. I’m really surprised some musician hasn’t come along and bought it from him. If I had anybody wanting to learn banjo, it would probably have sold already.”
“You teach, then?” Veraldi cocked his head to one side.
“Oh, yeah.” Atwood laughed. “I teach music at the junior high school. I taught in another town before the Ring of Fire. Afterwards, it was just natural for me to keep teaching here. Plus I give lessons on guitar. Anybody under the age of thirty-five in this town who plays guitar probably learned from me. That’s why I have the studio.” He waved his hand around at the room.
Veraldi pulled at his moustaches some more. “Do you teach…older students?”
“Like yourself?”
Veraldi nodded.
“Sure. I once had a sixty-year-old grandmother who wanted to learn the guitar. I think I can teach you.” Atwood smiled, and saw it returned.
“How much do you charge?” Veraldi asked.
“Ten dollars for a half-hour lesson.”
Veraldi spent a moment in thought. “So, perhaps five pfennigs. And how many lessons could one such as I have during a week?”
“Well,” Atwood began, “I normally do one lesson a week for each student, but for you, at least two, maybe three, possibly even four. You would rate as a proficient student.”
“Thank you.” Veraldi frowned. “I would like lessons on both the banjo and the guitar. Please tell Herr Bledsoe that I would like to buy his banjo. I simply must determine how I can pay for it.”
Atwood thought that if Veraldi didn’t stop pulling at his mustache, it was going to come out in his hands.
“Are there guitars that can be bought? Up-time guitars, here in Grantville?”
“Probably,” Atwood said. “I’ll look around for you. They’ll be easier to find than banjos, that’s for sure. Now, when do you want to do your lessons? Sunday and Wednesday night are out. I have commitments with the church and with the Voice of America Radio Network. Saturday I need for myself. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday or Friday, your choice.”
“Twice a week, you said,” Veraldi responded. “What about Monday and Thursday evenings, then?”
Atwood pulled out his schedule book. “That will work. What about seven in the evening both nights?”
