The Plague of Doves - Louise Erdrich [89]
As days passed, Corwin laid low and picked up his job at the deep-fryer. He probably knew that he was being watched because he made one of those rallying attempts that gave heart to so many of his would-be saviors. He straightened out, stayed sober, used his best manner, and when questioned was convincingly hopeful about his prospects and affable about his failures.
“I’m a jackass,” he admitted, “but I never sank so low as to rip off the old man’s fiddle.”
Yet he had, of course. We just didn’t know where he could be hiding it or whether he had the sense ultimately to bring it to an antiques dealer or an instrument shop somewhere in the Cities. While we waited for him to make his move, there was the old man, who quickly began to fail. I had not realized how much I’d loved to hear him play—sometimes out on his scrubby back lawn after dusk, sometimes, as I’ve mentioned, at those little concerts, and other times just for groups of people who would gather round at Clemence and Edward’s house. It wasn’t that I heard him more than once or twice a month, but I found, like many others, that I depended on his music. After weeks had passed a dull spot opened and I ached with a surprising poignancy for Shamengwa’s loss, which I honestly shared, so that I had to seek him out and sit with him as if it would help to mourn the absence of his music together. One thing I wanted to know, too, was whether, if the violin did not turn up, we could get together and buy him a new, perhaps even a better instrument. I hesitated to ask him, as though my offer was a selfish thing. I didn’t know. So I sat in Shamengwa’s little front room one afternoon, and tried to find an opening.
“Of course,” I said, “we think we know who took your fiddle. We’ve got our eye on him.”
Shamengwa swept his hair back with the one graceful hand, and said, as he had many times, “I slept the whole damn time.”
Yet in trying to free himself from the bed, he’d fallen half off the side. He’d scraped his cheek and the white of his eye on that side was an angry red. He moved with a stiff, pained slowness, the rigidity of a very old person. It took him a long time to straighten all the way when he tried to get up.
“You stay sitting. I’ll boil the tea.” Geraldine was gentle and practical. No one ever argued with her. Shamengwa lowered himself piece by piece back into a padded brown rocking chair. He gazed at me—or past me, really. I soon understood that, although he spoke quietly and answered questions, he was not fully engaged in the conversation. In fact, he was only half present, and somewhat disheveled, irritable as well, neither of which I’d ever seen in him. His shirt was buttoned wrong, the plaid askew, and he hadn’t shaved the smattering of whiskers from his chin that morning. The white stubble stood out against his skin. His breath was sour and he didn’t seem glad at all that I had come.
We sat together in a challenging silence until Geraldine brought two mugs of hot, strong, sugared tea and got another for herself. Shamengwa’s hand shook as he lifted the cup, but he drank. His face cleared a bit as the tea went down, and I decided there would be no better time to put forth my idea.
“Uncle,” I said, “we would like to buy a new fiddle for you.”
Shamengwa took another drink of his tea, said nothing, but put down the cup and folded his hands in his lap. He looked past me and frowned in a thoughtful way. I did not think that was a good sign.
“Wouldn’t he like a new violin?” I appealed to Geraldine. She shook her head as if she was both annoyed with me and exasperated with her uncle. We sat in silence. I didn’t know where to go from there. Shamengwa had closed his eyes. He leaned far back in his chair, but he wasn’t asleep. I thought he might be trying to get rid of me. But I was stubborn and