Chapter 86
I’m translating the chapter and preserving the required HTML structure, including the special styled block for the quoted Polish text.CHAPTER_TITLE: The Violin Left Behind
When he got home and opened the front door, he heard a sudden patter from inside.
Kkamangi came racing through the living room.
As if it had been waiting for him all along, it rubbed its body against his leg to show how glad it was to see him.
Is this a dog or a cat?
"Kkamangi, you’ve been well?"
"Meow-!"
It let out a low cry, as if accusing him of taking so long to come back.
Then it flopped onto the entry mat and exposed its belly.
Its tail thumped against the mat as it swayed from side to side.
He smiled and scooped it up, giving it a few affectionate rubs.
"I’m home."
His mother’s voice came from the kitchen.
The smell of doenjang-jjigae, simmering richly on the stove, drifted all the way to the front hall.
It was the kind of scent that made the mouth water on instinct.
"Yeah. I’m back."
Then his mother’s gaze caught on what was in his hand.
"What’s that?"
"Oh, this? A violin."
He said it as if it were nothing at all.
His mother came out wiping her hands on her apron.
"Really? You bought a violin."
She looked the leather case up and down.
"That’s incredibly fancy."
"Right?"
"But when did you ever learn violin? You bought it because you’re planning to start now?"
"I, um, took a free class at the local community center near my office back when I was working there."
He improvised a plausible excuse.
There had actually been a class like that, too.
Still, his mother didn’t seem ready to let go of her suspicion.
"You used to say you were too busy with overtime to have any time, so when did you learn?"
"I practiced little by little whenever I had time."
Her expression softened into something melancholy.
"So our son really was serious about music. You said you wanted to learn when you were little, and we couldn’t make it happen... I’m sorry."
When he was young, he had once seen a piano and violin on television and said he wanted to learn them.
Back then, money had been tight.
His mother had raised him alone, and not only was there no money for instruments, there was barely enough for lessons.
So they had no choice but to give up on the idea.
She still remembered that time.
"I’m sorry, honey. I couldn’t let you do it when you were little."
"Ah, no, it’s fine."
Flustered, he waved his hands quickly before she misunderstood.
Back then, it had only been a passing interest.
If he had really learned properly, he would have quit in no time.
"How much did it cost, anyway?"
His mother changed the subject.
Si-woo hesitated for a moment.
Scratching his head, he said, "A hundred million won."
It had turned into a purchase somehow.
There was no way he could tell her he had bought it impulsively after reading Yosef Hassid’s memories.
"Huh?"
His mother’s pupils shook.
For a moment, she was at a loss for words.
She didn’t even know her son could play a violin, and now he was saying he’d bought one worth a hundred million won.
She knew instruments were expensive, of course.
But were they really supposed to be that expensive?
After a moment, she collected herself and said, "Come eat. It’ll get cold."
He had expected a scolding.
So the answer took him by surprise.
"Why aren’t you telling me off?"
"You earned the money and spent it. It’s not for me to say anything about that. You’re not the kind of child who spends recklessly, either. You must have had a reason."
As expected of his mother.
He felt a little touched by that.
Come to think of it, she had spent more than enough on all the potted plants scattered around the house.
Money really did give people choices.
He left the case in his room and sat down at the table.
Kkamangi came under the table and settled on top of his foot.
A warm little weight spread through him.
They talked while eating, and he nearly forgot something important.
"Mom, I’m going to England tomorrow."
His mother seemed used to the idea that her son might suddenly leave at any moment now.
"When are you going to England?"
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? You’re leaving right away? How long will you be gone?"
"Probably less than a week, at the longest."
His mother ladled more doenjang-jjigae into his bowl and said, "Kkamangi’s going to wait for you again."
"Yeah. I can’t exactly take him with me."
He looked down at Kkamangi on his foot.
Between the black fur, a pair of yellow eyes stared up at him.
"I heard England’s cold, so don’t catch a cold. Dress warmly."
"Yes, ma’am."
After dinner, he went back to his room.
That was when he remembered what he had forgotten.
He hadn’t contacted Director Yang Dong-seok yet.
He took out his phone and called him.
The call was answered the instant it connected, as if he’d been waiting by the phone.
"Is this a bad time?"
"Haha. If it’s Kim Si-woo, I’d take the call even if it were."
"I think I may need to go to England tomorrow. Would it be possible for the filming crew to accompany me? The schedule came up so suddenly that if there aren’t any plane tickets left, I can just go alone with a GoPro, so if that’s—"
Yang Dong-seok hurriedly cut in from the other end.
"No, no! We can’t send Kim Si-woo there alone. I’ll pack up with Director Choi Min-ho right away."
"Still, there might not be any tickets."
"We’ll follow you somehow, so don’t worry! But what’s this trip for?"
"Today I received a DM on Byeolstagram, along with a story and a violin photo."
"Y-you don’t mean you found a Stradivarius worth at least several tens of billions of won?"
Yang Dong-seok’s voice had turned sharp with shock.
"I don’t think it’s a Stradivarius. But it didn’t look like an ordinary piece, either. Especially since it seems to carry a story with it. I did some research in advance."
"A story?"
"Yes. I think I’ll need to inspect it on site to know for sure."
"Is that so?"
Yet Director Yang seemed to be overflowing with confidence that Si-woo had discovered something again.
As proof, his voice was already brimming with excitement.
Fortunately, there were still plane tickets available, so Yang Dong-seok and Director Choi Min-ho agreed to go with him the next day.
He went to bed early to get up at dawn.
While lying there, he searched Yosef Hassid on YouTube.
There was a twenty-nine-minute recording left behind by him in the world.
Listening to it made Si-woo feel calm, and little by little he drifted off to sleep.
Kkamangi curled up beside him, buried its body into the bedding, covered its eyes with its tail, and fell asleep with him.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Emily Hayes opened the front door.
"Mom, I’m home."
"Welcome back. Tonight we’re having ribs."
Her mother poked her head out from the kitchen and smiled.
Ever since her grandmother had passed away, there had always been a shadow at the corners of her mother’s eyes, but today she was forcing herself to look bright.
Emily took off her coat and hung it up before heading into the kitchen.
The smell of ribs roasting in the oven made her mouth water.
Her mother was arranging the salad.
"Oh, right. Mom, I tidied up the attic today."
"Again? You already did that last week."
"There were still a lot of Grandma’s things left."
Her mother’s hands stopped for a moment.
"Did you find anything?"
"A few old boxes. And..."
Emily brought over the case she had set beside the living room sofa.
A violin case made of worn leather.
The metal clasp was rusted.
"This."
Her mother’s expression changed faintly when she saw it.
"That violin."
"You know about it too?"
"Of course. When I was little, your grandmother used to take it out and look at it sometimes."
Emily opened the case.
Inside lay an old violin.
Its shape was intact.
To be honest, every time Emily looked at a violin, she felt a flicker of fear.
Even the words psychiatric ward made a chill run down her spine.
When she was a child, her grandmother often told frightening stories.
They were terrifying, but that was exactly why she kept listening.
I miss Grandma.
Her grandmother had lived soundly to ninety-five.
But after she was gone, the emptiness she left behind never filled.
To soothe her sadness and turn her mind elsewhere, Emily and her mother had watched the Singing Bird documentary.
As she watched, she suddenly remembered the violin her grandmother had once mentioned.
In truth, she had sent the DM without thinking much of it.
She had only wanted to tell someone the story of the violin her grandmother had spoken about.
But astonishingly, a reply had come back.
It was honestly ridiculous.
And not just any reply, either, but one saying he would come personally.
Emily had planned to surprise her mother with the story today.
"Mom, don’t be shocked. The appraiser from Singing Bird is coming in person."
"What? You mean the Korean appraiser is coming because of this violin?"
"Yeah."
Her mother let out a disbelieving laugh.
"Surely... it’s not that the violin your grandmother had is hiding some incredible value?"
"No way. That can’t be."
Emily laughed too.
She couldn’t quite believe it herself.
"Still, if someone that impressive is coming all this way, we should treat him properly."
Her mother said with a smile.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Si-woo arrived on the outskirts of England.
It was a sparsely populated neighborhood.
They had driven more than two hours in the rental car Yang Dong-seok had picked up at the airport.
Outside the window, the forest of London buildings faded away, replaced by gentle hills and low stone walls.
This was the Horton area near Epsom in Surrey.
Old brick houses stood scattered between stretches of green pasture.
When the car stopped in a narrow alley, Director Choi Min-ho stepped out with his camera and looked around.
"Wow, this place really is beautiful."
It was a quiet, lovely neighborhood.
Rose vines hung over the stone walls, and somewhere in the distance, the faint bleating of sheep could be heard.
The villagers began whispering among themselves when three East Asians appeared.
"Kim Si-woo!"
Then Emily waved and hurried over.
He recognized her at once; she looked exactly like her profile photo.
A Border Collie at her side was the first to run up.
Its tail wagged furiously as it spun in a circle, then it pressed its nose to the hem of Si-woo’s trousers.
It sniffed him, head tilting in confusion.
Could it smell Kkamangi on him?
Si-woo smiled and held out his hand, and the Border Collie licked his palm.
"Bella, no. You can’t cling to someone you’ve just met like that."
Emily came scrambling up and grabbed the dog’s leash.
"Come this way. I already set out dinner. You’ll be staying here tonight, right? We don’t get guests often, so my mother prepared everything with extra care."
Before he had even finished saying hello properly, Emily had already started talking at length.
"Oh, and it’s an honor to meet you in person, Kim Si-woo. I’m a huge fan after watching Singing Bird."
"I’m the honored one, really, to be welcomed like this."
Emily’s home was an old brick building.
When they opened the front door, the wood floor creaked beneath their feet, and the scent of burning logs drifted faintly from the fireplace.
The dining table in the living room was already set with food.
Roast beef, chicken, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes, gravy, and all sorts of other dishes.
Each plate was prepared with care.
"Oh, welcome."
A woman came out of the kitchen wearing an apron and smiling.
It was Emily’s mother, Christine.
Her hair was silver and her wrinkles deep, but her eyes resembled Emily’s.
"You must have had a long trip. It’s nothing fancy, but please eat as much as you’d like."
Si-woo bowed his head in greeting.
"Thank you for inviting me."
The meal began.
The awkwardness didn’t last long.
Director Yang Dong-seok loosened the mood with his trademark easygoing humor.
They traded ordinary stories.
How long they had lived in that neighborhood.
Little bits and pieces of daily life.
Before long, the conversation naturally drifted to the Singing Bird documentary.
"I cried while watching it," Emily said.
"After my grandmother passed away, I’d been going through each day in a daze. It was something I happened to watch. It really helped lift the gloom I’d been carrying around."
After the meal, Christine brought out tea.
Steam rose in wisps from the cups.
On one side of the living room, the old leather case caught his eye.
Christine set down her teacup and looked toward it.
"That violin belonged to my mother."
Her voice was calm.
But beneath it lay the weight of years.
"My mother worked as a nurse at Long Grove Psychiatric Hospital when she was young. In the Horton area of Epsom, Surrey."
Si-woo’s hand stopped above his teacup.
"She took care of a patient there. A young man from Poland. She said he played the violin."
Christine took a sip of tea before continuing.
"When he died, the hospital was going to throw away all of his belongings. The violin, too. His father had already passed away, and his family and relatives had been scattered by the war, so no one could be found."
Emily added quietly, "So it was buried in the cemetery."
Si-woo nodded.
He had already done plenty of research online before coming.
He rose slowly from his seat.
His eyes were already on the case.
"May I begin the appraisal?"
He stood before the worn leather case.
Carefully, he opened the rusted metal clasp.
With a click, the lid lifted.
Inside lay a familiar violin.
He reached in cautiously and lifted it out.
The weight of time transferred through his fingertips.
A familiar heaviness.
Its balance was astonishingly perfect for an instrument more than 160 years old.
When he set it in his palm, the center of gravity settled naturally, as if violin and hand had become one.
The varnish on the top plate had faded with age, turning a deep amber color.
Fine cracks spread across the surface like a web.
"You can see these tiny fissures on the surface, right?"
Si-woo tilted the violin so they could see.
"They aren’t just cracks from age. They were made that way on purpose from the start. The varnish on the surface was specially treated with chemicals to make it look like an old instrument that had survived for centuries. It was a high-end technique popular in nineteenth-century Paris."
"You can appraise violins too?" Director Yang asked, sounding impressed.
"I’m not a professional. Just enough to take a casual look."
It was a modest answer, but his hands were anything but casual.
With Hassid’s memories, he could naturally identify and handle the violin.
Si-woo turned it over and examined the back plate.
His fingers slowly traced the grain of the wood.
The dark, flame-like pattern characteristic of maple stood out vividly beneath the varnish, as if it were in motion.
"If you look at the back, you can see how the grain ripples like fire. Most are made by joining two boards of wood together. That’s much easier. But this one was carved from a single log. That means the workshop that made it had access to a huge, excellent piece of wood."
His finger moved along the decorative edge binding around the violin.
"And look at this border inlay. It was made by hand, but it’s so precise it looks machine-made. Not a single detail is off. With this level of craftsmanship, the range of who made it narrows quite a bit."
Director Yang glanced at Director Choi Min-ho.
The camera moved almost silently, following the tip of Si-woo’s fingers.
He turned the violin face-up again and, without hesitation, switched on his smartphone flashlight.
On the front of the violin were two f-shaped sound holes, one on each side.
They were the passage through which the sound emerged, and the only window into the interior.
Si-woo angled the light narrowly and shone it deep into the left sound hole.
A normal appraiser would have looked first for the maker’s label, but Si-woo’s gaze went straight to the surface of the wood.
"There used to be a label with the maker’s name inside. Someone tore it off by force. The place where the paper peeled away is left with messy scratch marks from fingernails. And those nail marks point to one set of initials. If you look closely, you’ll be able to make out J.H."
Director Yang and Emily held their breath.
Si-woo carefully set the violin down and lifted his head.
"I already looked into the psychiatric hospital where your grandmother used to work."
Christine raised her head.
"The hospital itself is closed now, but it wasn’t hard to trace the old records. In the late 1940s, among the patients admitted there was a young Polish man with a violin. It wasn’t difficult to infer who he was."
Si-woo’s gaze remained on the violin.
"The records were still preserved. A violinist once called a genius of the century. Yosef Hassid. Those initials, J. H., are his."
Christine’s lips trembled.
"Kreisler, who was the world’s greatest violinist at the time, once heard Hassid play and said this: violinists like Heifetz are born once in a hundred years, but violinists like Hassid are born once in two hundred."
Emily covered her mouth in shock.
"Kreisler gave Hassid this violin, one he treasured himself. Hassid left recordings with it. All the recordings he left behind in the world add up to twenty-nine minutes. That’s everything he left us."
Si-woo spoke with real regret.
"He died at twenty-six. His father had already passed away, and the rest of his family had been scattered by the war and couldn’t be found. There was no one left to claim his body. He was buried in an unmarked cemetery, and even now no one knows exactly where his grave is."
Tears ran down Christine’s cheeks.
Si-woo said carefully, "Your grandmother was the one who brought this violin here instead of throwing it away. She said even one person needed to remember him."
The living room went quiet.
"There’s one more thing. Inside the violin’s head, on the bottom of the pegbox, there’s still writing carved by Yosef Hassid."
Si-woo showed them the spot.
"It says this in Polish."
Though it be only one last time
No one could speak.
Only the crackling pop of firewood from the fireplace broke the silence.