Spring, 1907
San Francisco
Veronique opened the letter her mother handed her. The writing on the envelope was as familiar to her as her own: Papa’s, albeit weakened by his illness. The envelope was addressed “To Veronique, for her 16th birthday.”
Claire had handed it to her that morning, along with the case that held Papa’s Francois Chanot violin. Veronique had wanted the precious instrument for many years but had, for the most part, held her peace. She had suspected that Papa had planned for her to have it eventually.
In the privacy of her room at last, Veronique opened the case first. She held the unusual violin carefully and checked its tuning. It sounded a little thin, but she knew that would change as it was played. Papa, as well as all of her teachers, had explained that playing violins made them sound more beautiful; the varnish warmed up from the vibrations and improved the tone.
She tucked the instrument under her chin; yes, it fit. She then picked up the bow, which was in surprisingly good condition. Papa had loosened it before putting it away for the last time, and none of the hairs were sprung. Tightening the bow and gliding it across the rosin block made her ready.
A few scales. An etude. As she played, the violin’s tone improved by tiny increments. Tears slid down her cheeks; she could remember Papa playing before he fell so ill.
At last, she put away the instrument and opened the envelope.
“My dearest Veronique.”
Papa’s writing seemed to swim before her eyes as she continued to cry. Yet, she read on.
~~
I have asked Claire to give you my violin, and this letter, on your sixteenth birthday. I used to dream of giving it to you myself, but it becomes clearer with each passing day that I shall not live to see that day.
I don’t know if I ever told you how I chose your name. Veronique comes from the Greek, bere nike. It means “bringing victory.” You are my greatest triumph; no opera, no aria, no symphony could mean more to me. Your birth was the proudest moment of my life.
Long ago, a young woman called me her Angel of Music. She believed her papa had sent me from Heaven to look after her. She was wrong. However, please remember that I will always watch over you from Heaven myself.
With much love and the highest regard, I remain, your papa,
Erik LeMaitre
~~
Veronique refolded the letter into its envelope and tucked it into the violin case. She picked up the instrument once more, this time to play a requiem.