The Keeper of Secrets (22 page)

Restoration

Part Four: The Violin

2008

Chapter 40

Washington, D.C.

October 2008

T
he sound began softly and almost eerily, with melancholy notes, hinting at the heartache to come, echoing around the packed auditorium and building to an aching intensity. Over two thousand people settled expectantly into the plush red seats and focused their attention on the spectacle that awaited them.

At the podium Rafael’s body was in total harmony with the music, arms moving rhythmically to coax the very best out of the orchestra. Suddenly the bright swell of the strings took over and carried the preludio to its gentle conclusion. The curtain rose slowly on a party scene in nineteenth-century Paris, the women in exquisite evening gowns, the men in tails, all moving to the swaying music and toasting their frivolous lives. A large chandelier hung over the lush salon, candles glowed in the ornate candelabra, and the light sparkled off the heavy gilt mirrors and the raised glasses. Loredana di Carlo took center stage in a soft off-the-shoulder gown encrusted with crystals, her dark hair in ringlets and a champagne flute in her right hand. She looked stunningly fragile, but her powerful lyric voice soared out into the theater.

Aria by aria, duet by duet, act by act, the story of Violetta Valéry, a courtesan dying of consumption, and her ill-fated romance with a handsome young nobleman, Alfredo Germont, took the audience on an emotional journey.

Rafael was complete concentration; sweat poured off him, rolling down his face and into the collar of his evening shirt. This was what he lived for, the opportunity to take truly sublime music and bring it to life. His right hand held the baton and kept the beat while his left clenched and pointed and encouraged and indicated where he needed more power or a note of heart-wrenching softness. He knew the orchestra trusted him completely, and the music was as old a friend to them as it was to him. Onstage the world-class tenor, soprano, and baritone followed him, and he followed them in the perfect symmetry of well-rehearsed art.

Reunited again, the lovers played out the last moments of Violetta’s tragic life in the bedroom of her Paris home, and after the dramatic music of her death, the opera came to an end with a rousing last few bars from the orchestra. Rafael’s arms dropped to his sides and his head slumped forward onto his chest, eyes closed, passion spent. For a few brief seconds there was complete silence before thunderous applause broke out.

T
he opening night postopera gala was always a glamorous affair and an important one in the financial life of any opera company. Donors needed to be thanked and sponsors recognized. Tonight Rafael had another purpose in the back of his mind, and he moved from one group of well-wishers to the next more rapidly than usual, accepting congratulations and kisses and agreeing with the comments. He was almost halfway across the crowded room when the circle he’d just joined parted suddenly. A familiar booming voice cut through the excited noise around him.

“Raffy.”

The Russian embraced him in a strong bear hug, and the arms felt like bands of iron as he was held against the massive chest.

“Sergei. I’ve been looking for you.”

“It was magnificent, my friend. Stupendous. Wonderful cast.”

“Thank you, it did go well. Have you seen Loredana?”

“Yes. You were right, as always; she was perfect for the role. I tell her this.”

Rafael gave a chuckle and accepted a salmon canapé from the tray offered by a waiter.

“Thank you. And I’m sure she’d agreed with you. Sergei, come this way, come with me, I want to talk to you.”

Rafael led him out onto the terrace. Slowed momentarily by people wanting to offer congratulations, they eventually found a corner away from the crowd. The night was still unseasonably warm with a slight breeze off the river gently moving the air. The lights of Georgetown glittered toward the north.

“What is on your mind, Raffy?” the Russian asked congenially.

“I want to tell you a story and then, maybe, ask you a favor. You know, some months ago I judged the Samuel J. Hillier—it was the turn of the violins this year.”

“I’ve heard of this. The winner was very young, I seem to remember.”

“He’s extraordinary, Sergei. He’s fourteen, Jewish, from Illinois; his name is Daniel, Daniel Horowitz. I invited him to the symposium last month. He has an excellent technique but more than that, expression you would expect from a twenty-year-old, yes? He
really
understands what he plays, and his interpretative skills, they are extremely advanced.”

“Another Joshua Bell?”

“At least, with a much pushier mother. I do, you know, truly believe this boy is a once-in-a-generation talent.”

Rafael could feel Sergei watching him intently and when he turned to face him, the Russian took a sip of champagne and then raised an eyebrow at him with a quizzical expression.

“For you, who hears so many, to say such a thing? I must hear him.”

Sergei was sometimes hard to read, and Rafael had no idea how he’d react to the request.

“He has a problem. And that’s where you come in, my friend.”

“Really?”

“He’s given up. Doesn’t want to play anymore, and no one can get him to pick up his violin. He’s at the Hamilton Bruce in Philly. I’ve spoken to his teachers, because you know this happens sometimes when children hit this age. A child, he has to . . . to make the decision to be dedicated and that means sacrificing things; in Daniel’s case it’s baseball. But he’s also frightened by his own talent, by his potential future.”

“It’s a young age to have everyone make a fuss of you.”

“And to have self-discipline. You know, I think he’s learning he can say no, and there’s nothing his parents can do about it. That gives him some power, a sense of control over his life.”

“And you want to help him?”

“I do. He’s a very good kid, and he reminds me of myself, you know? I too loved sports, football, I argued with my parents, the music won. But I didn’t have a tenth of the talent he has in his little finger.”

“So what can I do?”

Rafael paused, and then took a deep breath; it was too late to turn back.

“I know you love to foster young talent, and without you I couldn’t stage the symposium. I want Daniel to feel the power of his gift. More than that, I want him to experience true genius, to . . . to hold it in his hands. If he plays a real masterpiece, once, just once, it might inspire him. You know, Sergei, I want to be able to say to him, ‘work hard and one day you could own a violin like this.’ It might make the difference, yes?”

Sergei was looking straight at him, and Rafael could see his pale eyes had begun to dance with excitement. He knew that look.

“You want him to play the Guarneri.”

“Yes,” the Spaniard answered simply.

Sergei was thinking, processing the options, weighing up what was in it for him. Rafael was very familiar with the process, and he knew the brilliant mind would miss nothing, including the possibility it was a setup. That was why he’d declared Daniel as Jewish at the very beginning, so Sergei couldn’t accuse him of subterfuge. Finally the big man smiled.

“Perhaps Maestro Montenagro should give him a lesson or two? So he knows what to do with her? She is very hard to play. And then, if he’s good enough, this little protégé of yours, he could give a concert, no? . . . In my music room, for invited audience, his family, Roberto, James Keller, that Swedish fellow who wants to buy my beauty so badly. I will draw up a list. It will be fun! But first, you understand, I must hear him play, Rafael. Can you bring him to me?”

Rafael nodded thoughtfully.

“I can do that, if you tell me where and when, yes?”

“After the next Sussex concert. He can hear Tatiana play her.”

“Excellent. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you. And there is one other matter. Egypt. Sergei, come on,
Parsifal
?”

The Russian threw back his large head and roared with laughter.

“Absolutely. Of all the opera companies invited and all the glorious productions from all round the world, who will they remember? The one who dared bring Wagner to the party.”

“And we would offend the Muslims with a Christian theme, and the Jews, who hate Wagner, and maybe end up with protesters outside the house? An injunction against us? You know it’s happened to companies before.”

Sergei laid his hand on Rafael’s arm. “Yes, but the
people
will flock to see, and the media will congratulate us on our courage,” he insisted.

“Jeremy won’t do it.”

“So he takes my money, but not my advice? This is not your argument to have, my friend. Just put time aside to revise your
Parsifal
and leave bargaining to me.”

T
wo hours later Rafael lay on his stomach, stretched out on the huge bed in his apartment as Magdalena massaged his back and shoulders. The adrenaline still coursed through him and the music whirled inside his brain, and every so often his fingertips tapped the covers.

“So what will you do once Daniel has played the violin?” she asked suddenly.

“Hhhhmm? I’m not absolutely sure, yet. I think I need to talk to his poppa again and maybe Roberto.”

“Who’ll want to rip it away from Sergei immediately and restore it to its rightful owners, then convince them to sell it to
him
.”

“They won’t sell, ever, I could see that in their eyes.”

“Do they have any idea what it’s worth? Do you?”

“If it’s the lost 1742, my research says anywhere from four to eight million dollars, probably closer to eight, you know it’s in fantastic condition. Many collectors would be desperate to own it.”

She stopped massaging.

“Good God, Raffy! And you expect him to just hand it over?”

“No, I don’t, not at all. You know, I think it could get very ugly. Their word against his word.”

“And what about Jeremy? The opera company?” she asked as her fingers and thumbs resumed their regular pressure on his rhomboids. “What’ll happen when
he
finds out what you’re up to? The company needs Sergei, you need him.”

He sighed.

“I know. I have been thinking about that side of it too. To be fair to Jeremy I need to tell him what is happening, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do, most definitely. And if he orders you to stop, for the good of the company, what will you do then?”

There was a long pause. He rolled over and looked up at her; her brow was drawn into a concerned frown, and her dark eyes were serious.

“I think Jeremy is a good man, and he also very much loves classical music. He has a conscience. I think he will understand when I tell him some of the incredible story they told to me. That violin is Daniel’s heritage. You know, there is much more—how can I say it?—at risk than just getting something back. I think Daniel will play it, learn how to play it well, and want to play it for the world. There are other wealthy sponsors, but a talent like Daniel’s, a
virtuoso
talent, that’s generational, it comes along maybe once in a lifetime!”

She stroked his hair and smiled down at him.

“And I think you’re a romantic and a very good man. A much better man than Jeremy Browne, who will see his sponsorship disappearing out the door to another opera company. Sergei supports them because of you, he doesn’t live here, he believes in
you
. If you destroy that, he’ll walk away and Jeremy won’t care a jot for some kid and his talent.”

Chapter 41

Mayfair, London

October 2008

S
leep was an elusive luxury for Sergei Valentino and he didn’t always take chemicals. Sometimes he used the long night hours to work or think or listen to music. On this night he wandered around the underground vault in his palatial Mayfair mansion. Soon after his grandpapa’s death, he’d returned to the dacha and found the hidden treasures where he’d been told they would be, in a hole under the floor of the summerhouse. He knew it was all war loot, things his grandpapa had brought back from Berlin and not handed over to the Motherland. Sergei’s father would’ve been furious at the deception against the Party, and his aunt would’ve demanded their return, but to whom? The owners were long since dead, and who knows how many German hands they’d been through before they reached his? There were two beautiful paintings—one he knew was extremely valuable—some silverware and jewelry and three illuminated manuscripts. He’d added to the collection over the years and divided it between his homes, but the original treasures remained in London. In a moment of generosity, he’d given the wonderful string of natural pearls to Tatiana and they looked magnificent against her skin. But, as always, his favorite was the Guarneri. It had the strongest power to draw him, and he spent countless hours sitting beside the case, holding it in his arms.

“I think he’s going to play it,” he said, looking at the photo of his aunt. “You would like that. An American playing your violin, probably the first American to ever play it! Maybe the first child to play it, who knows. If it could talk, it could tell us so much.” He sighed. “It could tell us so much.”

R
oberto di Longi vividly remembered the first time he held a violin. His mother had taken him to Harrods to look at instruments while his father, a tailor, was working at the shop on New Bond Street. He was nearly five, and the piano dwarfed him. Then the helpful shop assistant had shown him a cello, but that was cumbersome and uncomfortable. The flute felt cold and strange against his tiny face, and his mother said no to the drums before he even sat down. Then she put a small violin into his hands, and he fell in love.

Every week he had a lesson from Mrs. Moretti, who spoke Italian with his father and instructed him in broken English, using a large ruler to point to the notes on the page. He knew he’d never be a virtuoso, and playing in the school orchestra convinced him he didn’t want to be a jobbing musician. But a world without his beloved instrument was impossible to contemplate.

Music was his favorite subject at school. In his university thesis, he described the violin as a three-dimensional combination of architecture and mathematical precision, unique in the extent of its ability to influence emotion through sound. What fascinated him most was the fact that in half a millennium, since the founding of Andrea Amati’s workshop in 1560, the basic design of the violin had changed little, and many of his friends would argue it’d been improved upon nearly as much. It was timeless, a classic concept born of the maker’s passion and artistry.

After graduation he moved to Italy and immersed himself in the culture and history of Cremona, marrying a local girl, the daughter of a well-known luthier. As the years passed his knowledge grew, and the more people who needed his expertise, the more he learned. In 1990, he opened a small shop in West Hampstead, selling and repairing violins in conjunction with a well-known luthier. He attended auctions and bid on behalf of buyers wishing to remain anonymous, and his reputation for gaining a bargain grew in tandem with his knowledge base. His life was enjoyable, he was passionate about his business, his marriage was strong, he had three talented children, and he could give them all they’d ever want. He was a contented man.

And then one day he heard Tatiana play what was called the “Valentino Guarneri.” When he consulted the program notes, something in his built-in radar, his professional compass that processed the stack of accumulated knowledge and memory, told him the notes were wrong. It began as a casual curiosity and grew into a matter of principle, a question of his honor as an expert. He told himself that the fact he didn’t like Valentino was irrelevant. What mattered was the opportunity to solve a musical mystery and to be seen to be right.

On a late October day he sat at his desk, pieces of a violin lying on a green cloth in front of him. Slowly and gently he picked up each piece and examined it, an eyeglass in his left eye and white gloves on his hands. The pieces were battered and scratched, the varnish dull and worn into patches. He put them together like a jigsaw puzzle. A middle-aged woman appeared in the open doorway.

“I know you said not to disturb you, sir, but there’s a phone call.”

He looked up.

“Ask them to call back.”

“Normally I would, sir, but it’s Maestro Gomez and he asked me to tell you it’s about a small needle in a continent of hay. He said you’d understand.”

Roberto put down the piece in his hand and smiled.

“Thank you, Dorothy, put him through.”

A
cross the Atlantic Ocean, Daniel was in the living room of his grandparents’ house. He looked at the photos from the shoe box and listened solemnly to his poppa and his
feter
Levi as they explained the full story of their violins, what their papa had done to the Guarneri and why, and then what had happened to it. It was like a puzzle; all the snatches he’d heard over the years fell into place beside all this new information and formed a picture.

Maestro Gomez had told them that he believed the violin Tatiana played was their violin. Now he understood about the man who was so sure the label was wrong, because it was. He wasn’t a bad man, just intense, and right. Daniel nodded slowly as he remembered his own reaction to hearing the violin at the symposium. He’d felt compelled to tell the maestro about the instrument and the special sound it made. Now he wanted to tell them.

“It’s the best violin in the whole world,” he said, “better than any Strad I’ve heard. It made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.”

He looked over at the table where his parents sat. His mother was obviously dying to join in the conversation, and he felt guilty because he couldn’t help hoping she wouldn’t. His father’s hand was very firmly on her knee. When Daniel turned back to his poppa, he could see that there was something more, something he was hesitating to say.

“What is it, Poppa?”

“We have a special favor to ask of you, Daniel, something we need you to do for us.”

“I’d do anything for you, Poppa,” he said simply, “and you, Feter.”

“We need you to play again. Maestro is going to ask the Russian to let you play our violin, but you need to play well to convince him. Maestro has a plan to get our violin back, but it won’t work unless you play for him.”

Daniel’s violin case lay on the table. He hadn’t asked why they were bringing it. He’d assumed it was another attempt to get him to play, and he was too sick of the fighting to say anything until he had to. Now he got up, walked to the table, opened the case, and picked up the violin and bow. It felt right. His mother started to say something, but his father touched her arm firmly and shook his head.

“It doesn’t mean I’ve given in,” Daniel said, looking at them. “I’m just doing it for Poppa and Feter.”

His father nodded. Daniel could see the gleam in his mother’s eyes, and he knew that no matter what he said she’d see this as a victory. It annoyed him but there was nothing to be done; he couldn’t refuse. His family needed him. He was the only one who could do this, and it felt good to be important to them. He went to his poppa and held out the instrument.

“Will you practice with me, Poppa?”

The old man didn’t take the violin.

“Play me something, Dan.”

Daniel played a note and fiddled with the pegs. Levi rose and went to the piano.

“Come, tune with me.”

When he was satisfied, Daniel started to play Debussy’s “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.” The notes flooded back and he had to hold himself in check as his desire to play made him race ahead. When he finished, his poppa nodded.

“Very good and you haven’t played for some time. This piece is a prelude, from a series, but they were written to be played as individual pieces. It’s harmonically complex and very lush. What you need to think about is what Debussy was thinking about. He wanted you to find the essence of beauty in this piece. It’s about love, intense and passionate love and yet very tranquil at the same time. So you have to be thinking about smoothness and control, long flowing bow, and gentle transitions.”

Daniel put the violin to his chin again.

“Did you play this piece, Poppa?”

The old man smiled at him fondly.

“I played this piece the very first time I played my Guarneri, for many of my papa and mama’s friends in our wonderful music room. It feels like last night!”

“How old were you?”

“I was fourteen, same age as you, but not as good as you. Now, play it for me again and remember, watch the timing.”