The Keeper of Secrets (23 page)

Chapter 42

Washington, D.C.

October 2008

I
t was performance day, and Rafael was having a catnap on the sofa in his dressing room at the Kennedy Center. His tails hung next to the crisp white shirt, white waistcoat, and red cummerbund. His white bow tie lay on the coffee table with the gold cuff links and his score for
La Traviata
. The thoughts juggling for supremacy in his brain banished any hope of sleep so he stared at the painting on the wall. There was a soft double knock on the door.

“Rafael? It’s Jeremy, may I come in?”

He swung his feet onto the floor and sat up.

“Certainly,” he called out.

Jeremy wore a gray suit with a saffron-colored lining, a charcoal shirt, and a yellow tie. He looked as immaculate as ever, apart from his trademark wild hair.

“I heard you were looking for me,” he said as he crossed the room and sat down in an easy chair. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no, not at all . . . well, not with the production.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Rafael hesitated.

“How vital is Sergei, really, his money and so on, to our financial position?”

Browne gave a slight frown and cocked his head to one side.

“Why? Have you done something to upset him?”

Rafael could hear the barely hidden concern in the man’s tone and felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. Perhaps Mags was right.

“Not yet. But I might, perhaps, be about to.”

“Do tell. Is this about
Parsifal
?”

“No. It’s a long story, and I won’t have enough time right now for all of it. It’s about the Guarneri. I know from whereabouts it . . . er, came. Who it belongs to. Before Sergei’s grandpapa. And perhaps he doesn’t have as much right to it as he thinks.”

Jeremy chewed on his bottom lip. “War loot,” he said suddenly.

Rafael nodded.

“Absolutely. Berlin 1939. It could be, I think, a watertight claim and with a survivor alive to identify it. But I know that nothing will happen unless I make it happen.”

“Have you met the survivor?”

“Yes, he is very credible, knowledgeable . . . musical even. No question he’ll recognize it. And those great instruments are so individual.”

“You’ll upset Sergei.” Browne’s voice was full of caution.

“I think that is putting it mildly. He will never forgive me—”

“Don’t do it. Everyone here has too much to lose, Rafael, including you, especially you.”

His expression was set; Rafael could see he’d made up his mind.

“I know that. But what does the Horowitz family lose if I don’t? I mean, haven’t they suffered enough? Lost enough?” Rafael asked, more to himself than to Jeremy.

“And what about the people you work with, the orchestra, the singers, the backstage crew, the symposium—don’t you owe something to them, too?”

It was an argument he’d expected, but somehow when he had it with himself it was easier to refute.

“Leaving the opera company aside, you conduct concerts for him and, presumably, he pays you very well. Can you afford to lose that?”

He ignored the question and the irritation he felt at the intrusion.

“There’s another side to it, Jeremy, an important side. The survivor has a grandson and he could be virtuoso, a talent beloved by a generation. He won the Samuel Hillier when I was chief judge, back in February. But now he refuses to play, because his future frightens him. You know, if we can get that violin back, it may just inspire him to play again.”

“Does he matter more than the violinists in your own orchestra?”

Rafael got up and began to pace the room.

“That’s unfair and you know it. Sergei is not the only donor we have—”

“But he’s by far the largest, by millions. We’re the envy of every company, and it’s because of you, his friendship with
you
. We depend on that; surely that matters most.”

Rafael could hear the anger in Browne’s voice and the determination to prevail over a higher argument. Somehow it seemed to represent the prejudice that had cost the Horowitz family so much, and it crystallized his thoughts. He stopped and faced the Englishman.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t give it up. It’s wrong, Jeremy. What happened to them is so, so wrong and this opportunity . . . a chance to . . . to put something right. I just can’t ignore it. That’s not me. Who I am. I could not look at myself again.”

Jeremy got to his feet and walked to the door.

“Put it out of your mind for now; you need to concentrate. I believe Sergei isn’t here tonight, but he is in the house for the final two performances. Think long and hard about it after this run is over, Rafael. If you were after my blessing, you don’t have it. I think you need to reconsider your priorities.”

D
aniel sat on his bed listening to music on his iPod. The sounds of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony rolled around his head and he imagined Rafael on the podium in the recording studio, encouraging and demanding the melodic majesty from the orchestra. It helped him to keep his mind off the other emotions that he found hard to control. He hadn’t hesitated for a second when his poppa asked for his help, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt important. He was the only one who could do this. It was hard to imagine what his poppa’s life had been like; he had no frame of reference in his own world. Except for the music, his passion for the violin—
that
Daniel understood only too well. The rest was like something from another planet, some remote history lesson he’d heard in school, and yet, they were his relations in those old photographs. He fingered the dimple in his chin; Poppa had it, Great-Grandmama had had it. Great-Grandpapa had also been passionate about this particular violin. They were real flesh-and-blood people and they’d died terrible deaths, and now, maybe, he could make something right for them. And because of his decision his parents were very happy and his mother kept hugging him. He wished she wouldn’t, but it was far better than yelling and crying and arguing all the time.

But what about the baseball? Was he kidding himself? Had he actually lost a battle or the war? Was he back playing for good now or was he just helping out and when the violins were safe, where they belonged, could he reestablish his position? Was it, as Aaron had said, a tactical retreat to consolidate his front line?

Maestro would know. Tomorrow Daniel was off to England to start the big adventure, with his father and Maestro Gomez, the people who seemed to understand him and fight in his corner better than anyone else. Yep, Maestro would know. When the time was right, he’d ask his hero about the baseball, about whether he’d surrendered or just made a tactical maneuver.

Chapter 43

Sochi Hall, Sussex

October 2008

L
adies and gentlemen.”

From his position in the doorway Rafael could see Sergei in front of three hundred seated guests. He was waiting patiently until the buzz of conversation died away and they all turned their attention in his direction. It was an early fall afternoon and the Russian stood in the ballroom of his Sussex home, a microphone in his hand. Behind him sat an orchestra of young musicians, all award winners or graduates from past Washington symposia, and Rafael knew they would acquit themselves well.

“Thank you so much for being able to come to my little concert. To start proceedings, this wonderful orchestra will play the beautiful intermezzo, from
Cavalleria Rusticana
by Pietro Mascagni.”

Polite applause followed as Rafael strode into the room. He shook hands with Sergei and mounted a podium placed in front of the orchestra. Sergei took his seat in the front row. Rafael made eye contact with the musicians and tapped his baton on the stand, drawing their mental focus to him. He gave them an encouraging wink and raised his baton. On the downward stroke, the gentle melody filled the room and began to swell, carried by the strings, until the piece came to an end with one long sustained note. The audience clapped loudly and Rafael raised his hands, palms upward, telling the orchestra to stand, and then he turned to receive the applause. He could see Daniel sitting beside his father, his eyes glowing with excitement, clapping enthusiastically, and he gave him a wink.

“Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Now we have a special treat. Tatiana is going to play for us. She plays the Guarneri del Gesú violin, and she’s going to play a composition by Pablo de Sarasate. He was a virtuoso violinist and a composer also. He was born in my country, Spain, in the middle of the nineteenth century. He played in public for the first time when he was just eight, and when he was twelve, he was sent to study at the Paris Conservatoire. He won their highest honor when he was just seventeen. His work influenced many composers, and he had amazing technique. If we could only hear him at his peak, but alas, there were no recordings. In 1883, he wrote this piece called the ‘Carmen Fantasy,’ on themes from Georges Bizet’s famous opera,
Carmen
.”

While he was speaking Tatiana had walked through the door and into the room. She wore a shimmering silver dress that flowed over her curves like mercury, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She held the violin by the scroll and the bow, both in her right hand. She gave a shy smile in the direction of the conductor, tuned the violin briefly, tightened the screw on the bow, and took her stance. The orchestra came in first, but she was only seconds later. The melody was a mix of heavy drama, designed to show off the technical skill of the violinist, and a soft, delicate gypsy sound. At one stage Rafael put his finger to his lips to bring the orchestra down to an aching pianissimo. He and Tatiana made regular eye contact and exchanged smiles; when she was playing alone, she had his full focus. The first half finished with the familiar tune of the sexy “Habanera” and the audience burst into wild applause.

Rafael turned to face them, a wide grin on his face, and he took Tatiana’s hand and kissed it.
She was good,
he admitted to himself,
and oh, she knew how to make that violin sing!
He thought that one of the most exciting things about a violin like the Guarneri was that you never knew for sure how it would sound on any given day and today it was making music fit for the angels.

They waited for the clapping to subside, and then she took her stance again, violin under her chin, for the second half. The songs of
Carmen
echoed seductively around the room, both the erotically inviting “Seguidilla” and the frenetic gypsy dance. The music became more and more complex and demanding, the accelerating pace reflected in her body movements. Horsehair came loose on the bow and flew about her as she built to a spectacular finish.

D
aniel sat spellbound all the way through, afraid to move or breathe in case he woke and it was just a dream. The sound was so superior to anything he’d ever heard before and so versatile; it commanded and pleaded and rejoiced and flirted with him and flooded his senses. Then it was over and he felt completely drained. All around him people were on their feet, clapping and shouting, “Brava!” He sat very still and stared at the woman who was holding the violin and bow in one hand and acknowledging the crowd with a nod of her head. Rafael took her hand again, held it aloft triumphantly, and then kissed it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Tatiana.”

Still Daniel didn’t move. She was playing
his poppa’s
violin, the violin that belonged to— He felt a sharp nudge in his side and the moment was gone. His father was looking down at him, frowning. He stood up and clapped.

T
he next morning Rafael collected Daniel and David in Sergei’s Rolls-Royce and they went back to the mansion. The car swept up the long graveled drive and stopped at the bottom of the broad steps. The driver got out and opened the rear doors for the two men and one teenaged boy, who carried a violin case. They were shown into the library. The center of the large room was dominated by a long and intricately carved Elizabethan table, but the rest was comfortably decorated with a piano, four leather armchairs, a Persian rug on the polished wooden floor, and a magnificent fireplace and was lined floor to ceiling with bookcases full of books. Sergei flung open the double doors at the far end of the room.

“Good morning, Raffy. Nice to meet you, David, and especially good morning to you, young Daniel.”

He shook hands with each of them and gestured to the service laid out on the table.

“Tea or coffee or some Coca-Cola?”

Rafael observed Sergei as he put the child at ease, talking to Daniel about music, composers, his school, the symposium, mathematics, and even baseball. For a man who’d never had children, he was remarkably skilled at connecting with, and listening to, the boy’s opinions. David was cautious and protective. Rafael could see that he was watchful for any comment on the family violin, but Daniel knew he wasn’t to mention it and he stuck to the script beautifully.

“So,” Sergei said finally, beaming at Daniel, “you’re going to play for me, no?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what are you going to play?”

“Some Debussy and some Paganini, sir.”

Sergei laughed delightedly.

“Wonderful choices, some of my very favorites.”

Daniel prepared the violin and tuned at the piano with Rafael, then when they were both satisfied, he turned toward Sergei.

“This is Debussy’s ‘The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.’ It’s a prelude from a series, but they were written to be played as individual pieces.”

“Quite right. When you’re ready, my boy.”

Rafael knew Sergei’s routine and watched him settle into the chair and focus his attention on the child, blocking out everything else. Daniel began to play the lilting melody, slowly and expressively, and when he finished, all three men clapped.

“And now which Paganini?” Sergei asked.

“Caprice number twenty-four and then some of the first movement of Violin Concerto number one in D Minor.”

“Goodness me, Caprice twenty-four? One of the most difficult pieces ever written for solo violin. Even after many years of study, most players lack the technique needed for this piece.”

Rafael smiled and gave the Daniel the note to tune again.

“Listen and be astonished, my friend,” he said.

This time Daniel seemed to play as if his soul were on fire, his fingers flying over the fingerboard at dizzying speed and his bowing strong and confident. Seated at the piano, Rafael could see Sergei but not Daniel, and halfway through, the Russian leaned forward and stared intently at the performance. With the concluding note, Daniel’s head went back and his arms dropped to his sides. Sergei was on his feet instantly, clapping.

“Bravo! You are a truly exceptional talent.”

He walked to the boy and put his huge hand on Daniel’s shoulder, took the violin from him, and examined it. Then he looked over at Rafael and smiled.

“You’re right, as I knew you would be. This child is a genius. And now I have something to show you all.”

H
e led them down a series of corridors at the back of the house to a solid metal door with a keypad instead of a handle and lock. He punched in a number sequence, and the door slid back into the wall. They followed him in, and he swept his arm expansively around the room; it held three glass cases and nothing else.

“This is the prize trio of my whole collection. Meet Amaretto,” he said as he walked to the nearest case. “She is a 1715 Stradivari violin, and this is Lucetta,” he continued, moving on to the next case. “She is a 1611 Maggini viola, and of course, the one I call”—he was at the third case and he gazed lovingly into it—“Yulena. My 1729 Guarneri. Come meet her, Daniel.”

They watched as he punched another sequence into a keypad on the case and the lid sprang up slightly. Then he carefully lifted the violin from the satin and handed it to Daniel. It felt heavier than the boy had expected and very smooth, almost silky under his fingers, and surprisingly cold. He ran his hand over the back and stared at the perfect grain in the maple as it shimmered with the intense color of the red/yellow varnish. His forefinger traced the scroll and the long
f
holes, and he felt the fingerboard under the strings. Very gently he plucked one. Sergei held out the bow.

“Play a scale.”

He put the violin to his chin, looked at Rafael, and played a simple G major scale. He hadn’t expected to be allowed to hold it, let alone play it. The sudden sound bounced off the walls, loud in the enclosed space, and David turned away for a moment. Daniel wanted to go to his father and hug him, but he knew he couldn’t. Neither he, nor his father, had ever seen his poppa play a violin and here he was, holding the very one the old man had played when he was a young boy. When David composed himself, he pulled a small digital camera from his pocket and stepped forward.

“May I take a picture of him, sir? For his mother?”

Sergei beamed with obvious pride. “Absolutely, you may.”

“Thank you.”

Rafael smiled at Daniel.

“Try a two octave, the B major,” he said gently.

Daniel played the more complicated scale, hesitated and fiddled with the pegs, then closed his eyes and started to play some of the Paganini. It sounded harsh, and he stopped abruptly and handed it back to Sergei.

“Don’t worry, son, she is very hard to play and you have to be fearless, like Tatiana. But you will learn. I will get Maestro Montenagro to help prepare a piece or two and when you’re ready, we will have a little concert!”

Daniel retreated to stand beside Rafael; he knew that he was trembling, and that made him feel ashamed. His head pounded with complicated emotions, and he wanted to run out of the room. What surprised him most of all was that he wished his mom was there. Then he felt Rafael’s hand touch his head for a brief reaffirming pat and all was well.