The Keeper of Secrets (8 page)

Chapter 13

Illinois

September 2008

A
slightly surreal early morning stillness settled over the whole town of Newbrick as Daniel rose and slipped away silently on a covert mission. It took him ten minutes of hard biking to get to the baseball grounds. He arrived at the same time as Tony and Aaron. Billy and the three newcomers were already there, wearing Cubs supporters’ jackets to ward off the dawn coolness. Billy was holding his catcher’s mask and mitt, and Aaron had two gloves and two bats. Tony organized them into a loose team arrangement, with Aaron on first, Chuck on second, and Daniel on third, Billy first catcher and Tony first pitcher. The other two were batting. No one won, but it was baseball, and the boys knew that was all that mattered to their friend.

For the next hour Daniel batted, pitched, fielded, and yelled his heart out. He hit a homer off Aaron and didn’t even notice that Chuck hardly chased it; he was too busy sprinting around the bases. After sixty minutes of sheer bliss he said his good-byes, left his thanks unsaid but understood, in the way of teenagers everywhere, and biked home. He was sitting on the swing seat reliving the homer, his bike lying on the grass, when his mother opened the front door.

“Been biking again?”

“Yep.”

“Must make you hungry; want some waffles or eggs for breakfast?”

“Guess so.”

She hesitated and seemed to want to say something else, but he looked away toward the forest and she closed the door. In a week he was due back in Philadelphia and she was supposed to go with him. They were still at a standoff. She refused to let him play baseball with his friends, although he did go swimming and fishing with them, and he refused to practice or play the violin. They’d both yelled and cried many times until finally David had decreed that the subject was closed for the moment and an uneasy truce settled over the house.

They’d go back to Philadelphia, and it was up to the teachers to persuade him to pick up the violin again.

Obviously, if his teachers couldn’t, they would ask him to leave and he knew that would break his mother’s heart. In the meantime, he was allowed to be with his friends, but not play baseball. Much of his day was spent at Aaron’s house or by the swimming hole with his fellow Cubs. When Cindy tried to talk to him, he answered her in single words; and he spent as little time in her company as possible. It was a confusing mixture of anger and guilt and fear, which he just wished would go away.

Daniel kicked the floor of the porch with his toe. He could still feel the adrenaline rush of the baseball game, and it played across his face like a secret smile. He wondered yet again what Maestro Gomez would say about his “civil disobedience.” That’s what Aaron called it, after some project he’d done in history last semester.

Daniel’s mind often wandered back to D.C. and he could hear the man’s voice, the accent, in his memory. He’d loved every moment spent in the conductor’s company, and he missed the energy and the passion for music that surrounded the man, the way he seemed to understand everything. He knew that if he’d shared that with his mom, she’d say it was part of a bigger experience that he was missing, playing music, being a musician. Music defined him, it was the reason he was the way he was, serious, studious, a little old-fashioned and less worldly wise than his friends, more interested in the life of Paganini than the latest computer game.

Whenever he felt tempted to open the case and just clean his violin, just hold it, he remembered the prospect of a lifetime without the thrill of hitting a homer or taking a player out on third, and then he shut out that “missing” feeling before it really took hold. The only concession he made was time spent before he went to sleep, listening to Maestro Gomez’s music on his iPod.

“Dan.”

He looked up. His father was carrying golf clubs out to his car.

“Hi, Dad.”

David put the clubs in the trunk and came and sat down on the porch.

“Been for a ride?”

“Yep.”

“Everything okay?”

“Guess so.”

Daniel stared out at the dusty road and wondered what was coming next.
Not another argument, please.

“I thought I should come with you next week and be there for the discussions. Mom said she could handle it, but I feel it’s best all around if I’m there too.”

Daniel smiled at him. Maybe there were two people in his corner after all.

“I’d like you to come.”

“I guessed you might. Don’t worry, son, it’ll get sorted. It won’t go on—”

Cindy opened the front door.

“Breakfast’s ready. Stack of waffles for whoever gets there first.”

David stood up and extended his hand to Daniel.

“Just this once I’ll give you a head start.”

Daniel grinned. “Just this once. I’m starving.”

Chapter 14

Washington, D.C.

September 2008

T
here’s a great deal of rich, melodic music for the strings in the well-known and well-loved brindisi in Act One of Verdi’s
La Traviata
. Rafael Gomez’s left arm was working overtime encouraging the joyful emotion through, enticing the strings to put their heart and soul into it, while his right kept the fairly rapid beat. Glasses perched on the end of his nose and his shirtsleeves rolled up, he stood at the podium guiding the orchestral rehearsal in the Opera House at the Kennedy Center. Once he added the singers and chorus to the mix, it would take all his concentration and energy to bring them in at the right moments, to keep them together and in time. The orchestra was superb, experienced and gifted musicians who knew this score as well as he did. They worked with him to the frenzied climax of the piece and finished in triumph.

“Bravo, everybody! Much better, cellos, I can’t tell you the difference that makes. Watch about five bars from letter C, put more edge into it, rata ta ta ta ta! There is a brittle quality to her here, only she knows that she is sick, it needs to be frenzied. David, true pianissimo in that middle passage, please; you might drown Loredana completely if you’re not careful. Now, let’s do the Di Provenza once more please, from the top, and if you can all bear it, I will sing along.”

Some in the orchestra chuckled; it was an old joke. His habit of singing along in opera rehearsals was legendary. He sang some and “lalalalaed” the rest, conducting at the same time. Halfway through he stopped and tapped the baton on the edge of the podium.

“Good, good, now don’t get sloppy on me. I know it has been a long afternoon for everyone but you’re a little late. And I’m getting lonely. From D please, and concentrate. Watch the rhythm, it needs to flow. This is the last piece.”

After he’d given them a couple of extra details and then dismissed them with some words of encouragement, he noticed Jeremy Browne sitting in the auditorium, about halfway back. As soon as Jeremy saw the smile of recognition, he sprang to his feet and walked down to the edge of the pit.

“Lovely. Quite beautiful. And your singing’s not so bad either.”

Rafael laughed. “It’s all smoke and mirrors. Plus the baritone midget I carry in my pocket, but he is our secret, yes? So what brings you down here?”

Jeremy watched him pack away the score.

“A brief chat, got a minute?”

“Of course, a coffee, maybe? I know I could do with one.”

Ten minutes later they sat sipping espresso and looking out at the view of Washington. Browne lost no time coming to the point.

“I had dinner with Valentino, discussed the Egyptian opportunity.”

“And what did he say?”

“He’s very keen, took a minute to think it through, then he came up with a suggestion.”

Rafael raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Really?”

Browne nodded. “He seems to have shaken off the ‘I don’t want to influence repertoire’ line of last season. I have to say I always thought those assurances were false modesty. Have you ever been inside the Egyptian National Cultural Center, Rafael?”

“Once, for a very fine
Le Cid,
Giovanni Donnatello’s debut. I thought it was magnificent.”

“And very . . . Islamic. Even the shape, a series of domed buildings. I don’t know how much you know about Egypt. It’s a deeply Islamic country. We follow the New Israeli Opera’s
Nabucco
and that’s a very, very brave step for the Egyptians. No matter how good the production is, there
will
be dissent. It’s about exiling Jews, for goodness’ sake! This whole exercise is supposed to promote the fragile peace in the region, to show outsiders that the Arab world is unified, and to make a stand against terrorism. Valentino assures me he understands all this, and he still wants us to do Wagner. One of the few truly anti-Semitic composers the West has produced. And not just any Wagner either. He wants the magnificent and very, very, very long hymn to Christianity—
Parsifal
.”

He’d gotten more and more dramatic as the speech had progressed and Rafael loved it. His look of utter fascination gave way to laughter.

“Perfect! Inflammatory, impossible, ridiculously expensive, and completely crazy. And so very Sergei. Did you, you know, suggest something Russian at all?”

Browne nodded. “Oh yes, but he’s not interested. Seen them all and they’re dark and depressing. He suggests a brand-new production of
Parsifal,
the more controversial the better. That, and that alone, he is interested in funding.”

“Can we do it without him?”

“Possibly, but it’s a very hard ask. The board knows it’ll cost a small fortune, whatever we do. It’ll take funds earmarked for other things. Talk to him, will you, Rafael? He’s your friend. Explain to him that it doesn’t work that way, it can’t.”

Rafael stared sightlessly out the window as he tried to imagine what on earth he could say that would change Sergei’s mind about anything.

“To be honest, Jeremy, I don’t think he’ll care. You know that line from
Gone with the Wind
? ‘I don’t give a damn’?”

Chapter 15

Illinois

September 2008

D
aniel, it’s for you. It’s Maestro Gomez!”

Daniel sprang to his feet and sent books flying in all directions as he rushed past his mother toward the sitting room. The receiver lay on the table and he grabbed it.

“Hello, Maestro? It’s Daniel.”

“Daniel! How are you, son?”

His voice sounded tinny but still deep and with that slightly sleepy sound that Daniel knew so well.

“Okay. I’m going back to the institute tomorrow.”

“Are you playing? Practicing?”

“No, sir. We’re going to talk to them about it. Mom says they’ll persuade me.”

“Don’t worry about that; you know they can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ve been thinking a lot about those violins, the lost ones of your poppa’s you told me about.”

Daniel was uncertain where this was heading. “Yes, sir.”

“I wondered if you could do me a big favor. I want to talk to your poppa. Do you think he would see us? Would he maybe talk to us, just you and me, if we went to see him?”

Daniel looked at his watching parents and he knew there was a huge grin spreading across his face.

“Sure he would. He loves your music. So does my
feter
Levi, he’s really my great-uncle, poppa’s brother. They’d
love
to meet you.”

“Good. Is your dad there?”

“Yep, he’s right here.”

“Okay, let me talk to him for a moment. The institute can wait. I’ll see you soon.”

T
wo days later a car pulled up outside a modest two-story home in Woodsville, a small town in rural Vermont. Daniel led the way up the concrete drive as the front door opened and three elderly people poured excitedly down the steps and onto the front lawn. The first was a small, wiry man, almost bald. He had fierce dark brows and sparkling eyes above a large nose, and his face was very lined. Following him was a petite, attractive woman with soft gray hair in a bun, steel-rimmed glasses, and pale blue eyes. She enveloped Daniel with a hug and kissed him hard on each cheek. He hugged them both with obvious affection. A little way behind stood another man, considerably taller and very straight; his wavy gray hair had a trace of faded auburn and his green eyes were still sharp and watchful.

“Maestro, this is my poppa, Simon,” Daniel said proudly, indicating the small man. “And this is my nana, Ruth, and this is my
feter,
Uncle Levi. Everybody, this is my friend Maestro Gomez.”

After a magnificent afternoon tea of
apfelstrudel,
macaroons, sweet blintzes, and chocolate baklava on the terrace, his nana took Daniel into the back garden to help her with the weeding. The conversation so far had revolved around composers, concerts, symphonies, sonatas, concertos, operas, and soloists; and Rafael had enjoyed regaling them with the stories they lapped up so enthusiastically. Both men were intensely musical and had earned his respect almost immediately with their knowledgeable questioning and opinions.

“Your delightful young grandson, he is a rare talent, sir, and a very bright boy. When was the last time you heard him play?”

“Last summer before he went to the institute, his parents brought him here for a holiday.” The accent was unmistakably German, but the English was impeccable and the pronunciation clear and clipped.

“He can be a skilled orchestral player and, I believe, quite possibly, a virtuoso concert violinist. But right now, you know, he doesn’t want to play.”

“We heard. It’s a hard life and he’s still young, but he doesn’t understand how lucky he is, to have the talent, the opportunity, how important it is to play. I have tried to tell him these truths, but he grows up with everything; he has no idea what it is to have nothing.”

Rafael nodded thoughtfully. “I think I may be able to persuade him. But first, I wondered if you would be kind enough . . . for me . . . I would like to hear all you can remember about your violins, the Guarneri and the Amati? And how you lost them.”

The two old men glanced at each other and Rafael could see the sad connection between them, shared sorrows that needed no words. What he was asking was difficult and painful, and they both had to agree. Finally Simon nodded. Rafael now watched as Simon took a battered old shoe box out of a hutch dresser and brought it to the dining table, where they were seated. He opened the shoe box and spread the contents on the table. There were sepia photos, folded pieces of paper, two miniature portraits in oval gold frames, a couple of lists handwritten in faded ink, two identity cards, a small black box, and a dog-eared child’s drawing of a tall man seated at the piano. Simon picked up a photo of two smiling teenaged boys, each holding a violin, and held it out to Rafael.

“Certainly, Maestro.”