Eighty Days Yellow (11 page)

‘Maybe you should have worn boots,’ he remarked. ‘We have to trek over the grass a little to get where we are going.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Summer said.

‘There’s still a lot of dew on the grass at this time of the morning. Your shoes will get wet, damaged maybe. You should take them off for the walk. I see you’re wearing tights or stockings. Do you mind?’

‘No, not at all. Stockings, actually.’

‘Good.’ He smiled. ‘Hold-ups or suspenders?’

Summer felt her cheeks warm. A streak of impudence provoked her to answer back. ‘Which would you have preferred?’

‘A perfect answer,’ Dominik replied, but did not elucidate further as he opened the door behind the driver’s seat and pulled a dark, shiny violin case from the back seat. Summer shivered.

He clicked on his fob to lock the BMW and indicated the vast expanse of grass, the field ahead beyond the low-hanging car-park fence.

‘Follow me.’

Summer took her shoes off when they moved onto the grass. He was right: it was wet and spongy under her almost bare feet. Within minutes the sensation became pleasurable enough. Dominik led the way, past the ponds, across a small bridge facing the outdoor swimming area and up a path. Here she had to slip the shoes back on because of the wilderness of pebbles digging into her soles. The squelching sensation of soggy nylon against the unyielding leather felt awkward, but they soon reached an expanse of grass again and she was able to resume her stocking-footed progress behind him as he held a steady, determined pace, holding her shoes by the straps in one hand. She wondered where they were heading. This part of the heath was unknown to her, but there was something about Dominik she trusted. Gut instinct. She didn’t believe he was luring her into some dark cranny in the woods to take advantage of her. Not that the thought of such a fate was in any way disturbing.

For a few hundred yards, the canopy of trees hid the blue of the sky and the warmth of the sun, and then they emerged into the light. A circular field totally open to the sky. An infinity of green, like an island emerging from a busy sea, a slight inclination and, at the top of the mound, a bandstand. Old-fashioned Victorian wrought-iron columns, rusting in places, overlooking a blissfully empty field.

Summer gasped. This was beautiful, an absolutely perfect setting, oddly deserted and eerie. She now understood why he had chosen such an early time in the morning for them to come here. There would be no spectators, or at any rate very few, unless the sound of her playing began to attract some from further afield across the heath.

Dominik bowed, indicating the bandstand, which they had now reached.

‘Here we are.’ He handed her the violin case and she mounted the stone steps leading to the bandstand’s stage.

Dominik positioned himself in one corner, leaning casually against one of the supporting metal posts.

Summer, for a fleeting instant, experienced a pang of rebellion. Why was she obeying his damn orders, being so docile and obliging? Part of her wanted to put her foot down and just say, ‘No’, or, ‘No way’, but another part of her that she didn’t know had existed until recently seductively whispered in her ear to go along with the game. Say ‘Yes’.

She froze.

Then, composing herself, Summer moved to the centre of the stage and opened the violin case. The instrument looked exquisite, so much better than her old battered and now useless instrument. She caught his eyes as she greedily ran her fingers across the burnished wood, the neck, the strings.

‘This is just a temporary instrument,’ Dominik said. ‘Once matters are settled to our mutual satisfaction, I will procure you a permanent violin, a better quality one.’

Right now, Summer couldn’t imagine ever holding a finer instrument than this one. Its weight, its balance, its curves just seemed downright perfect.

‘Play for me,’ he commanded.

She slipped off Charlotte’s coat and allowed it to slide to the floor. By now, the morning cold on her uncovered shoulders was no more than a gentle breeze as she travelled into the zone, oblivious to the place where she stood, the unnatural and isolated situation, the undertones of the relationship – yes, she knew it was going to be a relationship – with this curious and dangerous man.

She leaned over to retrieve the bow from the case she had set down on the bandstand floor, allowing Dominik, she was aware, a brief glimpse of her breasts. She never wore a bra with the black dress.

Summer looked back at him as he stood there, patiently waiting, expressionless, and began to tune the violin. Its sound was so full and rich, it bounced across the bandstand, every note floating towards the roof and back again like a silent echo.

And began playing Vivaldi.

By now, she knew the concertos by heart. Always her party piece whether busking or playing for friends or even just rehearsing. The centuries-old music just made her heart sing, and as she played it, eyes ever closed, she could evoke the landscapes of the Italian Renaissance she had seen in so many paintings, the unrolling life of nature and the elements. Somehow there were seldom actual people in her musical reverie inspired by Vivaldi, although she’d never bothered to find an explanation for this curious fact, this possibly Freudian omission.

Time came to a standstill.

The sounds she was now extricating from the violin were truly blissful and she felt she was finding a whole new undiscovered dimension in the music. She had never played this well before, relaxed, finding the truth at the core of the melody, navigating its waves, losing herself within its maelstrom. It was almost as good as sex.

By the time she reached the third concerto, she briefly opened her eyes to check on Dominik’s presence. He was still there, in the same place, motionless, pensive, his eyes hypnotically fixed on her. She remembered someone once mentioning to her that the shape of her body was not unlike that of a violin: small-waisted, generously hipped. Is that what he saw in her right now beneath the billowing folds of her black velvet dress?

She noticed a handful of bystanders at the outer edge of the clearing, no doubt attracted to the sounds of the music she was playing. Anonymous spectators.

Summer took a deep breath, both gratified and disappointed that this was no longer a concert for one only. She completed the third concerto and finally ceased playing. The spell had broken.

A couple of women in jogging gear in the distance applauded.

A man got back on his bicycle and continued his journey across the heath.

Dominik coughed gently.

‘The fourth concerto is technically a bit more awkward,’ Summer said. ‘I’m not sure I could get it all right without having to consult the partition,’ she excused herself.

‘No problem,’ Dominik said.

Summer waited for his judgement. He kept on staring at her.

A heavy silence began to weigh down on her. Once again, she could feel the coolness of the morning lap against her bare shoulders. She shivered. He failed to react.

Dominik watched as Summer grew visibly more nervous. The music and her playing had been sublime, everything he could have hoped for. Getting her to play for him here had been a brilliant idea, and the solo performance had elicited so many strong sensations inside him, a sense of terribly intimate connection. Now he wanted to know what the feel of her skin would be like, the smooth curve of her undressed shoulder against his fingers, his tongue, the million secrets beneath her dress. He could already conjure up the shape of her body. He had always regretted not having learned to read or play music on any instrument when he had been younger, and knew it was now too late in life to begin, but Dominik sensed that Summer was an instrument, one he could play for hours on end. And he would.

‘That was quite beautiful.’

‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She couldn’t help herself teasing him. Maybe it was because right now she felt supremely happy.

Dominik frowned.

He noticed the relief spread across her face as he delivered his verdict, but she was still tense – he could see from the straight line of her shoulders and the hard set of her jaw. Perhaps she knew that this was only just the beginning. There would be more.

‘You will have your violin,’ he indicated.

‘And you’re certain I can’t have this one?’ she protested, stroking its long, smooth neck with a possessive hand. ‘It’s a wonderful instrument.’

‘I’m sure it is, but, like I said, I will find you a better one. You deserve it.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ Dominik’s tone was firm; he would brook no further argument.

He walked over to Summer, picked up her coat from the ground and helped her into it. They walked back to the car, where she returned the violin to him.

Summer was full of questions, but didn’t know where to begin.

He pointed to the passenger seat.

‘Sit with me,’ he ordered.

Summer obeyed.

She had been fearful that the inside of the car might reek of tobacco – somehow Dominik looked like a smoker – but it didn’t. It was slightly musky, but not in a disagreeable way.

Dominik felt her closeness as he sat behind the wheel. She had lost her smell of cinnamon and all he could intuit was the scent of the soap she had used when washing this morning. Somewhat sweet, hygienic, reassuring. He could feel the warmth of her body inside the coat radiate outwards towards him.

‘Next time you play for me, it will be with your very own violin, the one I am now going to find, one that will fit you like a glove, Summer. Price will be no object,’ he said.

‘OK,’ she opined.

‘Now, tell me about your first time with a man, sex.’

For a brief moment she seemed taken aback by the abruptness of his demand, and Dominik thought, for a second, that he had guessed incorrectly; perhaps she wouldn’t go through with it.

Summer paused, gathering her thoughts and memories. In a novel way, she had already been intimate with this man and there was no point holding back now.

The car’s front window was misting up a little and Dominik switched on the air-conditioning.

She told him how it had happened.

The instrument had been built by someone called Pierre Bailly in Paris in 1900 and cost Dominik in the low five figures. It had initially caught his eye in a specialist dealer’s catalogue. The wood veered towards yellow more than orange or brown, a peaceful shade that evoked serenity and patience, but the patina in his mind held over a century of melodies and experience. The salesman in the small Burlington Arcade boutique was surprised he did not wish to play it before purchasing it, and didn’t appear to initially believe him when he declared he was buying it for an acquaintance. He knew he had long fingers, a musician’s fingers – many friends and women he had known had mentioned the fact to him – but did he look like one, let alone a violin player?

With the expensive antique violin came a certificate of provenance, listing all its owners over the past 112 years. There had been only five, most of their foreign names betraying past winds of war and continental drifts along the tides of history. The last owner had been called Edwina Christiansen. After her death, he was told, her heirs had sold the instrument at auction, where it had been acquired by the dealer, alongside other items of lesser note. No, he replied when asked by Dominik, he wasn’t in a position to supply further information about the late Miss Christiansen.

The Bailly violin came without a case and he purchased one online, a brand-new one, as he felt it would be best for Summer not to advertise the vintage status of her new instrument in a similarly visibly aged case. Dominik had always been eminently practically minded as well as cautious.

Once the case was delivered, he transferred the rusty-yellow violin into its new habitat and carefully wrapped it before handing it over to a courier service who would arrange for the package to reach Summer Zahova at the apartment she shared with others in East London. The instructions were clear: she had to sign for it personally. He warned of its impending arrival and requested an acknowledgement.

When her text came, it consisted of a single word: ‘Beautiful.’

In the letter he had written to her accompanying the expensive package, he had insisted she spend as much time as possible playing, rehearsing on it until the moment he would advise her of the new challenge, and he had given a precise instruction not to take it out in public yet, let alone busk in the Underground.

Now arrangements had to be made and enquiries conducted.

His advertisement on the freelance jobs display board at the music college sought three musicians, under thirty by preference, used to playing in a string quartet, willing to undertake a one-off performance with a minimum of rehearsal time and in unusual circumstances. And whose discretion would be adequately recompensed. A photograph was required with the application.

One answer he received filled all the boxes: a group of second-year students who had performed throughout their first year as a quartet but were now short of a member, the second violinist having returned a few weeks before to her native Lithuania. The two young men, who respectively played violin and viola, looked presentable, while the cello player, a young woman with a mass of curling blonde hair, was actually rather pretty.

All the other applications that landed in his letterbox as a result of the call-out were from solo musicians with minimal experience of playing with others, so it proved an easy decision.

Before organising a formal interview, Dominik sent them the questionnaire he had assembled for the occasion. Once the responses came back all positive, as he expected them to be considering the substantial fee he was in a position to offer, he arranged to speak to the trio on Skype and answered their remaining questions, assessing their reactions to some of his more unusual demands and requirements.

They would have to dress all in black, they would be able to rehearse with the fourth musician for a short period of time, but then they would be blindfolded for the main performance. They would sign a document with penalty clauses if news of the private concert they would be playing leaked out. They would not seek to contact him or the anonymous violin player again after the performance was completed.