Paganini's Ghost (14 page)

“Haven't we met before?” he said. “Ah, yes, of course. The reception in Cremona. You were the one who . . . Mirella told me.” He paused, smiling slightly.

“Well, yes, that was unfortunate,” I said, filling in the uncomfortable silence.

“You don't need to worry about it. He won't remember you.”

“He won't?”

“Vittorio doesn't notice anyone or anything round him,” Marco said. “Except when he looks in the mirror,” he added tartly. “Come on, I'll show you to his office.”

We went up a broad flight of stone steps to the first floor and along
a corridor lined with notice boards covered in concert posters, timetables, and other departmental information. As we reached a door halfway along the corridor, we had to step aside to let a man in dirty overalls pass. He had a lightweight aluminium ladder in one hand, a toolbox in the other. I glanced into the room he'd just left and saw a second man perched on a trestle platform, plastering the ceiling.

“There's a toilet on the floor above,” Marco explained. “A pipe burst over the summer, brought the whole ceiling down.”

“Over the
summer
?”

“University maintenance people—they live in a different time zone to the rest of us. With any luck, it might be finished for Christmas.”

We kept going along the corridor. A group of students came towards us, most of them carrying instrument cases. They broke apart in the middle to let us through. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the faint sound of a piano, someone practising scales and arpeggios.

“You are Professor Castellani's assistant?” I said.

I sensed Marco bristle a little at the suggestion.

“I'm technically an associate lecturer,” he said stiffly. “I've just finished my doctorate, but I'm doing bits of research for Vittorio, as well.”

He stopped outside a panelled oak door that had Vittorio Castellani's name stencilled on it in white paint. He knocked once and pushed open the door without waiting for a reply. Castellani was seated behind his desk on the far side of the office. It was a big room, as befitted his status as a professor of music, but a large part of it was occupied by a Steinway grand piano. There were shelves crammed with books and scores on three of the walls and a high window on the fourth, through which a chestnut tree could be seen, its bare branches silhouetted against the sky. It was late afternoon and it was growing dark. The panes of the window were spotted with raindrops.

“Signor Castiglione for you,” Marco said.

I walked towards the desk, but Castellani made no attempt to acknowledge my arrival. He looked straight past me at Marco.

“Have you typed up that article yet?” he demanded.

“Almost finished,” Marco replied defensively.

“It's taking you a long time. What about the stuff for Friday? The briefing.”

“The
Culture Show
? It's in progress.”

“I want it tonight.”

“You said tomorrow.”

“I want it tonight, okay? Get it done. And call Gilberto's. Book me a table for two for Saturday night. Nine o'clock. You seen Mirella about?”

“No.”

“You do, tell her I want to see her.”

Castellani waved a hand, dismissing Marco from the room. I waited for the young man to go, then approached the desk.

“Professor, it was good of you to see me at such short notice.”

I held out my hand. Castellani gave it a perfunctory shake.

“What is it you want?” he asked brusquely. “I haven't got long.”

He looked at me, and I was relieved to see no flicker of recognition in his eyes. Marco was right: Castellani didn't remember me.

I sat down in a chair that was positioned to one side of the desk and placed the light raincoat I'd brought with me on the carpet underneath the chair. There was a limited amount of legroom because the floor was taken up with cardboard boxes of books for which, presumably, there was no space on the shelves.

I told him I was looking for information about Paganini and Elisa Baciocchi, remaining vague about my reasons for seeking it.

“I've read your biography of Paganini,” I said. “A most enjoyable book, by the way,” I added, judging that a little flattery would do me no harm.

Castellani ran a hand through his long hair, sweeping it back behind his ears. He was wearing an open-necked black shirt—doubtless of designer origin, though I was too out of touch with fashion even to hazard a guess at the label—faded blue jeans and hand-sewn black leather shoes, which I knew were Gucci, but only because there was a discreet logo on them advertising that fact.

“Yes, the reviewers thought so, too,” he said. “ ‘Undoubtedly the
most complete biography of Paganini that has ever been written,' was what
La Stampa
said about it. And I don't even write for them. Well, I didn't then anyway.”

“You were very good on the relationship between Paganini and Elisa. But I imagine there was a lot of material you left out of the book.”

“Of course, there always is. One is limited by space, by the requirements of the publisher. One has to make a judgement about what is important and what is not. Those years in Lucca were only a small part of Paganini's career.”

“But very significant years,” I said.

He gave me a sharp stare, seeming to question my credentials for making such a statement.

“Not in the context of his whole life,” he said. “Lucca was something of a distraction, a sideshow. He was really only marking time there. All his major achievements came later.”

“I meant significant in his personal life. His affair with Elisa.”

Castellani laughed scornfully.

“Don't be taken in by all the romantic bullshit that surrounds Paganini. He used Elisa, and she used him. That's pretty much the norm in relations between men and women.”

“Not in my experience,” I said.

Castellani's gaze was pitying now.

“You seem very naïve. What did you say you were on the phone? Your occupation?”

“I am a violin maker.”

“Ah, yes, a craftsman. Well, I imagine your experience of the world—and women—is probably fairly narrow. Paganini, when he was in Lucca, was young, handsome, charismatic. It was only natural that Elisa would want to sleep with him. Talent is a wonderful aphrodisiac to a woman. It's no different today.”

Castellani smoothed back his hair again, a man speaking from experience—or trying to give the impression of it.

“Don't think for a moment that Paganini cared a damn about
Elisa,” he went on. “She was just a passing conquest to him, one of many.”

“But he dedicated compositions to her,” I said.

“That means nothing. Elisa was his patroness. Composing works dedicated to her was expected of him.”

“Do you know exactly what he wrote while he was in Lucca?”

“You say you've read my book. I give a full list in an appendix at the back.”

“You are sure it is a full list?”

Castellani didn't like that. His mouth tightened.

“You are implying that I might have missed something?”

“No, no, professor. But it's not unknown for new works to be discovered. Did Paganini, for example, ever write a Serenata
Appassionata
for Elisa?”

“A Serenata
Appassionata
?” Castellani frowned. “It's a long time since I wrote that biography. I can't remember every detail. Let me find a copy.”

He pushed back his chair, stood up, and scanned the shelves behind his desk. I looked down at the cardboard boxes beside my feet, wondering if I could help locate the book. The boxes had open lids. The books spilling out from them were different shapes and sizes, all about music. I saw Beethoven's name on the spine of one, a dog-eared dust jacket bearing the face of Richard Wagner on another. Then I glanced in a second box and noticed something else. I reached down.

“Here we are,” Castellani said.

He turned, his biography of Paganini in his hand. I straightened up and gave him my attention.

“He wrote the twenty-four caprices in Lucca, of course,” he said, leafing through to the end of the book. “Undoubtedly his greatest, and most lasting, contribution to the violin repertoire.”

“But he didn't write them for Elisa,” I said.

“No, the caprices are dedicated ‘To the Artists.' They were his Opus One. His Opus Two, six sonatas for violin and guitar, were dedicated to Signor Delle Piane, and his Opus Three, another six sonatas for
violin and guitar, were for Eleonora Quilici, a childhood friend. He left her money in his will, too. His Opus Four, three quartets for violin, viola, guitar, and cello, were dedicated ‘To the Amateurs, from Nicolò Paganini,' and so was his Opus Five, another set of three quartets for the same instruments.

“Of his published works, that's about it as far as Lucca goes. We know he wrote an unpublished “Scène Amoreuse” for the G and E strings—a sort of duet between a lady and her lover, the E representing the lady's voice, the G the lover's. And he wrote a sonata entitled
Napoleone
for the G string only, but that was dedicated to Elisa's brother, and has never been published, either.”

“No Serenata
Appassionata
?”

“I have never heard of such a piece. What makes you think it exists?”

“A reference I read somewhere,” I said vaguely.

“You must be mistaken. I did a huge amount of research for this book and never came across a Serenata
Appassionata
.”

“Perhaps I'm wrong,” I said. “What about presents? Did Elisa give many gifts to Paganini?”

“She was famously extravagant, yes. She gave him jewels, money.”

“What about violins? Did she ever give him a violin?”

“Quite possibly. Paganini accumulated violins throughout his life, though he played almost exclusively on
il Cannone
.”

“You don't know for certain?”

“It was two hundred years ago. I have seen no mention of a violin in the papers I've read. Like any biographer, I had to work with the records that were available to me. Where there were gaps, I had to do my best to fill them in, but it could only have been educated guesswork.”

Castellani replaced his biography on the shelves and sat down again at the desk, tilting back his padded leather chair and watching me attentively.

“This reference to a Serenata
Appassionata
you mentioned,” he said. “Where did you see it?”

“I'm not sure,” I said evasively.

“In a book?”

“I don't know. I'm interested in Paganini, that's all. Perhaps I've got hold of the wrong end of the stick.”

“Paganini
did
write a Sonata
Appassionata
,” Castellani said. “You could be thinking of that.”

“Yes, that must be it.”

“But that was much later than Lucca. Perhaps as late as 1829. He parted from Elisa nearly twenty years before that.”

“And never saw her again?”

“I wouldn't like to say with any certainty.”

“He dedicated his ‘Moses Fantasy' to her. And that was written in 1819.”

Castellani nodded slowly.

“You've read—and remembered—my book well.”

“Not just your book. I've read others, too.”

“Pah,” Castellani said contemptuously. “They are all inferior works. None of them has the depth or ambition of my biography.”

I didn't contradict him. I needed to keep him sweet for my next question.

“If Paganini had written something for Elisa, a piece of music that later disappeared, what do you think might have happened to it?”

“That's a ludicrous question, impossible to answer. Anything could have happened to it.”

“What if Elisa kept it until her death?”

“She died in 1820. That's a very long time ago.”

“Do you know what became of her possessions, her estate?”

“I have no idea. I wrote a book about Paganini, not Elisa Baciocchi. She had no interest to me beyond her relationship with Paganini. And she still has no interest to me.”

Castellani looked at his watch.

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot to do.”

“Of course, professor. Thank you for your time. You have been most helpful.”

I reached down and picked up my raincoat. It slipped from my
fingers on to one of the boxes of books and I had to fumble to retrieve it. Castellani, meanwhile, had lifted up the telephone and was talking to Marco.

“Signor, Signor”—he couldn't remember my name—“my
visitor
is ready to leave. Show him out, will you?”

I went back downstairs with Marco. The young man was quiet, seemingly preoccupied with his own thoughts.

“Professor Castellani can't be an easy man to work for,” I said.

“What? Oh, no, he isn't easy,” Marco replied. “But if I'm to get a tenured post, having him on my side is essential. He carries a lot of weight in the department.”

In the foyer, I shook hands with Marco and thanked him. Then I went out onto the street. The spots of rain had turned into a light drizzle. I unfolded my raincoat, carefully extracting the book that I'd concealed inside it, then slipped the coat over my shoulders, put the book in a side pocket, and walked away along the pavement.

 

It was only a short distance to the university's department of economics, but by the time I got there, my hair was gleaming wet and the rain was dripping off the hem of my coat onto my shoes. I found Margherita in her office, reading through a large pile of papers.

“I'm a little early,” I said. “Shall I go away for half an hour, then come back?”

Margherita gave me a look of incredulity.

“Are you kidding? It's raining out there. You're drenched.”

“It's only a shower. It'll blow over soon.”