Playing With Fire (14 page)

“But it does,” I say. “And I paid a hundred euros for it.”

She is still studying the music. She holds it up to the sunlight and squints at the penciled notes on the staves. “This antiques store in Rome, did they tell you where they obtained the music?”

“The dealer bought it from the estate of a man named Capobianco.”

“Capobianco?”

“That’s what the shopkeeper’s granddaughter wrote me.” I reach into my shoulder bag again, take out the letters from Anna Maria Padrone, and hand them to Francesca. “Mr. Capobianco lived in the town of Casperia. I believe it’s not far from Rome.”

She reads the first letter, then unfolds the second. Suddenly I hear her suck in a sharp breath and when she looks at me, something has changed in her eyes. The spark of interest has been lit, a fire started. “This antiques dealer was murdered?”

“Only a few weeks ago. There was a robbery at his shop.”

She focuses again on
Incendio.
She’s now holding it gingerly, as if the paper has transformed into something dangerous. Something too scorching to hold in her bare hands. “May I keep this music for a while? I want my people to examine it. And these letters, too.”

“Your people?”

“Our document scholars. I assure you, they will take very good care of it. If this music is as old as it appears, it should not be touched anymore by human hands. Let me know which hotel you’re staying in, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“We do have copies of the music at home,” Gerda says to me. “There’s no reason we can’t let her borrow it for a proper examination.”

I look at
Incendio
and think of how that lone sheet of paper has brought such misery to my life. How it has fractured my family and poisoned my love for my daughter.

“Take it,” I say. “I never want to see the bloody thing again.”

I should feel relieved that
Incendio
is no longer my burden, that it’s now in the hands of people who will know what to do with it, yet that night I lie awake, fretting about all the unanswered questions. As Gerda sleeps soundly in the next bed, I stare at the darkness, wondering if Francesca will track down the music’s origins as she promised. Or will it end up as just another document stored in the museum’s vault, left for some future scholar to ponder?

I give up on sleep, get dressed in the dark, and slip out of the room.

The lobby desk is manned by a night clerk who looks up from the paperback novel she’s reading and gives me a friendly nod. Laughter and loud voices filter in from the street outside; at 1
A.M.
, the sleepless are still out and about in Venice.

But wandering the city is not what I have in mind tonight. Instead, I approach the night clerk and ask: “Could you help me? I need to reach some people in another town, but I don’t know the phone number. Do you have a directory where I can look it up?”

“Of course. Where do they live?”

“A town called Casperia. I think it’s close to Rome. Their last name is Capobianco.”

The clerk turns to her computer and searches what I assume is the Italian version of the White Pages. “There are two listings for that surname. Filippo Capobianco and Davide Capobianco. Which one do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

She turns to me with a puzzled look. “You don’t know the given name?”

“I just know the family is in Casperia.”

“Then I will write down both phone numbers for you.” She jots the information on a scrap of paper and hands it to me.”

“Could you perhaps…”

“Yes?”

“They may not speak English, so I don’t know if I’ll even be able to talk to them. Could you call them for me?”

“But it is one in the morning, madam.”

“No, I mean tomorrow. If there are long-distance charges, I’ll pay whatever it costs. Could you give them a message?”

The woman reaches for a fresh sheet of paper. “What is the message?”

“Tell them my name is Julia Ansdell. I’m looking for the family of Giovanni Capobianco. It’s about a piece of music he once owned, by a composer named Lorenzo Todesco.”

She scribbles down the message and glances up. “You wish me to call both of the numbers?”

“Yes. I want to be sure I find the right family.”

“And if they wish to speak to you? How long will you be a guest here, so I can give you the message?”

“I’m staying another two days.” I reach for her pen and write down my cellphone number and email address. “After that, they can reach me in the United States.”

The clerk tapes the note to the desk beside the telephone. “I will call in the morning, before I leave.”

I know it’s a strange request, and I wonder if she’ll actually follow through. I have no chance to ask her, because when I stop at the desk the next morning, a different woman is sitting there and the note is no longer taped beside the telephone. No one has left any messages for me. No one except Rob has tried to call my cellphone.

I stand there in the lobby, scrolling through Rob’s latest text messages, which were sent at midnight, 2
A.M.
, and 5
A.M.
, Boston time. Poor Rob; he is getting no sleep, and it’s my fault. I think of the night I was in labor with Lily, and how Rob sat by my bed the whole time, holding my hand, pressing cool washcloths to my forehead. I remember his bleary eyes and unshaven face, and I imagine that’s how he looks now. I owe him some sort of answer, so I respond with one short message:
Please don’t worry. I need to do this, and then I’ll come home.
I press Send, and imagine his look of relief when he sees my words pop up on his cellphone. Or will it be a look of irritation? Am I still the woman he loves, or am I merely the problem in his life?

“There you are, Julia,” says Gerda, who’s just emerged from the breakfast room. She notices the phone in my hand. “Have you spoken to Rob?”

“I sent him a text.”

“Good.” She sounds strangely relieved and says again, with a sigh: “Good.”

“Have you heard from Francesca? About the music?”

“It’s too soon. Give her some time. Meanwhile, I think we should take a walk around this gorgeous city. What do you want to see?”

“I’d like to go back to Cannaregio. The Ghetto Nuovo.”

Gerda hesitates, clearly uninterested in returning to the Jewish quarter. “Why don’t we go to San Marco first?” she suggests. “I want to do a little shopping and sip Bellinis. We
are
in Venice. Let’s be tourists.”

And that’s exactly how we spend most of the day. We poke around shops in San Marco, squeeze in among the hordes visiting the Doge’s Palace, and bargain for trinkets I really don’t want on the busy Rialto Bridge.

By the time we finally cross the footbridge into Cannaregio, it is late afternoon and I’m sick of fighting my way through crowds. We escape into the relative quiet of the Jewish quarter, where the narrow streets are already cast in evening shadow. I’m so relieved to be away from the throngs that at first, the silence of the neighborhood doesn’t bother me.

But halfway down an alleyway, I suddenly stop and turn to look behind us. I see no one, only a gloomy passage and laundry fluttering on a line high above. There is nothing alarming, yet my skin prickles and my senses are instantly on high alert.

“What is it?” Gerda asks.

“I thought I heard someone behind us.”

“I don’t see anyone.”

I can’t stop scanning the alley, searching for a flicker of movement. I see only the laundry swaying overhead, three faded shirts and a towel.

“No one’s there. Come on,” she says and keeps walking.

I have no choice but to follow her, because I don’t want to be left alone in that claustrophobic passage. We make our way back to the Campo Ghetto Nuovo, where once again I’m drawn to the plaque with the names of deported Jews. There he is, Lorenzo Todesco. While Francesca has her doubts he is the composer, I feel certain that
Incendio
is his. Seeing his name carved here is like coming face-to-face with someone I have known for a long time, but only now am able to recognize.

“It’s late,” says Gerda. “Shall we head back?”

“Not yet.” I cross the square to the Jewish Museum, which has already closed for the day. Through the window, I spy a man inside, straightening up a stack of pamphlets. I rap on the glass and he shakes his head and points to his watch. When I knock again, he finally unlocks the door and regards me with a
go away
scowl.

“Is Francesca here?” I ask.

“She left this afternoon. To see a journalist.”

“Will she be here tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Come back then.” With that, he shuts the door, and I hear the angry clunk of the bolt sliding home.

That night Gerda and I dine in a mediocre restaurant that we choose at random, one of the countless pizza and pasta traps near Piazza San Marco that cater to tourists who will never return. Every table is taken and we sit elbow-to-elbow with a family of sunburned midwesterners who laugh too loud and drink too much. I have no appetite, and I have to force myself to eat the tasteless spaghetti Bolognese that sprawls like a bloody thing across my plate.

Gerda sounds far too upbeat as she refills her glass of Chianti from the carafe. “I’d say we accomplished our mission, Julia. We came, we asked, we got an answer. Now we know who our composer was.”

“Francesca sounded doubtful.”

“The name fits, the address fits. It must be Lorenzo Todesco’s. It sounds like the family’s all dead, so I think we’re safe recording the piece. When we get home, let’s get to work on a quartet arrangement. I’m sure Stephanie can come up with some lovely harmony on the cello.”

“I don’t know, Gerda. It feels wrong, recording this waltz.”

“What’s wrong about it?”

“It’s like we’re exploiting him. Profiting from his tragedy. There’s such an awful history to this music, I wonder if we’re asking for bad luck.”

“Julia, it’s only a waltz.”

“And the man who sold me that waltz gets murdered in Rome. It’s as if the music leaves a curse on everyone who touches it or hears it. Even my own daughter.”

Gerda is silent for a moment. She takes a sip of wine and calmly sets down the goblet. “Julia, I know it’s been rough for you these past few weeks. The problems with Lily. Your fall down the stairs. But I don’t think that has anything to do with
Incendio.
Yes, the music is disturbing. It’s complex and powerful and it comes with a tragic history. But it’s just notes on a page, and those notes need to be heard. That’s the way we honor Lorenzo Todesco, by sharing his music with the world. It gives him the immortality he deserves.”

“What about my daughter?”

“What about Lily?”

“The music changed her. I know it did.”

“Maybe it just seems that way. When things go wrong, it’s natural to look for an explanation, but there may not be one.” She reaches across the table and places her hand on mine. “Go home, Julia. Talk to Rob. You two need to sort this out together.”

I look straight at her, but she avoids my gaze. Why has everything suddenly changed between us? If even Gerda has turned against me, I’m left with no one on my side.

We are silent as we leave the restaurant and walk across the Accademia Bridge, back to the neighborhood of Dorsoduro. Despite the late hour, the streets are alive and throbbing with noise. It’s a warm night and the hip young set is everywhere, loud boys with untucked shirts, carefree girls in short skirts and halter tops, flirting, laughing, drinking. But Gerda and I don’t exchange a word as we veer away from that busy street and turn down a far quieter alley, toward our hotel.

By now Rob probably knows I’m in Venice. A look at our online accounts would tell him I’ve withdrawn cash at a Venice ATM and I’ve just used my credit card at a restaurant in San Marco. There’s no way to keep those kinds of secrets from an accountant; he’s an expert at following the money. I feel guilty not returning any of his phone calls, but I’m afraid of what he’ll say to me. I dread hearing him tell me that he’s reached his limit. After ten years of marriage, a good marriage, is it possible I’ve lost him?

At the far end of the alley is the faint glow of our hotel sign. As we approach it, I’m still thinking about Rob, about what I will say to him and how we can survive this. I don’t notice the man standing in the doorway. Then a silhouette, broad-shouldered and faceless, suddenly detaches itself from the shadows and moves in front of us, blocking our way.

“Julia Ansdell?” he asks. Deep voice, Italian accent.

Gerda says: “Who are you?”

“I am looking for Mrs. Ansdell.”

“Well, this is entirely the wrong way to go about it,” Gerda snaps. “Are you
trying
to scare her?”

As the man moves toward us, I back away until I’m pressed against a wall. “Stop it, you’re freaking her out!” says Gerda. “Her husband didn’t say it would be done this way!”

Her husband.
With those two words, everything becomes shockingly clear. I look at Gerda. “You—Rob—”

“Julia, honey, he called me this morning, while you were still asleep. He explained everything. Your breakdown, the psychiatrist. They’re trying to get you home to the hospital. He promised not to upset you, but then he sends
this
asshole.” She steps between me and the man and pushes him away from me. “Back off now, you hear me? If her husband wants her home, he’ll just have to come here himself and—”

The gunshot makes me freeze. Gerda stumbles against me and I try to hold her up, but she crumples to the ground. I feel her blood, warm and wet, streak down my arms.

Suddenly the hotel door swings open and I hear two men laughing as they step out of the building. The gunman turns toward them, momentarily distracted.

That’s when I run.

I sprint instinctively toward lights, toward the safety of crowds. I hear another gunshot, feel air whistle past my cheek. I dart around the corner and see a café ahead and people dining at outdoor tables. As I race toward them, I try to scream to them to help me, but panic has made my throat close over and almost no sound comes out. I’m certain the man is right behind me so I keep running. People glance up as I tear past them. More eyes, more witnesses, but who is going to stand between me and a bullet?