The Keeper of Secrets (26 page)

Chapter 48

T
ogether they walked through the hall, Rafael carrying his baton and Daniel, the violin and bow. Large portraits and paintings stared down from the walls on either side, and the thick carpet beneath their feet muffled their footsteps. In the doorway they stopped, and Rafael surveyed the huge room, the battleground.

The orchestra sat, tuned and ready, full of eager anticipation. The crowd had been directed to their seats. He knew Sergei was very pleased with the mix, potential managers and agents, reviewers for magazines and websites, professional musicians, luthiers and students, friends and fellow businesspeople, a sprinkling of celebrities with a well-known passion for classical music and Daniel’s family.

Tatiana was absent, and he was relieved Sergei had taken his advice; her presence would increase Daniel’s nerves and it wasn’t fair to her. He knew Sergei had been most displeased by her demonstration during the music lesson, and things between them seemed strained. Rafael wondered what she’d thought of her “treat,” a ticket to see
Hairspray
at the Shaftesbury Theater, a night at the Hilton, a wad of cash and instructions to go shopping. According to Sergei, she certainly intended to, judging by the size of all the suitcases she’d taken with her.

Roberto di Longi sat in the third row. His last comment to Rafael had been all about hubris and justice and how far people will go to keep what they desire and how satisfying it is to be proven right. It’d occurred to Rafael at the time that just because he admired the man’s expertise, that didn’t mean he had to actually like him, and if he saw anything close to a gloat, Roberto would feel the lash of a Spanish temper.

Two seats along from Roberto sat Rafael’s darling Mags. He knew she had serious doubts about the whole enterprise, but she loved him and understood him, and she admired the fact that doing what was right was fundamental to his personality. He’d come very close to telling her what he actually hoped would happen, and then he decided it was too much of a burden. The fate of the evening was his load alone.

Simon, Levi, Ruth, David, and Cindy sat in the front row. The sight of the two old men, sitting so straight and staring at the orchestra, tugged at his heart. Time must have been moving at a leaden pace for all five of them, ticking by almost in slow motion through a mist of pride, excitement, fear, and anticipation. Suddenly the lights dimmed and a buzz went around the room.

“Kick off!” Rafael whispered to Daniel, and the boy grinned up at him, excitement in his dark eyes.

As applause broke out, the maestro walked quickly across to the podium at the edge of the platform, smiled warmly at the orchestra, and turned to the expectant crowd.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and a big welcome to this very special performance. To begin, shall we make a little music of the night?”

He turned back, tapped the top of his music stand, waited for the orchestra to focus on him, and gave them his signature wink. The familiar opening to Mozart’s Serenade no. 13, K525, more commonly known as “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” rang out crisply, and the audience settled comfortably into their seats.

D
aniel stood in the doorway from the hall, the violin and bow in his hands, his foot tapping in time to the rhythmic music, the nerves evaporating. What a genius Mozart was! It sounded like a musical game of questions and answers, one phrase responding to another, a piece of frivolous party music, written while the composer was deep in the middle of the opera
Don Giovanni,
and yet it’d become one of the most recognized and loved compositions of all time. That was the amazing thing about music; there was always something more to discover and love.

He watched Maestro Gomez from his side angle and was, as always, mesmerized by the way he made the complex job seem so effortless. He’d taken the maestro’s advice and spent some time by himself just sitting with the violin, holding it, talking to it, playing bits and pieces as they came into his head, and now it felt more like a friend, not like some huge task at which he might fail. It was a member of his family, he told himself, just a piece of wood that was at home in the hands of a Horowitz, nothing mystical or symbolic.

The piece came to its conclusion, and the maestro motioned to the orchestra to stand as he turned to take his own bow. Then he stepped off the podium and walked into the space between the orchestra and the audience. Before he spoke, he glanced sideways at Daniel and smiled. Daniel gave him a nod to show he was ready.
As ready as I’ll ever be,
he thought.

“My friends, it is a real joy for me to tell you a little about the performer you will hear play now. I first met him about eight months ago, when he made the finals of the Samuel J. Hillier competition. You know he was only just fourteen and the rest, they were much older! I was the conductor that night and chairman of the judging panel and, in the finals, he played the piece he’s going to play for you first tonight, Paganini’s Allegro maestoso, the first movement of Violin Concerto no. 1 in D Major. He won that competition, and as one of my students is so fond of saying, ‘daylight came second.’ ”

There was a rumble of laughter and appreciation around the room.

“So instead of me
telling
you about his talent, I shall let you hear for yourself. He also plays a very, very special instrument tonight. It has been loaned to him by our wonderful host, Sergei Valentino. Without Sergei’s generosity, none of this could happen, no? It is the extraordinary 1729 Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesú violin.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in giving a warm welcome to Daniel Horowitz and the Guarneri!”

Daniel felt a light touch on the small of his back, and he stepped forward and walked toward Rafael, who was extending his arm toward him. The crowd was applauding and he bowed to them. He could see his family smiling and clapping and his mother nodding and tears on her cheeks, and his poppa’s gaze locked on the violin in his hands. Rafael shook his hand, then mounted the podium. Daniel took his place, to Rafael’s left, in front of the concertmaster. The pianist played an A and he tuned the violin, tightened the bow, and gave Rafael another small nod. The orchestra had quite a long introduction. After a tiny pause, he began to play, sweet, clear, strong notes that gave way to a lilting melody, punctuated by complex runs.

His body moved gently, and at times his eyes closed and at times he glanced at Rafael, who was constantly apace with him, almost breathing for him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his poppa start to rise from his seat as, four minutes into the piece, the continuous trills spilled forth and built to breathtaking high notes. His uncle put his hand on his poppa’s shoulder and pushed him back down, and his nana grabbed his poppa’s hand.

The last two minutes were almost entirely solo, ending with just a few accompanying notes from the orchestra, and the applause started before the piece concluded. Everyone was on their feet, and the noise was deafening. Daniel turned to Rafael, who stepped off the podium, took his hand, and raised the two joined hands in the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Daniel Horowitz.”

Still the clapping continued and shouts of “Bravo!” Daniel bowed and smiled happily at his family. Cindy was still crying and Daniel knew she hadn’t stopped, but it gave him a sudden jolt to realize that his nana, poppa, and
feter
were crying too. He wanted to go to them, hug them, show them the violin, but Maestro Gomez still held his hand tightly. Finally it slowed down, and Rafael let him go and gestured for him to walk off, back to the doorway. He could see a woman waiting there with a bottle of water and a towel to wipe away the sweat.

R
afael turned back to the audience, now seated. He could feel their energy and enthusiasm matching his own racing heart.

“I won’t say, ‘I told you so,’ but it makes you glad, yes? Before he plays for us again, I want to tell you a little story. A few months ago I heard that Daniel wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep playing the violin. As I know all of you will appreciate, it takes a special level of dedication to play like that, and it is a hard thing, to be fourteen and have such incredible talent. But he is here tonight for a very special person in his life. Daniel’s poppa, Simon Horowitz, is sitting over there.”

He gestured toward Simon, who, along with the rest of the family, was staring back at him in a state of shock over this departure from the script. He could also see Sergei, who’d leaned slightly forward, all his attention focused on the speech.

“Simon is a German Jew who grew up in Berlin. In 1939, his father had his bank taken away from him by the Nazis and his house, it was looted”—there was a growing noise as individual audience members reacted to the story—“and all the boys and the men in the family were sent to Dachau. The women were later sent to Auschwitz. Simon survived for five terrible years because he was made to play the violin for the guards. But the most remarkable part of this story is that Simon’s father had a genuine Guarneri del Gesú violin, and, you know, the Nazis took it in 1939. Simon hasn’t heard one played for nearly seventy years and tonight he is, by his own grandson!”

Spontaneous applause burst forth and people began to stand. Rafael walked across the gap to the front row and embraced Simon in a warm hug. He could feel the frail body quivering.

“Trust me,” he whispered softly in Simon’s ear. “Go with your instinct.”

Then he pulled back and shook the bony hand. Ruth was crying softly, and he kissed her gently on each cheek, then shook Levi’s hand. As he turned he saw Sergei. The Russian was standing and clapping. His round face was as white as Rafael had ever seen it, and the pale green eyes glittered at him with what he knew was cold rage . . . and something else. Knowledge and understanding. In that split second, Rafael’s instinct hit him squarely in the gut. Sergei knew. He knew where his violin came from; he knew something about the story he’d just heard.

Chapter 49

R
afael mounted the podium and led the orchestra through Rossini’s “William Tell Overture,” as he had with a hundred orchestras all around the world. That experience and training carried him through as his mind raced ahead. The audience’s response was polite, impatient; they wanted to hear from the star attraction again.
So,
the maestro thought,
let the games begin, and whatever happens, happens.

“Time to hear from our prodigy again. This time he will play for us Debussy’s ‘The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.’ ”

Daniel walked back into the room to yet more applause. He tuned the violin briefly, and before he took up his stance, he nodded to Rafael.

“Daniel would like to say something to you all.”

The boy was looking over the heads of the crowd, as Rafael had suggested to him; any direct eye contact would’ve been too difficult.

“I would like to dedicate this piece to my poppa and to all my family I never knew.”

It began with an achingly soft melody, haunting and smooth. About two minutes in, a loud collective gasp cut across Rafael’s intense concentration and he swung around, the baton raised. Simon was standing right in front of Daniel but not looking at him; he was looking at the violin, his head slightly cocked to one side. Daniel’s eyes were open, and he’d stopped playing, the bow on the string and his fingers in the air. Levi started out of his chair, but David shot to his feet and grabbed Levi’s arm to hold him back. Simon raised his arms and took the violin and bow out of Daniel’s hands. The boy took two instinctive steps to his left, and Rafael came down off the podium and put his arm around him. The room was completely silent.

Simon caressed the body of the instrument with his finger, tracing the purfling and up the fingerboard to the scroll. Then he laid his cheek against the back and mumbled some words in Hebrew. Finally he put the violin to his chin and started to play the Debussy, slowly and carefully, his stiff fingers searching for the notes and the bow jerking over the strings. He rocked on his feet and moved to steady himself; his eyes closed and he smiled.

Then in one fluid motion he stopped, his arms dropped to his sides, and he sank to his knees. Six decades of rage, grief, humiliation, and frustration burst forth in a howl that sounded more like an animal than a human being. It was a keen, a funeral lament for his father, his mother, his brother, his sister, his uncle, his aunt, and his cousins, for all the lost years, all the shiva he’d been denied, all the agony he’d been forced to hide in order to survive.

It took Sergei almost another full minute to come out of his shock and move swiftly across to the kneeling man, but before he could take the instrument, Rafael intercepted him.

“No,” he said firmly, “we need to talk, privately. But for the moment, he holds it.”

Sergei recoiled, and Rafael could see the shock and anger.

“Never!”

Rafael spoke into the Russian’s face, his voice deep and full of menace.

“Be careful, Sergei, this is very public, and in a battle for hearts
you
will not win. Keep it private. Be sensible and come with me.”

He gestured to David to come to him.

“We need all your family and I think Roberto and Carlo. Follow Sergei, now.”

As Levi helped Simon to his feet, all hell broke loose in the audience. People were talking loudly and standing up, pointing at Simon and arguing. Rafael climbed the podium and held his hands up.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please. Please. Can I talk to you all,
please
?”

Eventually people started to turn to him and stop talking. Many were still watching the group following Sergei out of the room.

“Thank you, may I apologize for this, please. There is going to be a break, perhaps for a while now. I am hopeful that the concert will continue, but for now there will be more champagne and food for you all.”

With that he turned to the orchestra.

“Eat and drink and relax a little; as soon as I can I’ll let you know.”

Before they could react, he was striding after the last figure disappearing through the door.