The Keeper of Secrets (27 page)

Chapter 50

S
ergei was pacing the room. As soon as Rafael appeared at the doorway the Russian turned on him.

“You knew this,” he snarled.

“Keep calm, Sergei—”

“You set me up! You will
never
work—”

Roberto came between them, his palms raised.

“Now let’s just—”

“You!”

The Russian spun around and poked his finger into Roberto’s chest. “What part have you played?”

Rafael grabbed his hand by the wrist.

“I know you’re angry and you feel betrayed, yes? But we need to talk, all of us, sensibly, calmly.”

Sergei wrenched his arm away and focused on Simon sitting in a chair, clutching the violin and bow to his body.

“Why should I want to talk? Give it back to me, now!”

He strode toward the old man, and his intention was obvious. It was Carlo Montenagro who intercepted him and stood in his path.

“Listen to them, just for five minutes; listen to what they have to say.”

“Why? They have nothing I want to hear.”

“Make sure of that.”

Rafael looked around the room. Daniel was standing between his parents, and they each had an arm around him. He looked frightened. Ruth stood beside Simon’s chair, and Levi was only a couple of feet away. Carlo Montenagro gestured to the others.

“Please, everyone take seat. Please,
now
.”

They all gave a little start and moved quickly to seats at the table. Sergei’s ice-cold eyes swiveled from face to face, and Rafael felt them pierce his veneer of calmness.

“So. Who is going to tell me what this crap is all about?”

No one moved.

“Rafael? My friend?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Slowly Rafael pulled himself to his feet; he needed to be taller than the immense man if he was to have any chance of appearing convincing.

“I’ll start, and I think others will add. Sergei, this is Simon and Ruth Horowitz. They’re Daniel’s grandparents, and this is Simon’s elder brother, Levi. Their father was a banker in Berlin before the war and he was also a very good musician. He collected many wonderful instruments and he had, also, an Amati and a Guarneri. But in 1939 the bank was taken, the house was looted, and the family was sent to concentration camps. They believe that this”—he pointed to the violin that Simon still clutched—“is their Guarneri.”

Suddenly Simon looked up at him as if snapped awake by what he heard.

“
Believe?
I
know
it is. I would know this instrument anywhere.”

“And how on earth are you going to prove this, after all those years?” Sergei asked, glaring at the old man.

Roberto answered for him.

“Actually, it would be remarkably easy to identify their violin. It has a highly unusual, even unique, history. In 1935, Benjamin Horowitz took his Guarneri to a Berlin luthier and had the label changed, so it would read 1729. It was a misguided attempt to conceal the true value of the instrument. In effect, what he created was a violin with its own individual quirk. It looks and sounds like a 1742, the year it was truly made, but the label reads 1729.”

Roberto looked smug, and Rafael could see that he was enjoying himself.

“Where did your grandfather get the violin from, Sergei?” he asked suddenly.

Sergei was glowering at the elderly Horowitzes, as if sizing up an enemy, and he ignored the question for several seconds. Rafael wondered how they should position themselves to stop him from getting the violin into his grasp and ordering them out.

“He bought it, in Berlin. From little music shop that had survived the bombing; he drove a very hard bargain. Maybe it was the same luthier that your father took his violin to.” He directed the last comment at Simon.

“Impossible. Amos’s shop was destroyed. I saw it happen, the night of the Kristallnacht pogrom.”

Levi nodded. “I saw the ruins too.”

Suddenly Sergei stood up.

“Enough!” he roared. “I have been patient and I have listened to this rubbish. Now I want my violin back, and I want you all to leave. If not, I call the police.”

As he spoke he moved with surprising speed around the table and came at Simon from behind, reaching out for the violin. But the old man was prepared, and his hands were still agile. Almost instinctively, he grabbed the scroll in one hand and with a flick of the wrist threw the instrument to Levi. As soon as it reached his cupped hands Levi passed it on to Rafael, who was already standing. He held it securely in two hands. Sergei stared at him.

“Raffy? Is it really worth your career? Are you prepared to sacrifice everything for these . . .”

Rafael raised an eyebrow. “Jews?”

He saw the shock in the Russian’s expression.

“No. I may be many things, but I am not an anti-Semite. I was going to say ‘people you don’t know.’ It belongs to me; I own it, and police will support my rights.”

“Before the police are called, perhaps we better show you our evidence,” Levi said.

“What evidence?” Sergei’s voice was harsh, with a note of desperation that was not lost on Rafael. Levi opened a blue pocket folder and drew out the documents. He described each one as he placed them on the table.

“A photograph of us, Simon and me, with our two violins. A list of our possessions, compiled in 1938; the violins are on page one. And many letters, written by my mother to her sister-in-law in New York before the war, in which she talks about the violin often, describes it.”

Rafael watched Sergei as the Russian raised his eyes from the row of papers and returned the old man’s steady gaze. He could see the barely contained fury. There was no hint in the expression that the Russian was lying about his grandfather, and yet, somehow, Rafael knew he was.

“Carlo, you’re an expert; what year do you think this violin was made?” Roberto asked suddenly.

Sergei turned to look at the maestro.

“Carlo? You know this violin for long time; what do you say about all this?”

“I do, and I would say, in my opinion, although the label, it say 1729, the evidence, it tell me 1742.”

Rafael feared that Sergei would lose what little self-control he had left if Roberto pushed this angle too hard. Then security would be called and the opportunity he’d so carefully crafted would be lost. But the Englishman pushed on determinedly.

“The authenticity of the date can be verified by tests. If the label has been altered, that will prove it beyond doubt. If it hasn’t, then it can’t be the Horowitz violin. If it has, then there is only one conclusion,” Roberto added with finality. There was a long pause. Finally Rafael cleared his throat.

“So we have disputed ownership of a violin that is priceless—”

“Hardly that,” Sergei sneered. “It’s insured for over five million pounds.”

There were reactions all around the table. Clearly only di Longi and Rafael had had any idea of its true worth.

“But why insure it for so much if you think it’s a 1729?”

Sergei stiffened, but it was too late, they’d all seen his reaction. The realization propelled Roberto to his feet.

“You know. You know it’s been altered. You’ve had it checked.”

“I’ve checked nothing; the label, that is your fantasy. I insure all my instruments for what experts tell me they are worth.”

“No credible expert would tell you a 1729 Guarneri is worth five million pounds. That’s ludicrous.”

Roberto came around the table and eyeballed him, only inches from the Russian’s vast bulk, but he was a tall man and adrenaline spurred him on.

“You have no right to this instrument and you know it! I’ve researched cases like this; some make claims and go to court, some get tried by the media. How many journalists are there in that room, only a few hundred feet away? They know about violins, and they know how to write a story like this. Shall we invite them in, show them the evidence, let them make up their own minds? We could go to the
Chicago Tribune;
they’ve a history with this subject and they’ll crucify you.”

Sergei’s fists clenched, and Rafael started forward; one good punch and Sergei could kill Roberto.

“My family has owned this violin for over sixty years!”

Roberto pointed to Simon.

“Bad call. His owned it for over a hundred and fifty years before that. Wait until CNN gets the story—”

Rafael stepped between them.

“Enough, gentlemen. Sergei, I have a question for you, and I want an honest answer, yes? If you suspected that the instrument was more valuable than a 1729, that the label, it was wrong; if experts tell you it is worth five million pounds, too much for any violin except a 1742, why didn’t you get it investigated? Tested and restored?”

Everyone waited for the answer, seconds passed. Sergei shrugged.

“I thought about it, but I will never sell it, so what was the hurry?”

Rafael shook his head.

“But how could you claim the insurance if anything happened to it? Any company would want to know why the value was so high.”

Sergei didn’t answer. Rafael could see the emotional tussle, the desperate search for a way out, being played out on the normally impassive face.

“This is bullshit.” Roberto spat the word out. “You knew that if it was verified as the last 1742,
everyone
would want to know its history and you couldn’t risk that. You
knew
that ridiculous story of your grandfather finding a music shop, in a bombed-out city under gunfire, would be laughed at.”

Roberto put his hands on Simon’s shoulders.

“Look at him, Valentino. Do you honestly believe the musical elite will side with you? You give so much money to so many arts organizations and at the same time you keep a violin torn from its rightful owners? Before most of them were shipped to death camps? And you think
time
is on your side? For God’s sake, man, you think sixty years means more than over a hundred and fifty? Admit it,
you are never going to win this one
. Your reputation will be in the gutter from the moment this man gives his first interview. I’ve heard him speak and he’s very eloquent. That first interview is about half an hour away unless you give him back what belongs to him.”

Still Sergei looked at Rafael.

“Why did you not come to me? Talk to me, tell me this? Why did you publicly humiliate me?”

He had a point, and it made Rafael feel uneasy.

“I apologize. I, we, thought that if we tipped our hand, you would hide the violin somewhere and refuse to discuss it.”

Sergei sighed heavily. “How could I hide her? Everyone knows I own her.”

Again there was silence. The Russian turned his back on them and gazed into the empty fireplace. When Rafael spoke, his voice was gentle.

“I know what she means to you, this instrument. I know who she reminds you of. You must understand, my friend, it is the same for these men, yes? They watched their father play her when they were children. The same father, you know, who Simon saw shot dead in the camp. He also lost his mother, his sister, his brother, all murdered by their own people. Just like Yulena.”

At the sound of his aunt’s name, he swung around to face Rafael, and there were tears in his eyes.

“This violin, she is all I have left.”

“I know, but she is all they have left as well. It’s time to do the right thing.”

Sergei turned away again, and Rafael knew there was nothing more that could be said—the case was closed. Then all of a sudden Simon stood up and held out his hands toward Rafael. His dark eyes were very calm and he smiled as he took the violin, put it to his chin, and began to play, the allegro from the Concerto in E by Bach. As he listened, it occurred to Rafael that Simon knew what it was like to play a violin for a hostile enemy when everything he held dear was on the line.

“Papa loved that piece,” Levi said softly, with immense sadness in his voice.

Sergei made a noise, an almost involuntary gasp of pain.

“The tears of an angel,” he said.

Simon stopped playing. “What did you say?”

Something in his voice made Rafael concerned, and he moved closer to the old man. Sergei swung around.

“I just happen to know. Guarneri del Gesú used that phrase to describe the sound his violins made, the tears of an angel.”

“How do you know that?”

Sergei frowned. “Doesn’t everyone know that?”

“No, they don’t. Who told you that?”

“My aunt, when I was young and she played for me. I believe my grandfather told her when first he gave her the violin.”

Simon studied the instrument between his hands, smiled, and said nothing more.

“Why do you ask this question, old man?”

There were new notes in Sergei’s voice, impatience and confusion. Finally Simon looked up at him and nodded slowly.

“Many years ago my papa took me to see the luthier, Amos, and I played for him. He told me that del Gesú described the sound of his violins as the tears of an angel. I loved that story, I was so proud to know it. Years later a
stabsmusikmeister
asked me what the Guarneri sounded like, before he tore it away. I told him the only thing I could think of in that moment, that it sounded like the tears of an angel and that was a quote from del Gesú. But that’s not where the story ends. Amos was also sent to Dachau and he told my papa that he’d invented the quote, all those years before, because it sounded Italian and he knew it would make me happy.”

There was a heavy silence.

“So he didn’t say it. What is your point?” Sergei was defensive; the balance of power had shifted.

“I was so disappointed that I never told another person. If your grandfather heard it, he must have heard it from the man I told, the
stabsmusikmei
—”

“Not necessarily, he could have told many people,” Sergei said angrily.

Roberto was a step ahead. “Not very likely, especially if he was hiding the violin as some sort of postwar insurance.”

Again a stifling silence enveloped them, broken by Levi.

“If you think about everything it has seen, the tears of an angel is not so far from the truth.”

“You mentioned an Amati, what year?” Sergei asked abruptly.