The Keeper of Secrets (5 page)

Chapter 7

T
he long Grand Foyer at the Kennedy Center was a mass of children, teenagers, and parents. Instrument cases of all shapes and sizes stood on the floor or leaned against the brass planters. The air was abuzz with chatter and laughter, both sharpened by anticipation. Daniel, determined not to show how fascinated he was, exchanged secret smiles with the kids carrying violin cases.

Rafael Gomez had established the annual Sergei Valentino Young Artists Gala Symposium three years earlier with the help of a Russian-born London resident, the billionaire philanthropist Sergei Valentino. It was by invitation only and was more of a celebration than a competition. Young classical artists came to Washington, D.C., for a week and played or sang. Cellists, flautists, violinists, singers, pianists, trumpet players, other assorted instrumentalists, and youth orchestras converged on both the Kennedy Center and the opera company’s rehearsal facilities at Takoma Park to go to workshops and master classes and to perform auditions for invited agents, teachers, conductors, arts administrators, directors, and potential sponsors.

David led his wife and son over to the massive bronze bust of JFK. Daniel stared up at the rough-textured metal face as Cindy scanned the crowd.

“He’s very tall, so I’m sure we’ll be able to pick him out,” she said.

“He won’t even remember me.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! Of course he will. You only won the Samuel J. Hillier, remember?”

David was watching an attractive young brunette, carrying a violin case, who had a group of men clustered around her.

“Wonder who she is,” he murmured.

“She looks important,” Daniel said.

“Who?” Cindy’s attention had returned to them.

“That girl over there; the people around her seem to know who she is.”

“Humph,” Cindy said. “I don’t think she’s a competition winner. Now, Daniel, isn’t this exciting? Aren’t you glad we came? You can’t tell me it doesn’t make you want to play!”

David bent down and put his mouth beside his son’s ear as Cindy turned back to the crowd.

“If I were you,” he whispered, “I would agree with her.” Daniel didn’t respond.

“Look! There he is.” She pointed across the crowd to where Rafael had emerged from the Hall of States and was immediately surrounded by parents and children.

“God, doesn’t he look . . . at home here,” she finished quickly. They watched his slow progress across the foyer. About fifteen feet away Rafael appeared to scan the crowd, and when his gaze came to rest on Daniel, he smiled broadly and winked.

“He’s seen us.”

Daniel glanced at his mother; she sounded breathless. With an obvious effort Rafael excused himself and strode over to them.

“Daniel. Welcome to Washington.” Daniel felt his hand engulfed, and he experienced the same thrill at the man’s presence that he had felt at the Hillier competition.

“Mr. and Mrs. Horowitz, hello. Thank you so much for bringing him all this way.” Rafael shook his father’s hand and gave his mother a kiss on each cheek.

“Please, call us Cindy and David, and thank
you
so much for inviting us. Daniel’s been really
so
excited about this.”

The maestro’s attention was focused on him, and that made Daniel blush. Rafael took the welcome pack from Cindy. “Very good. Have you got your program there? Your rehearsal schedule will be . . . yes, here it is, and, you know, I want to make sure I see a couple of your rehearsals. There is also one workshop that I wanted to recommend to you too. Ahh, here it is! Maria Wong. I’ll ask her to pay special attention to you. Listen to her advice, Daniel; her fingering is legendary.”

“Thank yo—” Cindy began.

Suddenly Daniel became aware of other people hovering and waiting for their turn. If he didn’t stop his mother agreeing with everything, his future would be decided without him. This thought made his brain snap to attention, and the courage to speak rose from somewhere deep inside.

“Thank you for asking me, sir. It’s a real honor. I know my parents thought that if they brought me here it’d make me change my mind, but it hasn’t. I’ve decided not to play the violin anymore.”

They seemed frozen, trapped inside a peculiar bubble of awkward silence. Daniel was staring calmly up into the maestro’s startled face. It was Cindy who broke the spell, and her voice was heavy with anger.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Daniel. You agreed to come and of course you’re going to play. I’m so sorry, Maestro, he’s just tired from the trip. . . . ”

Rafael didn’t answer her and just kept studying Daniel. It felt right to return his gaze unblinkingly and wait for a reaction.

“When was the last time that you played?” Rafael asked softly.

“About three weeks ago.”

“What happened?”

Finally Daniel looked away, his jaw set defiantly, determined not to speak in front of his parents. Cindy opened her mouth, but Rafael laid his hand gently on her forearm.

“May I borrow him, just for a moment? I need to check the hall, if it is ready. We won’t be away very long.”

“Certainly, sir. I’m sure he’d like to talk to you alone.” Daniel could hear the relief in his father’s voice.

T
he Concert Hall is the largest of the four theaters in the Kennedy Center and its high-tech acoustic canopy guarantees incredible sound. Dramatic curves of blond wood sweep around the walls, triple-tiered crystal chandeliers hang from the roof, and at the back of the stage sit the massive pipes of the Aeolian-Skinner organ. Rafael paused to let Daniel take it all in and then walked with him down the aisle toward the stage. At the front row he gestured to a seat and sat beside Daniel.

“It thrills me, you know, every time I see this place, like it was the first time; and the Opera House—wait till you hear a voice in there.”

A theater is a theater
, Daniel thought.

“So why have you decided this?” Rafael waited for his answer, and Daniel turned his face away from the scrutiny.

“Just . . . not to. I don’t want to play the violin and I don’t want to go back to the institute. I don’t have to, my friends don’t.”

“Your friends
can’t
. There’s a big difference, you know.” Daniel knew what he wanted to reply, “They don’t want to, they don’t envy me,” but that might be rude, so he said nothing.

“Remember the last time we talked, Daniel? I asked you what was the best part of being a violinist? Then you told me that it was when you discovered what the composer had to say, and that was a very good answer, yes? Now I have another question for you—what is the worst part about being a violinist?”

Daniel sighed deeply but didn’t respond.

“The practice? Or the lessons?”

“No. I like the lessons, I like learning. Practice can be a pain when you have to just stop everything, whatever you’re doing, and do it. But once you start, it’s okay, especially new pieces.”

Rafael nodded. “So? What is the bit you really don’t like?”

“They won’t let me play baseball anymore,” Daniel said softly, his gaze focused on the floor.

“Who won’t?”

“Mr. D. told Mom and Dad that I might hurt my fingers, so I should just watch. And he’s not even my real teacher.”

The frustration flared up inside, and he could feel his face going red.

“And you love it? Playing ball?”

“More than anything. Dad and I have been going to Wrigley Field for years, and the Cubs are just awesome. I know people rag on them and call them the lovable losers ’cause they haven’t won the World Series for years, but they have great stars. The atmosphere at the field is the best and my friends and I are all fans of the Cubs.”

Rafael turned to face the stage. He stretched his long legs out, crossed them at the ankles, and locked his hands behind his head. Daniel glanced at him, wondering what he thought about this musical disloyalty, but the man’s face was impassive. The silence sat between them and then finally the conductor sighed.

“You know, I grew up in a city mad about football—what you Americans call soccer. Everything was Real Madrid or Atlético Madrid. But Real, they were my heroes. I missed them so bad when we moved to New York. And then, you know, I found the Yankees and the Knicks, had to change my sport, but my heart, it is still with Real Madrid.”

Daniel stared at him in amazement.

“So you do understand? They said you wouldn’t.”

“Sure I do. When did they decide this?”

“Um . . . three weeks ago.”

“Make you angry?”

Daniel nodded.

“Then Richie and his gang jumped me in the forest on my way home from orchestra. They broke my bow and scratched my vio—”

“My God! No wonder you don’t want to play anymore. Do your parents know about this?”

Daniel nodded again. “They were really pissed about the bow. Carlos denied it, but Mom threatened to have it tested for fingerprints and they paid up.”

Rafael smiled. “Well done, Mom.”

“The violin needs to be resurfaced, but it was my old one, not the Vuillaume from the institute. The guys called me names and stuff, said that I was weird, said only girls and fags played the violin. On the way home I decided to not play anymore. I thought it’d be a real simple solution, just stay home and play ball and be like the others. That’s what I want, to just be normal. But ever since then I’ve been grounded and we argue all the time. I’ve never seen Mom so mad. And they
made
me come here.”

Rafael was smiling at him.

“Well, I admire you, young man. I don’t think I could have stuck to my guns for three weeks, if I was in your position.”

Daniel grinned, and he felt the knot inside start to relax.

“Dad says I’m stubborn like her. I figure sometime soon she’s gotta give up and let me play ball.”

Rafael nodded. “If I ask you a question, will you give me an honest answer?”

Daniel shrugged. “Guess so.”

“Forget the baseball for a moment; do you miss playing your violin?”

“Yep.”

“Do you miss the music?”

“Yep.”

“So, if they let you play ball, will you keep playing the violin too?”

“I guess, maybe, if I’m allowed to play real games, with the boys.”

Rafael waited a moment before continuing and Daniel couldn’t help wondering where this was going and if maybe he’d found his solution.

“When I was young, my
mamá
wanted me to practice piano and I wanted to shoot goals at the local football club, so sometimes we argued about it,
a lot,
we argued a lot. With lots of shouting! I had this mad idea, you know, that I could be a professional? But I’m not fast enough and my aim, it is lousy most of the time, but it was pretty important to me, this dream, very important. So my dad . . . he decided to . . . strike a deal. So many hours at the piano gave me so many hours with my friends. And I learned an important lesson, about compromise. Sometimes it works like this: in order to get what you want, you have to give in a little and do what you don’t want to do. With me so far?” He turned his head and raised a quizzical eyebrow at Daniel, who nodded his understanding.

“So how about
we
strike a deal, young man?”

“Okay.”

“If you come to the concert and the workshop and listen to what Maria tells you, but you don’t have to play, no rehearsals, for the moment, okay? Then I promise that I’ll talk to your mom and dad. I think I can persuade them. In my opinion the danger to your fingers, it is very small if you are careful. And if it means you agree to play, then it’s a worthwhile risk. What do you say?”

Daniel took the outstretched hand and they shook.

“Deal!” Daniel said enthusiastically.

“Good.” Rafael stood up. “Now, I have to say welcome to all these people out there, in this hall, so I guess we better let them in. When you come to the concert, make sure you listen hard to Tatiana. She’ll play Paganini. She is Russian and she is still a raw talent, had very few lessons really. I want to hear most of all what you think of the violin she plays.” Rafael guided him up the aisle with a hand on the small of Daniel’s back.

“Why? What’s so special about it?”

“It belongs to a dear friend of mine, Sergei Valentino, and it was made by Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesú over two hundred and fifty years ago.”

Chapter 8

T
wo nights later the string concert started on time at seven thirty. Daniel and his parents were early so they could drink in the atmosphere of the Concert Hall. He’d told them about Tatiana and the violin she’d play. He was as excited about watching the maestro conduct as he was about the pieces on the program.

After a string quartet and a viola solo came Prokofiev’s Sonata in C Major for two violins, played by sixteen-year-old identical twin sisters, born in China and raised in the United States. The performance was technically flawless and their synchronicity fascinated him. An obviously nervous male cellist played a stunning first movement from the Concerto no. 2 by Carl Davidov and drew a standing ovation from the capacity crowd; then the announcer’s voice filled the hall again.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Psliwesky, surely another Yo-Yo Ma in the making. Next it’s my very great pleasure to introduce to you a young Russian violinist with a huge future. She is known simply as Tatiana and she’s nineteen. She plays for us the Allegro maestoso, the first movement from Paganini’s Violin Concerto no. 1 in D Major.”

The crowd applauded warmly as the tall, auburn-haired young woman stalked into the spotlight and gave a slight bow, her face almost a scowl. She wore a black velvet bustier and an emerald-green skirt. Daniel dug his father in the ribs.

“It’s her,” he whispered.

“Who?”

“The one we saw with the men; she’s the one I’m supposed to listen to.” David nodded his understanding.

Tatiana put the violin to her shoulder, tuned briefly, tightened the screw on her bow, and waited for her entrance to the piece. The sound that poured forth from the violin was extraordinary, very powerful and yet crisply and beautifully melodic, with a rich, mellow tone on the D and G strings.

Daniel felt the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He closed his eyes, and the fingers of his left hand began to move. The music was flooding over his consciousness, and he felt awash in a sea of sound, tossed from wave to crescendoing wave, not aware of anything or anyone else. Then, after eighteen glorious minutes, it was over.

Abruptly he opened his eyes and stared at the stage. Tatiana was smiling shyly, with a look of relief on her face, holding the violin and bow in one hand. Everyone around him was standing and applauding enthusiastically, including his parents. Daniel rose to his feet and clapped as hard as he could. He felt a sensation he didn’t really understand, like a sudden sense of panic; he had to tell Maestro Gomez how amazing that violin was, about the extraordinary sound, as if he was the only one who really knew.

Three acts later there was a twenty-minute intermission. His parents headed to the aisle and up toward the Grand Foyer. Daniel dawdled behind them. Instead of turning left, he turned right and wandered down toward the stage. He could see the maestro over in the far corner, talking to an African American woman who held a clipboard. She was nodding her understanding. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and she walked away.

Daniel stood by the aisle, waiting for his mentor to see him. But before he did a very tall, thin man rushed up to Rafael. He seemed agitated, or very angry, about something and began talking fast and gesturing with his hands, pointing to the stage, his movements jerky and dramatic. Daniel could see by the body language that Maestro Gomez was placating him, one hand on his arm, and speaking strong, convincing words, but the man would not be pacified. Everyone in the vicinity had moved away, unwilling to be drawn into the heated conversation.

Suddenly the bell chimed to indicate the imminent end of the break. Rafael abruptly excused himself and turned away toward the door. The man gazed angrily after him and walked to his seat. Daniel glanced over his shoulder and saw his mother standing by the entrance to their row, watching, fascinated.

R
afael was about to leave his dressing room for the night when Jeremy Browne knocked on the partially open door.

“Hello there, what a magnificent concert. May I steal a moment?”

Rafael managed a tired smile. “Of course, what is it, my friend?”

He gestured toward a chair and the Englishman sat down.

“I won’t keep you long. There’s a meeting scheduled Monday and I wanted to give you a heads-up. Give you time to think about it. What do you know about Egypt?”

“They have a lot of camels? And sand, I believe. I did see
The English Patient
.”

Browne smiled. “About the Opera House in Cairo.”

“Ah . . . I believe it is quite a modern building, very good acoustics, and a first-class orchestra. I’ve often thought it would be great fun to do
Aida
there. Why?”

Browne pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it on the coffee table between them.

“Because this is a very interesting letter, from their GM. In three years they hold a six-month global expo in Cairo, and all sorts of cultural and sporting activities are planned. There’s to be a massive football tournament for one. And an opera extravaganza. For eight whole months. They’re issuing invitations to several companies and we’re one of them.”

Rafael sat forward and focused his attention on the letter.

“And?” he asked softly.

“I’ve done some investigating and, although nothing’s confirmed yet, I’ve managed to find out some of the intendeds. Teatro alla Scala will open the festival with
Aida
. The Met wants to do something relatively new and lavish, maybe even Tan Dun’s
First Emperor
. Covent Garden has gone for popular and suggested
Bohème,
Carmen,
or
Traviata,
and the Australian Opera is considering its options. I’m thinking it’ll be something a bit more adventurous, maybe a Britten or a Donizetti. Vienna will go with their stunning
Otello,
Berlin, possibly that updated
Rigoletto.
And the
really
interesting one is the New Israeli Opera doing
Nabucco
.”

Rafael didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

“Oh my God, what a . . . brave call. Asking them at all, I mean. Where do you think they will put us?”

“Don’t know, possibly between the New Israeli and Vienna. They’ll want the big three spread out. Any immediate thoughts?”

“Well, one name springs to my mind straightaway, but it isn’t a composer.”

“It’s going to take some careful juggling of singers, because some will be booked elsewhere already. Competition for top voices will be fierce, and they’ll want a wide range, not the same few voices—”

“No, no, I was thinking of Sergei. You know, not so long ago he mentioned that he was looking for something new? A grand project, something to get him enthused again. He has a relatively short attention span. What if we offered a Russian opera? In his honor, of course; he so loves all that international recognition, and we could pull out a violin solo for the Guarneri.”

Browne was suddenly animated. Rafael knew any mention of Sergei Valentino would have a positive effect on the conversation.

“Russian! Of course!
Eugene Onegin,
Boris Godunov,
Fedora
—”

“What about
Pique Dame
? It’s dramatically different and Tchaikovsky, his darkness will appeal to the Egyptians. There’s been something of a revival in recent years, you know, with Domingo, some fascinating productions still around. Do you want me to talk to Sergei?”

“No, I’ll make the first move. Dinner and a chat. When I know he’s keen, you can join the debate and help him to love our choice. You’re so good at that.”

Rafael nodded slowly.

“As you wish. Now, if there’s nothing else, I must get some sleep. Tomorrow is another day of discovering the next generation of virtuoso.” He smiled his innocent, beguiling smile at Browne, who clearly didn’t know whether to laugh at the joke or respectfully agree with him.

H
ow much do you practice?”

Maria Wong sat on a high stool in the South Opera Lounge and faced the collection of young violinists sitting in a semicircle. She was Eurasian, dainty and fine boned, with lustrous black eyes and a genuine Strad in her hands. Daniel couldn’t take his eyes off the faded violin and her very, very long fingers.

“Well, I think you could say I belong to the minimalist school of practice. I know some people insist on eight hours a day, but, you see, I regard practice as my best opportunity to identify problems in a piece and solve them. That can usually be done in two or three hours, and sometimes it’s best done at the piano, without even playing your violin. Of course you need to build stamina, especially at the stage you’re all at, so that’s very important too. But you should be aiming at
quality
time, not
quantity
time, when you plan your schedule. Next?”

“Do you change style if it is new composer?” The accent was foreign, Russian. Daniel turned his head to look at the questioner. It was Tatiana. Maria smiled at her warmly.

“Interesting question. Let me demonstrate.” She stood up.

“When you want to play something like a Debussy sonata, you play like this.” She played a small piece of music.

“You can hear that I have a light bow, with minimal pressure on the strings and a vibrato that makes a rather spontaneous sound, but when I play something like Brahms, I want more depth, more sonority. So I play with a lot more hair flatter on the string, giving me more volume of sound, like this.” She played another snatch of music.

“So to answer your question, yes, very much. Part of learning a piece is deciding what style you’re going to use and also how you capture the sound the composer intended you to make.”

Daniel kept sneaking glances at the battered violin case that sat at Tatiana’s feet. What did it look like close up? How did it feel? How hard was it to play? These questions had been reverberating through his mind since the concert and he was dying to ask them.

Half an hour later he got his answers, or rather, didn’t get them. Maria Wong asked Tatiana to play for her. Daniel watched closely as she opened the case and lifted out the violin, then he sagged back into his chair. This wasn’t the concert violin; it was probably one she’d had for ages. The girl went through her routine quickly, rosin on the bow, wiping the strings, tuning at the piano with the accompanist, and tightening the screw on the frog, and then she began to play a piece of Mozart.

His attention wandered, and he began to look around the room. A crystal chandelier hung in the center and there were tapestries and paintings on the walls. The carpet was a pinky color, like salmon before his mom cooked it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that the noise had stopped and she was putting the violin back in its case. He was too disappointed to look at her. Instead he wondered if every room in this place had a crystal chandelier and if the architects had argued over which chandelier to put in which room, and then his mind started to calculate how many crystals there might be in all the chandeliers in the whole building—

“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go in there.” The doors behind them burst open with a resounding crash, and a man strode in, followed by an agitated, large woman who was trying to stop him. Daniel recognized him instantly as the very tall man he’d seen talking to the maestro during the intermission the night before. He had a glossy black beard, curly black hair, and thick-rimmed glasses that sat halfway down a long nose. He stopped and his gaze swung around the occupants of the room.

“Sir! I must ask you again to leave. Now! There’s a private master class going on in this room—”

Tatiana was hiding the violin case behind her back.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you all over this building. Play it!” he demanded. His accent was English. She didn’t move, and Daniel wondered why she didn’t just tell him the violin wasn’t the del Gesú.

“I said, play it!” he roared.

She hesitated a second longer, then with a sudden darting movement she leaped slightly sideways, ran around the semicircle of chairs, across the room, and out the door.

“Come back!” It was an explosion of sheer frustration. He turned on his heel and was about to follow her when the woman blocked his path.

“I must protest most strongly, sir. You’ve upset one of our students, and I think you should leave the center now. I’ve called security.”

“Didn’t you hear it? It isn’t the same violin,” Daniel blurted out suddenly in a small but clear voice. The man spun around and looked straight at him. He was clearly angry, and Daniel could feel his own heart racing as the man towered over him.

“What did you say?” he asked sharply.

“I said, it’s not the same violin. As the one she played last night.”

“What do you know about her violins?”

“Nothing. I just know that the one she played today was ordinary.”

“He’s right.” It was one of the other pupils, a girl sitting two seats away from Daniel. “It isn’t the same violin. It sounds totally different.”

The man turned to the woman who’d followed him in. “I’m sorry; please accept my apology for the interruption.”