The Keeper of Secrets (7 page)

Chapter 11

R
oberto di Longi was pacing back and forth across the gravel. The massive white stone mansion rose up behind him, lit by numerous burning pitch poles stuck into the lawn along a sweeping driveway. He was waiting for the valets to bring him his car and was obviously still extremely angry. Rafael stood in the shadows for a moment and watched him; if the Englishman was incensed enough he might answer questions without asking too many. As soon as di Longi saw Rafael walk down the wide steps he stopped dead.

“Arrogant, insufferable man! He’s so infuriating,” he exclaimed.

“We are in his house, so I guess he can be as infuriating as he likes. Are you going back to your hotel?”

“I want to get as far away from here as possible, why?” A sleek red BMW swung into the turning area.

“There’s a café about ten minutes away, at the foot of the mountain road; let’s have a drink. I want to ask you something,” Rafael said as the driver opened the rear door.

“Fine. I have a question or two for you, come to think of it.”

T
he café was almost deserted and they sat outside, savoring the cool breeze that rustled the trees, and drank Clés des Ducs V.S.O.P. Armagnac out of large glasses.

Di Longi had settled down a little and told Rafael all about his latest acquisition.

“Pietro Guarneri, 1735, Venice. Wonderful condition and the most beautiful honey varnish, superb color.”

“How much?” Rafael asked casually.

“Too much, but I knew my buyer would be ecstatic. He missed out on a Bellosio only about a month ago. He loves those light honey-gold colors, and it has a magnificent sound.”

He shifted in his seat, and Rafael could see he was weighing up his words.

“Just out of interest,” he said, “what do you know about the girl, Rafael?”

“Tatiana? She’s nineteen. She’s very good, but impulsive, not technical at all. Sergei says it’s the gypsy in her. I suspect that is Sergei being dramatic.”

Di Longi raised his eyebrows and Rafael could tell that his comment didn’t surprise the Englishman.

“How did he find her?

“He found her in a Moscow bar. He says she was playing, but it’s a Russian mafia bar, you know? A dangerous lot, best avoided, and I think she was a regular . . . performer.”

“Where did she learn to play, do you know?”

“She grew up in an orphanage in Archangel. I believe she ran away when she was thirteen so she did not have to, you know, go out onto the streets. But you have to think she hasn’t had an easy life, yes?”

“How old is he?”

“Sixty-one.”

“Are they lovers?”

“I’ve never asked but I’d be . . . surprised if he’s promoting her solely because of her talent. Roberto, tell me again why you think this violin is not a 1729. You know what Sergei says.”

The other man took a long swig of cognac and savored it before he answered.

“Several things. The grain of the maple, in the back, is wrong for 1729. And the varnish. It’s an incredible color, quite a deep reddish tint on a yellow undercoat. The 1729s were quite a bit paler. And the texture is different too, softer. At his height Guarneri used thirty coats of varnish and sanded between each one, which built to an unbelievable depth of color. The
f
holes are long, obviously Guarneri, but clearly more refined than usual. The scroll is quite rugged and has his typical tool marks in the turns, clearly made
after
the death of his father, who had a major input into his scrolls, and he died in 1739 or ’40. It’s all simple deduction.”

Rafael nodded thoughtfully.

“What about the sound?”

“More subjective. Has to be a comparison. I’ve heard several Guarneris live and some of them many times, including the Lord Wilton and even the ex-David, the one that Jascha Heifetz played. They all have the same kind of sound: dark, very robust, and with a beautifully resonant D and G. Once you hear it, you never forget it.”

“Granted, but what about the label?”

“The Guarneris used a printed label, with the maker’s details and the first two numerals, the century, which in their case was seventeen, block printed, and the last two numbers, the year, written in by hand. It’s quite simple really; substitute a tiny piece of matched paper with alternative handwritten numbers and voilà! You’ve changed the date the violin was made. You couldn’t tell, unless you tested the paper.”

“And the del Gesú part, that is to do with the label, yes?”

“His name was Bartolomeo Giuseppe Antonio Guarneri and he added del Gesú himself. It’s written IHS and is a reference to what they call the sacred name, literally an abbreviation of the letters that make up the words
Jesus Christ
. And he added the Roman Cross to the label.”

Rafael was leaning forward, his attention absolutely focused on the information he was getting.

“So the label is distinctive and genuine, you think, just the date has been changed?”

The Englishman nodded emphatically. “Precisely.”

“One thing I don’t understand is why? What would be gained by changing the label?”

Di Longi seemed to have been expecting the question.

“To change the value, depending on when it was really made. It would make the violin more or less valuable and to hide its true identity. I’ll tell you an interesting story, which not a lot of people know. The ex-Alard 1742, the one that’s now in the Paris Conservatoire? Generally accepted around the world as a 1742 Guarneri. Did you know that the word
Cremone
on the label has a diphthong under the second ‘e’? So what, you say? So
everything
. Del Gesú’s father and grandfather used them, never Giuseppe, he used a cedilla. Yes, the label looks old and the characters of the printing are correct, but the fact remains that the Cremone is spelled differently, with an ‘a’ before the last ‘e’ and there is no other example, in all his work, of a label like that one. Plus the
f
holes are different from every other 1742. The closest match is a Vuillaume replica.”

He sat back in triumph. Rafael was genuinely shocked.

“The Paris Conservatoire instrument is not a Guarneri at all? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“I’m saying it may not be. There are serious doubts in the minds of many experts. And if they were allowed to examine the Valentino instrument, I’m convinced they’d say it isn’t a 1729.”

“He’d never allow that.”

Di Longi looked angry again. “I know, but he should. If enough people questioned it publicly, he might be forced to submit it for testing.”

Rafael shook his head.

“If enough people question it publicly, he’ll lock it away in a vault. Are there other del Gesús missing?”

“Oh God yes, from all the masters, and provenance is somewhere between bloody difficult and impossible. Many of them were looted during the war, first from their original owners and then from the Nazis as war spoils. They’ve been hidden, sold, maybe destroyed, possibly now owned by people who have no idea what they play. I read an article the other day about a woman in Iowa who found an old violin in her father’s attic and gave it to her grandson to play when he started taking lessons. Didn’t connect the fact that her father had served during the liberation of Germany with anything he might have hidden in his attic. The boy’s father took it to a local antique store and a sharp-eyed dealer e-mailed pictures to Christie’s in New York. What was it? A genuine Strad worth about two million quid. Proudly played by a six-year-old learning ‘Twinkle, Twinkle.’ ”

Rafael nodded in amazement.

“Fascinating story. If you know a family who has lost a valuable violin—for instance, during the war—how would you go about finding it?”

Di Longi shook his head.

“You don’t. You try something easier, like a manned expedition to Mars. Honestly, Rafael, I wish I could be more positive. So many instruments were taken, in all the occupied countries, and so few records survived the Allied bombing and the last-minute desperate destruction by the Nazis. They burned hundreds of thousands of records when they knew Berlin would fall. Then the Russians came in and the Yanks, and my lot too, come to that, and some of the stuff was just lying around, mostly in cellars, and they treated it as the spoils of war.”

“So sad. The Internet would be the place to start, yes?”

“Absolutely, and some of the bigger museums have archives. Use your influence on the global network for private collections, all the people you know. Those kinds of avenues aren’t open to ordinary people, but you might have some luck. Obviously, if someone owns it and knows what it is, the chances are they’re not going to put their hand up and admit it; you’d have to catch them out.”

He took a deep slug of brandy. Rafael stared into his glass. The man’s comments spun around in his brain, and he couldn’t escape the truth of the words.

“Any particular reason why you ask?” di Longi asked casually.

Rafael shifted suddenly.

“I’m not sure, maybe, maybe not. If it comes to anything, I’ll let you know.”

“If I can help, I’d be only too glad. I might narrow down the haystacks a little, but it’s still a bloody small needle in a continent of hay, and while you’re thinking about it, consider this. If Valentino’s little masterpiece isn’t a 1729, what is it? When
was
it made? Is it the priceless 1742?”

Chapter 12

T
wo hours later Rafael sat in front of his laptop in the lounge of his suite at the Hotel de Paris. He was surfing the Internet, reading articles about looted violins and the court cases raging around Europe and across the Atlantic over the provenance of recovered instruments. He’d found that one list of violins, identified as having been taken by the Nazis, was held at the Paris Conservatoire. But there was simply no one in any of the families left alive by 1945 to reclaim them. At first he didn’t hear the soft knocking sound, but when it echoed a second time he looked up, frowned, then stood up and went to the door. He’d had a shower on his return from the evening’s entertainment and was now wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. Making sure the towel was tightly secured, he glanced through the peephole. A tall female in a black trench coat stood outside, her back to his door, but he knew who she was. “Tatiana! This is a surprise.”

She turned around, and he could see uncertainty on her face.

“Can I come in?” she asked in a small voice.

“Of course. Excuse me while I put a little more on. I wasn’t expecting guests.”

He stood aside and she walked into the lounge.

“I worried you be sleeping.”

Her voice was heavily accented, and she pronounced the English slowly.

“My Russian’s very rusty, but I’m happy to try to talk to you,” he said cheerfully as he went into the bathroom and put on the large toweling robe hanging behind the door.

She smiled shyly at him when he reappeared. “I preferred it before,” she said in Russian.

“A drink you like would?” he asked, his pronunciation better than his grammar.

She laughed, then swallowed it and looked guilty.

“No, thank you. I can do English better than you Russian. I shouldn’t be here, so I just say what I say.”

He gestured to a chair and sat down on a sofa.

“You don’t have to be nervous, Tatiana. I’m just an old pussycat, yes? You played beautifully, you know. Did Sergei tell you that?”

“No. He was very angry, because that man look too close at violin.”

She glanced back toward the door, and Rafael thought he saw real fear in her eyes.

“But he didn’t take it out on you?”

“No. He always very kind to me. But he wouldn’t want me here.”

Still she wouldn’t meet his gaze, and he wondered, not for the first time, what the huge Russian would be capable of if he felt his possessions were threatened.

“Maestro, I want to come to USA. I want to play in best orchestra. Maybe I’m good and play solo.”

Rafael nodded his understanding. “Sergei has much influence, with many orchestras and conductors. No doubt he has plans to introdu—”

“No. He doesn’t. He likes me play his violins for him, but not to have real career. He wants me to stay always with him.”

Rafael nodded again.

“Ah, I see. Tell me, he will be wondering where you are, no? It’s nearly . . . two
A.M.
”

She was blushing. “No, he won’t know what I do. We don’t, I mean, I don’t want to stay with him. I don’t love him. I’m very grateful, but I want to live in USA.”

“So what exactly do you think I can do? To help you?”

She didn’t answer him immediately. Instead she got up and came to the sofa. Her hair was loose, and her large tawny eyes reminded him of his cat when Ludwig lay on the piano and blinked at him. She had a strong face, memorable rather than classically beautiful, with high, Slavic cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and a broad forehead. Her hand went out and caressed his arm through the robe.

“Such muscles.” Her voice was husky. He could see where this was leading.

“It goes with the job, strong arms and strong wrists. Tatiana—”

“Find me job with orchestra and when I play, they will give me violin. I would be very grateful, Maestro. I show you.”

Before he could answer, she opened the coat and revealed the complete nakedness of her exquisite body.

She glided forward and untied his robe as she pressed herself full length against him and slithered up to kiss him on the mouth. His arms came up around her instinctively and they kissed. She felt warm and soft, and her mouth was demanding. Her skill and experience was obvious. He put his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her away from him. He stood and did up the robe, although he was acutely aware it wouldn’t hide his erection. She looked up at him and he could see her confusion. He smiled at her as encouragingly as he could manage.

“Please understand, Tatiana, I am deeply flattered. You are, most definitely, such a very lovely young woman, but I love my wife very much—”

“So you won’t help. You don’t want to upset Sergei.”

Her voice was monotone with no hint of a question. Upsetting Sergei was, indeed, an issue for him, but he believed passionately in personal freedom and Tatiana deserved to decide her own fate. Sergei knew he was a man of principle.

“No, no, I will see what I can do. Many of the orchestras in the United States, they have a high turnover and they are often looking for staff. I promise you, I won’t forget that you want to come to America. I know what that feels like.”

She stood up, belted the coat, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you. You are very good man. Sergei say so.”

“My pleasure.” He knew the relief in his voice was obvious.

After she left, he poured himself two fingers of Jim Beam and went into the main bedroom. The call took a few seconds to go through and he smiled as he imagined the phone ringing through their apartment, then there was a familiar click.

“Thanks for calling. We’re not home right now. Please leave a message with the time and date you called. Your call will be returned promptly.”

Her voice was warm and softly melodic, and it made his heart rise. He waited for the long tone.

“
¡Hola!,
gorgeous. Just missing you, nothing new. The ball was fine. Sergei was . . . well, Sergei was Sergei, and everyone played well. Something a little interesting to tell you about the violin. How was work? My plane leaves first thing; shall we go to Oceanaire for dinner? Why don’t you make a reservation for around nine? See you in a few hours,
te amo, adiós
.”

He hung up and stretched out on the bed, gazing at the ceiling. He’d never been a “player.” If he were single, that would be a different story, but he was one of those men who always felt very “married.” The temptations were obvious and if he was honest, flattering, but that wasn’t how he wanted to be defined. At last the tabloid magazines had stopped asking those “wink-wink, nudge-nudge” questions about the gorgeous young musicians who threw themselves at the powerful and sexy conductor. He found the insinuation insulting and had to bite his tongue against sarcastic responses, which would’ve been interpreted as guilt.

This was the life of a professional musician: enjoying glorious surroundings in isolation, battling temptation, leaving messages on answering machines when your soul cries out to hear the voice of home, enduring constant plane trips and something that felt suspiciously like loneliness. To the outsider, his life looked luxurious and exciting, but the truth was that it was closer to hard work and discipline and more than a little sacrifice. Why did he do it? He knew the answer only too well,
for the applause
. But did he really want to persuade Daniel to live a life like this? Or any of them? How would they cope with the pressures and dangers of life in the public eye? Could they understand what life off the stage was really like, until they lived it? Perhaps it was better to let him play his baseball and go to school with his friends. And what about Tatiana? She was obviously sick of being a beautiful bird trapped in a cage, admittedly a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. Was she talented enough to make it without the patronage of Sergei? Secretly he doubted it. He saw hundreds of talented young musicians during the course of a year. What made Daniel Horowitz so special?

His mind went back to the conversation in the Concert Hall. The boy’s body was stiff with resentment and fear, and when he spoke, his voice was tight. By the end of their chat there’d been a light of hope in the dark eyes that he hadn’t needed to see to know was there. Daniel trusted him to make it better.

Then he’d discussed it with the parents. David had hardly said anything, but Rafael could see he felt guilty about the standoff. Cindy was polite but firm; the risks of ball sports genuinely concerned her. She wasn’t just being a controlling parent; she truly believed she knew her son best and thought Daniel would give in and go back to the violin by the end of the holidays. Or was she just living vicariously through her child, watching him fulfill her dreams? Finally he’d persuaded her to consider a compromise, a grudging promise to think about allowing him to play ball when he came home next summer, if he went back to the institute now.

It didn’t come close to the concession he’d promised Daniel, and the boy had been very quiet when they said good-bye. Somehow he felt as if he’d reneged on his part of the deal, as if there was so much more he could’ve done. Would it make a difference if he found the family violin? Was it even his place to encourage the child to continue along this difficult path? Didn’t Daniel have a right to live his life his way and be whatever he wanted to be? Just as Tatiana did. Was exceptional talent enough of a reason to have your destiny decided for you by other people? Ultimately the power rested with the boy; no one could force him to pick up a violin. Why did he even care about the fate of this child?

Rafael took a sip of Jim Beam and let the mellow and smoky liquor sit in his mouth before he swallowed it. At least he knew the answer to the last question. It was an echo that haunted him every day. A photo he carried in his wallet. Another child, also fourteen, just as talented, lost in the wonder of making music, at the piano for hours on end, a brilliant career stretching before him. Just as he’d started to question his destiny a deadly disease had snatched it all away and left a heartbroken father grieving forever. When we’re chosen, do we really have any say in the matter?