The Rainaldi Quartet (18 page)

‘We are having a lesson here,' Scamozzi said irritably.

‘Ah, is that what it is, Signor Scamozzi?'

Any other teacher at the Conservatorio I would have graced with the title ‘Maestro', but not Scamozzi. Respect you have to earn.

‘You are interrupting us,' Scamozzi snapped.

‘I have a violin here for Sofia,' I said. I held up the case. She reached down and took it from me. ‘Try it out. I'll stay around for a bit in case it needs some adjustment.'

I sat down at the front of the hall and watched while Sofia changed violins and resumed her lesson. Scamozzi didn't touch her again, but he fussed around on the edges of the stage, interrupting her constantly, fiddling with his long hair – sweeping it back behind his ears, running his fingers through it, occasionally tossing his head back like a petulant pony and clutching clumps of it in his fists. He seemed unable to keep still and was clearly lacking in the primary quality a good teacher requires – the ability to listen.

But then he wasn't a teacher by choice or temperament. Once he'd been a celebrated prodigy who'd been hailed as the successor to Salvatore Accardo as Italy's leading virtuoso. He'd begun a career as a concert soloist that showed every prospect of being a glittering success. But in his late twenties it had all gone wrong. He'd always been a flashy player, with more technique than true musicality, in my opinion. Then his technique deserted him and there was nothing left. He could have recovered it with a bit of hard work, but he was lazy and arrogant. He reneged on a few bookings, let people down at the last minute and acquired a reputation for unreliability. Promoters stopped engaging him and he took to the bottle which only accelerated his decline. He still made infrequent appearances in the concert hall, but to all intents and purposes his career was over. He was pushing forty now, raddled with bitterness and resentment.

He'd hung on to his teaching post at the Conservatorio, though goodness knows how, for he was singularly unsuited to the job. All the great teachers I have encountered have believed in inspiring and encouraging their pupils. Scamozzi's philosophy – from what I was witnessing now – seemed to be the opposite: that only by terrorising his charges, by undermining their confidence and self-esteem, could he drive them to excellence. He was merciless in his relentless criticism. Perhaps with a mediocre violinist he might have had good cause for censure – though not in such an unnecessarily brutal fashion – but Sofia was gifted. She could really play.

I squirmed with anger, suppressing a paternal desire to intervene, as I listened to Scamozzi tearing her to shreds. I loathed him for his cruelty, the envy in him that fuelled his bile. I knew why he was so harsh with her – he saw in her the same promise he had once had and failed to fulfil.

‘Enough,' he said at the end of the lesson. ‘I can do no more. Go away, go away and practise. All I can say is you had better pull yourself together before tonight.'

Sofia bowed her head over her case as she put away her violin. I could see she was close to tears. She came down off the platform, the case clutched under her arm, and almost ran out of the recital hall. I restrained myself from giving Scamozzi my opinion of his teaching technique – it was not my place to interfere – and hurried after Sofia. I saw her down the corridor, disappearing into the ladies' toilets. I waited for her to emerge. When she did so her eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them puffy. She'd obviously been having a good weep.

‘Why don't you let me buy you lunch?' I said.

She hesitated. ‘I have to practise.'

I took her by the arm and led her towards the exit.

‘The last thing you need to do is practise.'

We found a cafe around the corner from the Conservatorio and sat on the pavement terrace under the shade of an awning. Sofia was preoccupied with her own thoughts, unable to focus on the menu, so I ordered us both a salad and a bottle of mineral water. I gave her a few moments, then said gently: ‘Scamozzi is the wrong teacher for you, you know.'

‘I know.'

‘Why don't you change?'

‘I would if I could, but…' She paused. ‘It's not easy. There are … personalities involved, a lot of politics.'

‘Damn the politics,' I said. ‘This is your career. You want to be a musician, don't you?'

She nodded. ‘He's a very powerful man. If I cross him, he can make my life very difficult.'

‘More difficult than it is now?'

Sofia shrugged, but didn't reply. The waiter brought us our salads. Sofia spiked a chunk of tomato and chewed it slowly. Her shoulders were slumped, despondent. I could see she needed a boost to her confidence.

‘You sounded wonderful just now,' I said. ‘You're really going to knock them out tonight.'

‘I'm not. It's going to be a disaster.'

‘Rubbish.'

‘It is. There'll be people there, agents, promoters, important people, and I'm going to make a fool of myself.'

‘Listen, Sofia, I've heard you play. I've heard a lot of violinists in my time and, believe me, you are not going to make a fool of yourself.'

She looked at me, biting her lower lip. I felt a need to protect her, to reassure her the way I used to do with my daughter when she was younger.

‘Take no notice of what Scamozzi said. You play the music the way you think it should be played. That Bach partita, I've heard it played many times. I've heard Itzhak Perlman perform it. I've heard Menuhin and Oistrakh. And once, a long time ago, I even heard Heifetz play it. And what struck me most was that none of them played it the same. They were all great artists, but there is no right or wrong way to play a piece. There is only your own interpretation, Sofia. You cannot play it the way Scamozzi wants you to – indeed, you should not even try. You can only play it your way. And your way is as valid and as musical as Oistrakh's or Heifetz's, or anyone else's way. You are Sofia Vivarini, and this is your music.'

She looked up from her salad. ‘You think so?' she said doubtfully.

‘I think you know it. I can tell from the way you play it that you believe in your own interpretation. And you communicate that. That's the difference between a good violinist and an artist. All you young players have the technique, you can all play the notes. But you do more than that. You speak to an audience.'

‘That's very kind of you to say so.'

‘It's not kindness. It's the truth. Don't let Scamozzi destroy your individuality. Don't let him undermine your confidence. You play the way you did just now in your recital and you'll be fine. You'll be more than fine.' I smiled at her. ‘I'm not a teacher, but I know something about violins.'

Some colour had returned to her cheeks. Her eyes had lost some of their hollow dullness.

‘Will you be there tonight?' she said.

‘Yes, I'll be there,' I said. ‘Your family, your grandfather's friends, we're all coming. He was immensely proud of you, you know.' She flushed and glanced away. ‘How was the violin?'

‘The … oh, I'm sorry. How rude of me. It's perfect. Thank you. I'm glad to have it back. Grandpa's violin is good but, well…' She hesitated, trying to be tactful. ‘… I prefer the Antoniazzi. It carries better in a hall like that.'

‘You could do with a new instrument. The Antoniazzi is all right, but you're worthy of something better.'

‘I don't have the money to buy a new one.'

‘There are trust funds that lend out good instruments to promising players. The Conservatorio should put you in touch with them. I'll keep my eyes open too. You can't make a concert career with a violin like that.'

‘It's served me well.'

‘I'm sure. The tone, the volume of sound you produce from it is remarkable. But you need to move to the next stage now if you're to make the most of your talent.'

‘Maestro Scamozzi says I don't have what it takes to make it to the top.'

I stared at her. ‘He said that?' I was outraged. ‘Well, you listen to me, Sofia. You listen to your heart, and to your audience, not to a malicious, embittered has-been like Scamozzi. How dare he say that to you! My God, the man is a cretin!'

Sofia laughed. It transformed her face. She really was a very beautiful young woman. She had a freshness, an innocence that was captivating. I feared for her when – there was no ‘if' about it, in my view – she was signed up by an agent, a record label, all the sharks of the classical music world. She would need great strength of character to ensure they marketed her for her music, not her looks.

‘That's better,' I said. ‘You keep that in mind when you're playing tonight. It's
your
recital, no one else's.'

‘I have to go back and do some practice. I'm having a run-through with my pianist later.'

‘Not too much,' I said. ‘Keep something back for this evening.'

‘I'm scared as hell. There's a lot resting on this,' she said anxiously.

‘Just remember the audience will be on your side. They want you to succeed. Just focus, play, communicate. That's what my teacher used to say to me. Focus, play, communicate.'

‘I'll do my best.'

I squeezed her hand gently.

‘I'm looking forward to it,' I said.

*   *   *

The office door was open. I could see a couple of students – a girl and a boy – standing by the desk. I couldn't see Margherita, but I could hear her voice explaining some abstruse point of economic theory. I stepped over the threshold. The students turned. As they pulled apart a little, I saw Margherita seated behind her desk, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her eyes met mine, opened wide in surprise, then she smiled.

‘Gianni, come in.'

‘Am I disturbing you?'

‘Not at all, we're just finishing.' She made a few more remarks to the students, then came out from her desk to show them out, closing the door after they'd gone.

‘How nice to see you,' she said, holding out her hand. ‘You should have phoned.'

‘I know. Is this a bad moment?'

‘No, I've finished my classes for the day. How did you find me?'

‘There's only one Margherita Severini teaching economics at the university.'

‘Please, sit down.'

She went back behind her desk and resumed her seat, removing her reading glasses and tossing them carelessly aside. The desk was cluttered, covered with books and mounds of paper. Margherita lifted down a pile of files and dumped them on the floor by her chair to give us an uninterrupted view of each other.

‘You've recovered from Venice, I hope,' I said.

She laughed. ‘Venice, Part One, yes. But I fear there are many more instalments to come. My uncle's lawyers…' She grimaced. ‘God, you've never met anyone like them. I thought there was only going to be one lawyer. There turned out to be four.'

‘They hunt in packs,' I said. ‘Like wolves.'

‘Please, let's not be unkind to wolves. They claim it's a very complicated estate. My uncle – so they say – didn't like his legal affairs to be too transparent. There's money all over the place, apparently. Offshore, tied up in foreign companies, salted away in various tax havens. It's a nightmare. That's why it needs four lawyers – a probate specialist, a tax specialist, a corporation law specialist.'

‘And the fourth?'

‘He takes their expenses to the bank in a wheelbarrow.'

‘And your uncle's violins?' I said.

‘No one seems very sure about the violins. The lawyers are checking to see if Uncle Enrico made any separate provision for his collection, or if it's just another part of his general estate. I was there for two days. I have to go back in a fortnight for more meetings with them.'

‘You have my sympathy.'

‘It's my lack of knowledge I can't stand. The lawyers could tell me anything they liked and I wouldn't know if it was true or not. I'd wash my hands of it now – God knows, I don't want his money – but I can't. I'm his closest living relative. I have an obligation to sort it all out.'

‘Did Serafin bother you again?'

‘Not in Venice, but he's telephoned me a few times since. He won't be put off. He must have the skin of a rhino. Mind, he's not alone. The others have been just as obnoxious.'

‘Others?'

‘Other dealers. A couple more have phoned, expressing interest in my uncle's collection. They're incredible. Polite, charming, but completely insensitive.'

‘Do you remember their names?'

‘One was Swiss, from Zürich. I think his name was Weissmann. The other was an Englishman, Christopher Scott. But you don't want to know about all that, it's very tedious. What brings you to Milan?'

I reached down on to the floor and picked up the violin case I'd brought with me.

‘I thought your grandson might like this,' I said.

I opened the case on the desk and took out a quarter-size violin. Margherita gave an exclamation of delight.

‘Oh, my, that is such a tiny violin. Let me see it.'

She took the violin from my hands and held it up.

‘Stefano will love this. And it has a bow, too. It's like a toy, isn't it? How sweet. I can just see him playing it. Is this one of yours? I mean, did you make it?'

I shook my head. ‘It's a factory-made import. The plates are pressed, not carved. They ink on the purfling, spray on the varnish. No luthier makes quarter-size instruments. For the amount of labour involved he'd have to charge such a ridiculous sum that no one would pay it. Not for a beginner's instrument like this.'

‘Gianni, how kind of you.'

‘Would you like it?'

‘Of course I would. How much do I owe you?'

‘Have it on loan,' I said.

‘No, that's not right. I must pay you for it.'