Then, before she had a chance to answer, she heard the voice say flatly, “Please bring your instrument and come in.”
The first thing she is struck by is the sound of music floating through the rooms. The music is unfamiliar to her; a piece she cannot recognize. She strains to decipher each note, searching for a clue as to the composer. But she comes up with nothing except the beauty and sadness she hears woven through the notes.
She stands in the hallway not knowing if she should interrupt his playing to announce herself, or if she should continue waiting until he is finished.
Out of respect for the music and the musician, she decides to wait. She concentrates even more intensely on the music he is playing and tries to listen if there is some sort of code locked within it. But the only thing she hears is what she describes as a weeping of notes. A slow unraveling of a heart coming undone.
She stands there waiting in the hallway, imagining the Wolf with a face to match his melancholy playing.
The hallway of the apartment is long and dark. A tall mirror with an elegant table underneath is to Elodie’s left.
She catches her reflection in the glass and immediately turns away. She does not want to see herself in her schoolgirl uniform. She does not want her mind to think of herself in childlike terms, but rather as a serious staffetta with a mission, someone entrusted to serve an important cause.
She is damp with perspiration from the journey on the train and from carrying her cello several blocks and up the stairs. She takes one of her hands and smoothes her hair and her skirt. She straightens her back. These are all movements she makes in order to counter the rush of adrenaline flooding through her. She takes a deep breath and tries to compose herself in the way she learned years ago as a way to banish her nervousness before a recital.
But this mission is far more important than a recital, and Elodie is fully aware of what’s at stake. She forces herself to look again in the mirror, but this time she looks intently at the girl in the school uniform. She wants to make sure that every part of her—even if it is not how she feels—appears fully composed.
The music suddenly ends, and Elodie takes a few steps deeper into the hallway as she hears someone approaching.
“Hello?” She hears a voice from down the hall, as well as the sound of footsteps striking against the marble. “Yes, hello. Thank you for waiting.”
Almost as a reflex, Elodie reaches down to retrieve her cello. She pulls it up straight, so it stands tall beside her, only a few inches shorter than her height.
She and her constant wooden companion wait together for the man called Wolf to show himself.
Suddenly he appears. He does not look as she imagined. With his playing, she imagined a small, dark man with somber eyes. But here before her is someone quite different: a tall man with white hair, a face that is both kind and grave.
He is wearing a pale blue shirt and white pants. He doesn’t look Italian; his skin is pink, his eyes ice blue. If she had to guess, she would have thought him a Pole or a Russian, but certainly not Italian.
But he speaks to her in Italian. “I have been waiting for you,” he says. “What do they call you?” He says these words slowly, as though he’s waiting confirmation of her identity.
She cannot take her eyes off of him.
“I am Dragonfly.”
A small smile crosses his lips, one that connotes a vague sense of satisfaction with her reply. “Yes, very good,” he says and waves his hand for her to follow him. “Please, come this way.”
The apartment is like a maze. Elodie follows him down a long hallway, where there are closed French doors. He pushes them open, leading her to a large parlor where she is immediately struck by the floor-to-ceiling windows that bathe the room in light.
There are upholstered chairs in striped silk. The walls are painted a soft coral, the drapes a heavy white silk.
“I have no real coffee,” he says apologetically. “Only this awful chicory . . .”
She shakes her head and lifts her hand slightly, as if to apologize. “No, no. I am fine.”
“A glass of water, perhaps?”
She considers the offer for a second. She is thirsty, but she doesn’t want to accept any overtures of hospitality. She just wants to play the music, hand him the score, and get on the next train home to Verona.
“It’s only water,” he says, and smiles. Again, she is struck by the blue of his eyes.
“Very well then,” she says. “If it’s no trouble.”
He comes back a few minutes later and hands her a glass.
“So, Dragonfly, are you going to play for me?”
“Yes,” she says before letting the warm water run down her throat.
“And you’re a cellist, as I am, too. Don’t let my poor piano playing fool you.” A smile crosses his face. She thinks she notices a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “From one musician to another,” it suggests.
“Let’s go to the next room. My piano is in there.” He takes the glass from her and places it on one of the low tables.
She hesitates for a second and feels her body stiffen. They are like two animals in a cage, every one of their senses heightened as they each try to decipher the other’s movements. Her grip on the handle of her cello case tightens, causing her fingers to whiten, and she sees his eyes glance from her face to her hands.
Inside, she chastises herself for exposing her fear to him.
“I am as old as your grandfather, my dear. There is no need to worry.”
She does not return his smile, but keeps her face smooth, expressionless.
She cannot place any personal details about him. He does not look Italian, though he speaks the language fluently, and no object in the room reveals any particular background.
She hears the sound of his words in her head and tries to place his accent. But she realizes almost immediately why she can’t: It’s because he has none.
Immediately, she is struck by the intense color that saturates the room. The walls are painted peacock blue. There is a white marble fireplace to the left with a gilded mirror above, and to the right, a black grand piano. Small sofas flank the exterior wall. Underneath her feet, there is a carpet that looks worthy enough for a pasha.
“My favorite room,” he says. “I’m looking forward to hearing you play.”
He pulls out a chair for her and she sits down, placing her cello case at her feet.
As she looks up, she notices a small painting in a gilded frame above the piano. It’s of a young girl with a red kerchief over her head. Her eyes are dark and piercing; her gaze is intense and unflinching.
“The painting,” she says, motioning to the canvas on the wall. “Who is the artist?”
“Silvestro Lega,” he says. He smiles. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” she says as she kneels down to open her case. “I like it very much.”
He smiles. “I bought it for my wife many years ago.”
“Your wife? Does she play, too?”
“Yes. But her real strength lay in her composing.” He points to a large desk in the corner of the room covered with papers. “Her mind was a complicated labyrinth. Inside that desk is what I have left of the trappings of it.”
Elodie remains quiet, unsure of how to react.
“Well,” the Wolf suddenly says, his voice breaking the awkward silence between them. “I shouldn’t have distracted you with such personal details. You have come to play for me, so let’s hear it.”
He sits down not at his wife’s desk, but on a cane chair he pulled away from the wall.
“Please,” he says, politely. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Elodie opens the lid of her case. Her fingers reach to find the instrument from the silk and velvet that protect it.
She proceeds to pull out her instrument, just as she has done so man
y times before. Her hand reaches for the neck, while the other one lifts the body. Elodie turns around to face this man they call the Wolf, and suddenly she sees a wave of shock come over his face. It is not the expression she expected to see.
“Your cello . . .” he stammers. His voice has suddenly lost its softness.
“Yes . . .”
“Where did you get that? How can you be playing on a Gofriller?”
“A Gofriller?”
“Yes.” He is now straight in front of her, his hands caressing the instrument between them. Elodie feels her entire body shudder as if she is violated, even though his hands never touch her skin.
“Yes, a Matteo Gofriller. Where did you get this cello?”
She is not prepared for this barrage of questions from him. This was not in the plan she discussed with Luca. She is starting to grow faint, not knowing how much to reveal.
“It was a gift from my father on my seventeenth birthday. All I know is that it’s Venetian.” Her voice cracks. “Like my mother . . .”
His blue eyes now look up to her. The color strikes her as almost glacial.
She feels a wave come over her. She wants to push his hands away from the instrument, but he continues to map it with his hands.
“I have played this instrument once before. More than ten years ago, not far from this apartment. In Mantua.” He stammers again, as if uttering the name of a ghost, both sacred and haunting: “Your cello once belonged to Enrico Levi.”
“I don’t know the name,” she says.
“The family packed up and left just as things were getting bad here. Sold everything they had. Smart Jews, they were.” He shakes his head. “I wish Levi had sold it to me instead of your father.”
He steps back and looks at the instrument one more time. “Yes, I’m sure of it. I’m sure it’s Levi’s Gofriller cello.” She hears the Wolf click his tongue before shaking his head.
“Such a young girl playing a Gofriller. Truly unbelievable . . . Remarkable, actually.” He looks up at her and he smiles. “Have I frightened you in my excitement at seeing your cello?”
“No,” she lies. “Not at all.”
“To think it’s been hidden away with you since Levi left . . .” He considers the fact for a moment before smiling. “It’s rather amazing, actually. This little girl arriving here with a priceless instrument. Completely unaware she carries something of enormous value.”
“I know it’s valuable,” she interjects. “My father told me it was a rare Venetian cello.”
“Don’t worry, Dragonfly. I’m glad you have the instrument. At least, I’m sure I will be once I hear you play it. It’s a good thing you’ve kept it hidden away and tucked from view.” He laughs. “After all, the death of beauty is overexposure. Everybody wants a glimmer of something kept secret, the feeling they alone have uncovered something exquisite and rare.
“Women are the same, Dragonfly. Don’t ever reveal too much. That’s good advice to follow. Even after this bloody war is over.”
“I don’t think I’ll have that problem.”
“Good,” he answers. “Let’s get started then. I’m anxious to hear you play.”
Now he stands against the wall, the painting in the gilded frame like a flag above his left shoulder.
She takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the chair, places the instrument between her legs, and takes up her bow.
“Shall I strike the A on the piano for you?”
She nods her head. “Yes, that would be helpful.”
She tries to regain her composure and focus by tuning her instrument. She positions her ear close to the string and plucks. She makes a few slight adjustments, then looks directly at the Wolf.
“I’m ready to begin.”
“Prego,” he says. “Please.”
Elodie closes her eyes and begins to play the Haydn cello concerto.
The music is like a trance to her. Elodie’s body stretches and elongates as she pulls her bow against the strings. Her cello rests against her chest like a shield; her arms are like wings. The elbows rising and falling, like a bird about to take flight.
As she plays the cadenza, she lifts her head for the first time to gaze at the Wolf’s reaction.
The notes sound foreign and vaguely dissonant to her. Strange, almost modern in their lack of a familiar pattern.
Soon she finds herself approaching the most important part of her playing. The first triple-stopped whole note starts on A flat, followed by twelve sixteenth notes.
With the key shifting and the tempo accelerating at times, she performs with such precision, to make sure everything is articulated just as Luca has instructed her to do. She cannot help but think of the irony of the situation. A cadenza is supposed to showcase the individual creativity and skill of the musician, but this one is only delivering a message from people whom she’s never even met. Her sole purpose is to deliver the content.
After she finishes the cadenza, which is brief and furious, each one of the notes of the chromatic scale articulated in rapid succession, she dips back into the end of the concerto. It is like a wave that has crested and then fallen. She finishes slowly out of respect for the music.
She lifts her head and opens her eyes.
The Wolf looks not at her head, but straight ahead. At the door that is left slightly open. She can see that he is thinking about what he has just heard. That he is decoding something that has importance and relevance to not just him, but for many others as well.
She pulls the cello out from between her legs and gently puts it back in the case. She can feel her hair has become wild, and she smoothes it back with her palms, wishing she had some pins to twist it up and back.
He shakes his head, as if to commit the cadenza to memory before speaking. “That was very interesting, my dear, on many different levels.” He pauses. “But I’d say we were lucky Papa Haydn wasn’t in the audience to hear that.”
She fidgets slightly, wondering if he is commenting on her playing or the atonal quality of the cadenza.
“May I have the score?” he asks her. He reaches his arm out toward her.
She had not used it to play but bends down and pulls it from the open case, her hand shaking ever so slightly as she hands it over to him.
He takes it and walks to his desk, sliding it into the top drawer.
“It wasn’t meant to be beautiful,” she says, in whose defense she does not know.
Afterward, he walks closer to her and his glacially pale eyes stare straight into hers. “I am joking, my dear Dragonfly,” he says, smiling. “In times like these, we need a little levity every now and then.
“Your interpretation of the rest of the concerto was superb.”
She smiles and is surprised by the sense of relief that floods through her, not knowing if it’s because her mission is now complete or because an accomplished musician has given her a morsel of praise.
“Thank you, sir,” she says. As she stands up with her cello and scans the room once more, she sees there is a composition on the piano.
She can’t help but be curious. “May I ask what you were playing when I arrived?”
She notices his eyes moisten slightly.
“It was the last thing my wife composed,” he says. “She was in Paris when they arrested her.”
“She was in the Resistance?” Elodie said the word in the quietest whisper.
“No,” he says flatly. “She and Enrico Levi shared something in common besides just music. They both were Jews.”
TWENTY
Verona, Italy
JULY 1943
Elodie returned home that evening to her parents’ apartment, exhausted both physically and mentally from her mission. She merely picked at her pasta and told her parents that she wasn’t feeling well, and that she might be coming down with a cold.
&
nbsp; Her father did not eat his dinner, either. He lifted his head to look at her several times during the meal. She could feel his eyes on her, and their weight was not one of judgment or suspicion, but one that was harder to place, a silent acknowledgment offered only in the blinking of an eye.
Orsina, however, was not attuned to this silent language that flowed between her daughter and husband. She was tired and worn, preoccupied with all the political unrest surrounding them. Her once-idyllic household of music and simple routine had been replaced with the shadow of uncertainty. Her husband no longer had any strength and spent most of his hours in bed. She sensed her daughter was also increasingly preoccupied, and feared she was spending too much time in places she did not know and could not see.
After she cleared the dishes and put everything away, Orsina heated the kettle and started to fill the bath. The sound of the flowing water immediately calmed her. She undressed and slipped into the tub.
The arrival of her mother’s singing floated into the walls of Elodie’s bedroom and soothed her as well. She closed her eyes, and the day’s events unraveled in her mind. She saw the long corridor of the Wolf’s apartment, the room with the peacock blue walls, and the painting of the girl in the red kerchief. She could hear the notes of her cadenza sharp and executed with precision. But it was the music the Wolf had been playing when she first stepped into the apartment that filled the rest of her head. She fell asleep thinking of those haunting notes, and wondering about the woman who wrote them.
In the morning, Elodie offered to do the grocery shopping.
“Mamma, give me your list.”
“My list means nothing. It’s not what I want to buy, it’s what do they have? If there are eggs, get eggs. If there’s flour, get as much as they will give you. Here, let me get my rations card.”
Orsina went into the next room and handed Elodie their weekly ration card. She also reached into her pocket and gave her daughter what few coins she had. “This may be enough. If not, be sweet to Flavio and see if he’ll extend our credit for another week.”
The Garden of Letters Page 12