The Moonlit Garden

by Bomann, Corina

  The sound of her footsteps caused Havenden to turn. As he caught sight of her, a smile leapt to his face.

  “Miss Gallway, there you are!” he called out. “I was afraid you might have changed your mind.”

  “I always stand by my word—though a lady does need a little time to get ready.”

  Havenden appraised her furtively before saying, “I can’t imagine any situation in which you wouldn’t look beautiful.”

  “Perhaps I should remind you that your fiancée wouldn’t consider such flattery entirely appropriate.”

  Havenden’s expression darkened, his lips pressed together as if he were suppressing a comment.

  “Forgive me, I . . . ” began Rose, who had a feeling she had somehow offended him.

  “No, it’s fine, and you’re right, my fiancée certainly wouldn’t like it. But I like you, and I can’t do anything about that.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we go? I’m worried that by the time we reach the puppet theater the show will already have begun.”

  In the light of numerous lamps and torches, the city looked like a scene from The Thousand and One Nights. The colonial facades seemed to fade into the background, giving prominence to the traditional local buildings. Exotic scents filled the alleyways as the delightful aromas of the food stalls drove out the smells of the harbor and the dirt.

  Even at this late hour, merchants were offering their wares for sale. Their calls competed with the singing of the street musicians and the sounds of drums, angklungs, sulings, and ouds. Colorfully dressed young women were performing traditional dances by torchlight.

  Although she had often experienced these magical scenes in her childhood, Rose felt as if she were walking through a long-forgotten wonderland. She usually only left her hotel rooms for her performances, the rest of her time being spent on preparing herself. At best, Carmichael might take her out after a successful concert, but they never lingered for long enough to see much of the places they visited.

  That would also have been the case here had they not received the governor’s generous offer. Indeed, she would not even have found the time to visit her parents. This made her feel even more grateful to van Swieten than she had the day before.

  “You didn’t tell me what a wonderful place your home city is,” said Havenden, who seemed just as enchanted by the magic of Padang as she was. These were the first words he had spoken since leaving the hotel.

  “I’m afraid I’d forgotten,” she replied. “I’ve been traveling for months, and before that I spent several years in England.”

  “Do you have relatives there? Your name sounds English.”

  “My father’s an Englishman. He’s a warehouse supervisor for the Dutch. I was in England to study at Mrs. Faraday’s conservatory, though I’m sure the name will mean nothing to you.”

  “It most certainly does mean something to me! Mrs. Faraday is still one of Trinity College’s main competitors, though, of course, the latter only takes male students while the conservatory’s pupils are all girls. My father often gave Mrs. Faraday financial support as an anonymous donor.”

  “Then it seems your family contributed to my education, and I thank you.” Rose gave him a mischievous smile.

  “As I know now what excellent musicians Mrs. Faraday produces, I’ll certainly be continuing the tradition. Or do you need a sponsor or patron personally?”

  “I find it a little strange that you’re offering me such a thing when you’ve said yourself that you’re not a particularly great music lover.”

  “That was before I met you. There’s something about your playing that can turn the worst ignoramus into an ardent admirer of the art. Take me, for example.”

  “Then I hope to be able to inspire you to feel the same way about this unique form of theater.” Rose pointed to a stall ahead of them. “There’s the stage.”

  In fact, the structure could hardly be called a stage. Over a low wooden platform whose purpose was to ensure that all the members of the audience could see, a canvas sheet was suspended between two poles. The sheet was illuminated from behind by numerous lamps that projected silhouettes onto the fabric.

  When they arrived, the play was already in progress. On the screen, Rose saw the silhouette of a number of bamboo canes and the finely detailed figure of a young woman, who was approaching the stylized forest with a knife in her hand. The puppet’s movements were accompanied by the sounds of a gamelan.

  A broad smile came involuntarily to Rose’s lips, as there was no mistaking one of the legends her mother used to tell her. She glanced to her side and saw that Havenden was frowning in confusion. He couldn’t understand a word, of course, so she decided to help him out.

  “This is the legend of the Forgotten Girl,” Rose explained in a whisper so as not to disturb the other spectators, most of whom were locals. “She’s the youngest of seven sisters, and is always being forgotten. She doesn’t get a husband, and instead has to work hard for her coldhearted sisters—without payment, naturally. But one day, a kindly fisherman gives the girl a small fish with golden scales. The girl keeps the fish, but the evil sisters soon come after her and try to talk her into giving the fish away. When the girl refuses, the sisters kill it.”

  “What a horrid story,” Paul murmured in fascination. “In England that kind of thing would scare the life out of the children.”

  “But there’s more.” Rose glanced at the screen, where the Forgotten Girl was holding the glass bowl that contained the little fish. She marveled at how intricately made all the puppets were. “As she’s looking for her fish, her sisters jeer at her and throw the fish’s head at her feet.”

  Havenden snorted, but Rose nudged him sharply to stop him from commenting.

  “The girl picks up the fish head, buries it in the forest, and cries bitterly. And look, out of the ground grows a tree with golden leaves and golden fruit. It glitters so brightly that a rajah—you’d say a king—who is riding past notices the Forgotten Girl. He makes her his wife, and they plant the sapling in the castle garden. Years later, there is a severe drought in the country. The evil sisters’ buffalo starve and die of thirst, and soon the sisters have nothing left to eat or drink. They go to the rajah’s castle, where they meet their sister, and they beg her to help them.”

  “I’m sure she won’t be keen to do that after all the mean things they’ve put her through,” Havenden said, clearly drawn into the story.

  “You’d be right to think so—in fact, she shows her sisters the door and reminds them of how they used to torment her. But then the golden tree begins to sing, asking the Forgotten Girl to forget the suffering her sisters caused her and to have mercy on them. And so she lets her sisters share in her wealth. This shames the sisters so much that they shed tears of genuine regret and beg her for forgiveness.”

  Rose noticed how close she had moved to Havenden, and she took a step to the side and looked straight ahead toward the stage, where the story of the Forgotten Girl was playing out to the accompaniment of music and song.

  Havenden seemed incapable of saying anything. He stared, spellbound, at the silhouettes, trying to make out which part of the story they had reached. It was not until the story approached its end and the little tree began to speak through the sound of the gamelan that he stirred.

  “That’s truly a moving story. My father would have loved it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I loved it, too. I almost regret . . . ” He paused, apparently struggling with the decision whether or not to say more.

  “What do you regret?” Rose asked.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing,” he replied, although it was obvious that he was thinking something. Rose decided not to press him. She was here to spend a nice evening with him at the shadow theater, nothing more.

  As the puppeteer was carefully packing away his puppets in a chest, Rose noticed a stall nearby that was giving out a wonderful smell.

  “Wait here; I’ll get us something to eat,” she said. Before Haven
den could reply, she had hurried away. When was the last time she had eaten klepon? The rice balls filled with palm sugar and rolled in dried coconut had been a childhood favorite of hers. Her mother had always bought her some whenever they had gone to a shadow play.

  The owner of the small stall had his hands full with preparing more of the fresh delicacies. A long line of patrons stretched before it, most people holding the hands of children. No one went to the wayang without buying something to eat. The traders knew it and set up their stalls all around the stage.

  She returned to Havenden, carrying two bags cleverly woven from palm leaves, just in time for the gamelan to announce the start of the next piece.

  “They’re green!” he said in surprise as Rose handed him a bag.

  “What do you mean? The palm leaves? Of course they’re green!” Rose smiled playfully.

  “No, the balls. I’ve never seen such green candy, only in shockingly expensive confectioners’ in London.”

  “It’s the juice of pandan leaves that causes it,” Rose explained as she took one of the little balls in her fingers. “They use it to color the mixture. They also add rice flour and sweet potatoes. Try them—they’re good.”

  Rose took a bite, and the sweetness of the palm sugar filling flooded into her mouth. Havenden looked on skeptically but eventually gave in. At first he frowned slightly, but then his features relaxed and began to light up.

  “Mmm, that’s really good.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, really. I ought to take the recipe back home and sell these little cakes in London.”

  “Do you think Londoners’ palates are ready for them?” Rose said playfully, popping another into her mouth.

  “Londoners are always looking for something new. You know the English cuisine; it’s not particularly imaginative, so they need an injection of foreign influence.”

  “Perhaps you should invest in a klepon stall instead of a sugar plantation,” Rose replied with amusement.

  “Perhaps I will,” Havenden said, chewing. He delved for another little ball as the next fairy tale began—this one about the princess and the egg.

  As they returned to the hotel shortly before daybreak, Rose felt as light as if she were one with the mist that drifted onshore at that time of day. The evening with Havenden had shown her that there was more to life than playing the violin, that there were things that felt thoroughly good and desires that had nothing to do with music, but with love and passion. She wanted to experience hundreds of evenings like this one, with Paul by her side.

  With a blissful smile she opened the door to her room—only to jump with shock the very next moment. It was only with difficulty that she stopped herself from crying out when she saw Carmichael sitting on the sofa.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped as she closed the door.

  “I wanted to talk about the concerts van Swieten has arranged for you. Mai let me in.”

  Stupid girl, Rose thought angrily as she pulled her hatpins from her hair.

  “Where have you been?” Carmichael asked, his voice deliberately calm—a sign that he was seething inside.

  “Out,” Rose replied. She had no intention of explaining anything to him, especially not Paul. The evening had been far too enjoyable to spoil by discussing it with Carmichael.

  “That’s the second time. I couldn’t get hold of you yesterday, either.” Carmichael frowned, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “I went to visit my parents and stayed the night there.”

  “You could have had the courtesy to tell me. At least send me a message.”

  “I’m tired,” Rose said wearily. “Let’s talk later. I don’t feel like arguing with you now.”

  “Very well, as you wish.” He rose and strolled toward the door as if nothing mattered to him. Before opening the door and leaving, he turned back to her. “You’ve been seeing that Havenden, haven’t you? Mai told me.”

  Rose was too surprised to reply. She tried to think of an excuse but was not quick enough. She wouldn’t put it past Carmichael to follow her to see for himself.

  “You have to get that fellow out of your head,” he snapped, striding angrily toward her and forcing her to take a few steps back. “Do you realize what’s at stake? You’re one of the best violinists in the world! If you let yourself get distracted, if you let him lead you astray, you’ll ruin everything!”

  “Who says he’s going to lead me astray? How on earth did you come to that conclusion?” She threw her hat furiously onto the bed. She’d have quite a lot to say to Mai when she saw her.

  “I saw the way he was staring at you during the reception. And you’ve been out with him tonight! What’s it supposed to mean?”

  “It means that, among everything else, I have a normal life, and I won’t be dictated to like a little child about where I can and can’t go!”

  Carmichael snorted scornfully. “You think you have a normal life? You’re an artist—you should be glad you don’t have a normal life! Under any other circumstances you’d be married by now, and pregnant, perhaps even expecting your second brat. Don’t go longing for a normal life; just think yourself lucky that you’ll never have one! And if I catch Havenden trying to distract you again, I’ll personally break his bones!”

  With these words he stormed to the door, tore it open, and vanished.

  Rose stared after him, stunned. What was all that about? He didn’t usually care about her admirers—why now?

  With a sigh, she sank down on the sofa, which was still warm where Carmichael had been sitting. Tears crept into her eyes, but as they threatened to blur her vision, she sprang up.

  I’ll show him, she thought. I’ll prove to him that I don’t have to forgo the pleasures of a normal life. You’ll see, Sean Carmichael!

  13

  Cremona, 2011

  A gray winter sky loomed above the city as the train drew into the station. Lilly and Ellen rose from their seats and took their belongings down from the luggage rack.

  Lilly carefully clasped her violin case under her arm. She was still unsure whether it had been a good idea to bring the instrument with her. A few days ago it would probably not have caused her any concern, but now she knew that the violin was valuable—though it might not be worth a fortune, it had sentimental value, especially for Gabriel. If the violin were lost, it would probably be lost for many decades—and with it the mystery of Rose Gallway.

  Ellen had insisted that it would be better for her acquaintance in Cremona, Enrico di Trevi, to be able to see the original rather than photos. While they were still at Heathrow, Ellen had managed to contact him, and he had invited the two women to his home near the Palazzo Trecchi and promised to help them in their search for Rose Gallway.

  During the flight to Milan, they had formulated a plan of how they could get the most benefit from the weekend and find out as much as possible about the violinist.

  “Maybe there are some old newspaper articles,” Ellen had speculated cheerfully. “Enrico can translate them for us. If I know him, he’d do anything to see this violin with his own eyes.”

  As the train came to a standstill, they pushed their way to the door among the crowd of other passengers. Snatches of Italian swirled around Lilly, reminding her of a vacation with Peter. They had still been students and had backpacked their way around Tuscany without understanding a word of Italian.

  She still couldn’t speak the language, and the thoughts of Peter caused a bittersweet tug in her breast. She quickly pushed the feelings to one side. Now was not the time. Perhaps she could allow herself to sink into her memories later that evening, but now they had to make sure that they found Ellen’s friend.

  As they crossed the concourse, Lilly could see that Cremona Station was something special. It was more than a hundred years old, and its high arched windows filled it with light. She could easily imagine passengers from the olden days hurrying across the gleaming stone floor—women in sweeping crinoline skirts and beribboned hats
, men in tailored frock coats. Girls in starched calico dresses playing with boys in short pants. Among them, newsboys in flat caps cried out the latest headlines from some local rag at the tops of their voices.

  The image faded as they left the station and crossed the forecourt, which seemed rather bleak under overcast skies but must be a wonderful sight in spring and summer. Cars hooted nearby; scooters rattled past. There was a taxi stand close by, but before going over to it, Lilly turned once again to take another look at the station, its yellow paintwork the only splash of color in the gray winter scene. With its arches, the building reminded her of a small palace.

  “Come on, Lilly, there’s a taxi free at the back!” Ellen called over to her. As she turned, she saw that Ellen was already striding over to the vehicle.

  The house in which Enrico di Trevi lived must have once been the residence of a nobleman, or at least a very wealthy man, as it was only slightly less magnificent than the neighboring palazzo. The facade fronting onto the street was very decorative, with a number of balconies and carved figures, including two stone atlantes that supported the slightly overhanging roof. At first glance, the bull’s-eye panes in the windows looked like originals from a bygone age, but the panes were too clear and the lead too new.

  Lilly guessed that the house had been built in the seventeenth century. A crack, possibly the result of an earthquake, worked its way up the left-hand side of the wall. Otherwise the building was in good condition, suggesting a place where she could revel in history.

  Lilly had assumed that Ellen’s acquaintance would be elderly, similar to Ben Cavendish, so she was surprised when an attractive man in his midforties opened the door. He was wearing jeans and a black shirt that set off his lightly tanned skin to amazing effect. His jet-black hair was longish, and his eyes shone like two silver coins.

  “Buongiorno, Ellen!” he said heartily, embracing her friend so warmly that Lilly had the initial impression that she was watching a pair of lovers who had been separated for a long time. “You’re as fast as the wind!”