by David Hewson
But then another noise rose. He heard it with dread. A low, insistent chanting running across the audience, echoed by the orchestra. All except Amy, who stood there alone, frightened perhaps, her eyes crossing the bright body of the church and finding his own as he hid in the shadows.
“Forster, Forster, Forster, Forster . . .”
The younger Daniel would have fled from the room. He recalled Scacchi and the discussion they had held beneath the Venetian Lucifer. Then he marched out of the darkness, head high, applauding the players as he walked, grinning broadly, hearing the clamour of the crowd’s hands rise with each step, feeling like a bogus god walking into paradise.
Amy’s astonished eyes followed him as he approached her, took the bouquet from her hands, and threw it to the floor, then, to a roar of applause, held her in his arms, kissed both her damp cheeks.
“Daniel?” she whispered.
“You’ve earned this, Amy,” he said quietly. “This is your moment.”
“But ...”
She stared at him, suspicious once more. Amy had lived through the piece that night. She knew it better than anyone. She understood, too, Daniel realised, that her first suspicions were correct. He could not be its creator. The puzzlement and the accusation stood in her eyes.
“Tomorrow you must go,” he said, then turned to smile once more at the audience. “Don’t wait for me. Take the plane to Rome. Then go home.”
“I can’t,” she protested. “We must talk.”
The crowd bellowed. He knew he must speak to them.
“Not now,” he said, and kissed her again. Then he turned and, with a theatrical gesture, took her right hand and raised it high, above his, milking the audience for applause.
“Friends!” Daniel bellowed over the noise. “ Friends!”
Slowly they fell into silence, shushing each other in the din.
“Friends,” he repeated, and heard his voice echo off the walls. They were seated again, waiting. He looked at Massiter and then Giulia Morelli. They wore the same expression of intense interest.
“What can I say to you?” he asked. “How do I explain myself?”
“Bravo, Maestro,” Massiter shouted from the audience, and began to clap, starting a ripple of applause which Daniel swiftly waved down.
“No,” he insisted. “Your kindness is overwhelming. I’m not a speaker. When I listen to Amy here and these players of Fabozzi, I wonder whether I’m a musician at all.”
“Such modesty!” someone shouted, and he was unsure whether it was a compliment or a taunt.
“No,” he answered. “I’m not being modest. I gave these musicians paint and pigment in the hope they might create with them. What you heard came as much from them as from the composer. I owe them my congratulations. I owe you my thanks. But now you must give me some rest. Please. Ciao!”
With that, he turned and walked to the back of the church, wandering the narrow corridors until he found a small, empty dressing-room where the clamour outside was reduced to a distant drone. There he sat on a low bench and placed his head in his hands, wishing he had the courage to weep. He felt as if there were poison in his veins.
There were steps outside in the corridor, then a knock on the door. Amy came in. She looked exhausted.
“Dan?” she said. “They want you to go back out there. I don’t think they’ll go till you do.”
He shook his head to clear it and managed to force a smile. “Tell them I’m overwhelmed by their response, Amy. Tell them I’m unwell. Make some excuse for me. Please.”
“OK,” she said softly, but waited at the door. “Did you mean what you said? That I have to go?”
“Of course,” he replied. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
She came over to him. “I wanted you, Dan. All along that’s what I wanted.” She hesitated. “Even if you’re a fake, I want you. I don’t care.”
He looked up at her. “Of course you care, Amy. You must.”
“Let me help you,” she offered.
“You already have. You’ll understand that soon.”
She was close to tears again. “Don’t talk like that. You scare me.”
He stood up, took her face in his hands, kissed her once more, then said, “Go to the reception, Amy. I’ll meet you there. Then tomorrow, first thing, catch that plane.”
She stared at him, mistrust in her eyes. “You’ll come to the party? Just be with me there, Dan. After that I’ll go. I promise.”
“As you see fit,” he said. “Now, be off with you, and talk to those people. This is your night, Amy. Venice belongs to you.”
“I know,” she replied. “And I wish I felt more grateful.”
Then she was gone, and Daniel waited, knowing he would come. After fifteen minutes the noise beyond the door had diminished. He heard the orchestra troop back to their dressing rooms, listened to their low chatter of voices and occasional laughter, feeling painfully distant from their deserved acclaim. A little later Massiter walked in, pulled up the one spare chair, and sat beside him.
“You disturbed me there, Daniel,” he declared. “Please don’t play tricks. I hate that kind of thing.”
“I’m sorry, Hugo. That wasn’t my intention.”
“Of course not,” Massiter observed dryly. “Well. I imagine there’s no time like the present. You don’t really want to go and sip warm champagne with boring people, do you? Everyone’s expecting the pair of us. I think we’ve both sung sufficiently for our supper recently, to be honest.”
Daniel wondered what he was thinking. Massiter seemed resigned to his demands. He had expected more resistance. He wondered, too, about breaking this last promise to Amy. She could never forgive him. Perhaps that was for the best.
Massiter eyed him. He seemed, for the first time in Daniel’s experience, almost worried. “You’re very privileged. Not many men have seen what I’m about to show you.”
“I’m flattered by your offer, Hugo.”
“As if I had a choice.”
“Of course you had a choice. Several, I believe. You’re doing this because you want to, surely?”
Massiter nodded. “True. You’re an amusing soul, Daniel. Scacchi coached you well. As, unwittingly, have I, it seems.”
Daniel rose to leave.
“But nothing comes for free,” Massiter added. “You appreciate that, I hope.”
They left by the side door. It was a warm night with the merest sliver of a moon. The lagoon shimmered, its surface reflecting the stars. In the rear of the water taxi, Daniel closed his eyes, fought to stem his thoughts. The music ran around his head still, refusing to leave, circling constantly, a puzzle without an answer.
59
Dissonant notes
DELAPOLE WAS RIGHT IN ONE RESPECT. THE VENETIANS can be an ugly lot when they are crossed. The scribbled messages I had dropped in those lions’ jaws had done their trick. I had not sought to accuse Delapole of Leo’s murder. Such a ruse would be hard to sustain without evidence; the anonymous writer would be deemed a mischief-maker or worse. Instead, I chose a subject which I knew no self-respecting clerk of the Republic could fail to extend to a wider audience: the authorship of that mysterious concerto.
With a little variation in each, my messages foretold that Delapole would claim the prize and, in so doing, seek to deceive the city. He was, I hinted, a thief, and perhaps worse. This crime was to be perpetrated on an unsuspecting Venice in order that he might fleece the citizens of their money, then disappear into the night. To establish my case, I suggested the readers spread the word and ask those who heard it to demand some proof from the Englishman when he appeared on the podium with Vivaldi’s players. If he could lead the players through the opening of the piece—or anything else, for that matter—then let him be acclaimed. If not, then the city should draw its own conclusions and act accordingly.
When I penned those messages, I firmly believed Marchese would be in the city at any moment, walking to arrest the Englishman at the head of a t
roop of city guards. So much for my prescience. But this was a game of chess, with human players. A precautionary move might turn the balance of a match several steps on from the point at which it is played. The mob was angry. Marchese’s murder had spurred their already foul mood. The word was spreading through the crowd that the beloved concerto would not, after all, be played. From his place on the platform, where he paced up and down, looking increasingly nervous, Delapole could see the moment of his triumph turning to catastrophe.
“Music, Maestro!” one wag yelled. “Or has the cat got your English tongue?”
Delapole bowed to his tormentor and walked to the other side of the stage. There was no more sympathy for him there. The rabble was restless. Vivaldi stood immobile, offering not a whit of assistance. The musicians shuffled sheets awkwardly in front of them. Then a drunk came out of the crowd, clambered onto the platform, and snatched the first page of a cellist’s part.
“This ain’t the concerto,” the fellow yelled. “I can read a title page. We’ve been robbed. They’re going to play some of the Red Priest’s old stuff, and I’ve heard that till it’s coming out of me ears.”
Vivaldi stared at Delapole. The Englishman listened to the baying of the hoi polloi, then walked, with a fixed smile upon his face, to the front of the stage and waved for them to be silent.
“Ladies,” he implored. “Gentlemen.”
A gang of armourers from the Arsenale, well in their cups, had gathered at the front to taunt him. “Get on with it, you pomaded bastard!” the largest one shouted. “We came here to listen to them, not watch you parade around like some peacock looking for a mate.”
“We will, sir,” Delapole replied, glowering at the fellow. “In due course.”
“And that new one too!” another yelled. “Not any old rubbish.”
“Ah,” Delapole said. “If only I could oblige.”
With that the crowd fell silent, waiting for his explanation.
“You’re the one what wrote it, aren’t you?” demanded one of the armourers. “You damn well best oblige us.”
The Englishman held his arms open wide. “I had promised to wait to break this news. But yes. I am the one.”
He gave them that charming English smile. Not a single pair of hands applauded.
“Prove it, then,” the armourer bellowed. “You run your girls through that pretty piece of yours and let’s have done with it.”
Delapole shook his head. “Nothing would please me more, sir. But we are victims of a criminal. He has stolen our work and left me with too little time to reproduce it for our orchestra here. Next week, I promise. Then I’ll have it played for all of you, and free, too, for any who’s paid today.”
The crowd turned even more sullen at that. Delapole brazened it out.
“We’ve been robbed, sirs!” he pleaded with them. “By that scoundrel boy Scacchi, who murdered his own master—and his uncle!—only last night. And did so to steal my manuscript from his master’s safekeeping, where I believed it would be printed for today. We have no notes, no score, no inspiration for our sweet musicians. What would you have me do but beg my friend Vivaldi play for us and let me work my fingers to the bone into the small hours of the night, re-creating that which I have already once written, as you know well?”
“We don’t know nothing,” Delapole’s nemesis yelled from in front of the platform. “You prove it to us, eh. You make ’em play.”
The Englishman’s composure broke at that. It was a development he had not forecast. “Why, sir. I do not know this piece as well as my friend. I would not do it justice.”
The crowd was enjoying every moment of this. “Oh, come on!” a voice cried. “You’re the great composer, ain’t you? If you could write that marvel what we heard before, you can surely wave them girls through their paces, eh?”
Delapole glanced nervously at Vivaldi, seeking support. “It would be an impertinence to my friend here.”
The Red Priest rose from his seat, walked over to Delapole, and politely placed a baton in his hand, then returned to watch what ensued.
To a man the crowd roared: “Play! Play! Play!”
The musicians followed him, waiting for that piece of wood to move and give them direction. There was, he must have realised, no escaping this. He turned his back to the mob, gestured with his hand, and launched into the piece.
I wonder about what happened thereafter. Did he fail through his own efforts or those of the young band of female players who sat before him? Only Rebecca knew his true nature. The rest, I believe, must have guessed it the instant he took his charade one step too far. As he gesticulated hopelessly in front of them, he was revealed. The musicians knew Delapole could no more be the anonymous composer than any of those who baited him from the crowd. He was a fraud, and, to seal his perfidy, he sought to implicate them in his deceit.
So they played as badly as they could while still retaining some dignity. Not a single note was wrong in pitch or duration, but each made its entry into the piece a fraction of a second too soon or a moment too late, so that the movement lurched forwards, then backwards, and finally collapsed into an unrestrained cacophony that stumbled nowhere, like a team of horses that has lost its driver.
The mob began to bay for blood. Gobbo leapt upon the stage and whispered in his master’s ear. He had, I suspect, realised that Marchese might have spoken to others before he died. The authorities would take a leisurely interest in Delapole’s manifest fraud over the concert. If there was other intelligence to whet their appetites, it might add some urgency to their desire to escort the pair of them into those dark rooms by the Doge’s Palace and invite them, under pain of torture, to talk a little of their past.
In my hiding place by the Arsenale, I heard the angry howling of the rabble. That gave me opportunity, for its attention was diverted to the piece of theatre being played out on the platform. Half drenched, I slunk back to the waterfront and cautiously made my way towards the hordes outside the church. Canaletto could have painted this, I thought, and made it look a distant, pretty picture of Venetian pomp and ceremony. From his far-off viewpoint, no one could see the seething hatred that ran through this ugly mass or guess what macabre outcome was now being engineered by Delapole at its heart.
The focus shifted. Someone was moving, but it was impossible to see a thing. A flurry of bodies flocked to a single point by the stage, then flowed forwards. I saw a glimpse of Delapole’s silk garments and something else, the black dress of one of Vivaldi’s musicians. They had fled down to the waterfront, and there leapt into a waiting boat. Not caring who saw me, I dashed to the edge of the promenade. There, under a rain of eggs, rotten fruit, and less harmless objects, the Englishman was making his exit from Venice. Gobbo sat on his left. To the right, wrapped in her cape, was Rebecca, face as pale as the moon, that fiddle case still beneath her arm.
Delapole waited until his vessel was beyond the reach of the mob’s missiles, then rose in the stern and raised his arm in a single salute. He barked at his crew. His gondolier sculled hard for the Grand Canal. The Englishman stood upright in the back of that vessel, not flinching, his lips set in a cold, tight smile. It could only be my imagination which made me fancy that his eyes never left my face.
60
Waiting for the call
GIULIA MORELLI SLIPPED QUIETLY INTO THE POST-CONCERT reception which took place on the ground floor of the Londra Palace, next to where she had sat and listened to Daniel Forster at the press conference that morning. He was absent, as was Massiter. She spoke briefly to the girl violinist, who seemed distraught, overwhelmed by the event, perhaps. There was nothing of moment to discuss with her, even if some rational conversation had been possible over the glasses of Prosecco in which she seemed determined to drown. Amy Hartston had no idea where Daniel or Massiter had gone. The policewoman listened to Amy’s half-drunk ramblings about the perfidy of men and her hatred of music, and wondered if this was the same person who had astonished them all this night. Music
ians were such a strange breed, she decided, unlike any she had ever met.
When the party began to bore her, the policewoman wandered outside to stand on the waterfront by the vaporetto stop. There she smoked a cigarette, happy, content with the evening. It was now eleven. The tourist crowds were beginning to leave the cafés in the square. The raucous noise of the bands, jazz and cheap classical, had now ended. The night began to overtake Venice, and within its folds lay success.
By a quarter to twelve she was growing restless. She pulled the mobile phone from her bag, thinking, for no reason at all, of Rizzo. Rizzo, who was so full of bluster and, in the end, so easy to scare. She was affronted by his death, which had occurred before his usefulness had ended.
She looked at the phone. It was possible Biagio was unable to call. In another city, in another kind of force, she would need none of these tricks. She could confide in her colleagues, put together a team that would do her bidding. But this was Venice, where the lines were always blurred. Until she had what she wanted, hard and fast in her hand, she dared not risk discovery.
Giulia Morelli tossed the cigarette into the shifting waters of the lagoon and listened to its brief dying hiss. Her inner voice began the mantra: Call me, Biagio. Call me.
After the campanile bell had tolled midnight, the phone rang. She snatched at the buttons, cursing her own impatience.
“Yes?”
“You wouldn’t believe it,” said Biagio’s distant, scratched voice. “He’s almost on our doorstep.”
“And Forster?”
“With him. They’re both inside now. It’s near San Niccolò Mendicoli. Just off the campo. I can wait for you outside. It’s deserted around here.”
She tried to picture the location in her head. She knew the church. It was small, medieval, by a narrow rio south of Piazzale Roma. She could take a water taxi and be there in ten minutes.