Strange though, she had yet to find anything on Katharine Carnegie. There was nothing anywhere on her - from Wikipedia to the extensive subscription-only databases she had access to through her National Gallery research account.
Tara touched Adeena’s shoulder, bringing her back to the present with a start.
“Let’s take a look,” Tara said, motioning Adeena forward.
The women, along with Pablo, walked past the signage through a wide entrance into the exhibit. One wall had been set up to resemble the exterior of a castle and two mannequins dressed as soldiers faced off against each other.
One was dressed as a Highland clansman, wearing a blue bonnet, plaid waistcoat and a tartan kilt. His sword was thrust straight ahead, threatening the other man, meticulously outfitted as an English Redcoat, with his long red uniform covering his knees and hiding most of his earthen-coloured breeches. The Redcoat aimed his bayonet-tipped musket directly at the head of the clansman.
“What do you think Dee?” Tara mused. “Like to have these two over for drinks sometime?”
Adeena stood in silence. The English soldier reminded her of the men who had cheered on her performance. But these were lifeless mannequins, who seemed like wanna-be models for 18th Century military fashion.
“Is it historically accurate?” Tara asked. “You’ve been researching this stuff, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have. But they are too pretty – too clean, too neat,” Adeena responded. “They didn’t look like this. These guys look more like they want to pose for Abercrombie and Fitch.” Adeena shuffled around the mannequins, touching the buttons on the Redcoat’s uniform. “We need to give them some grit, some life,” she said. “They didn’t have dry-cleaning back then. Why don’t we dirty them up a bit?”
Tara shook her head in disagreement. “No can do,” she said. “We got these from the National Museums in Edinburgh. I believe they are big fans of dry-cleaning.”
Adeena turned away from the mannequins. She looked around at the portraits and the paintings on the walls as Tara was called away with a question from the carpenter. He was building another wall that needed to look as though it was made of stone.
A shiver of déjà-vu shook Adeena’s shoulders. She felt undone standing here, staring at these reflections of characters frozen in time. Their passions long forsaken, they were now reduced to stiff lifeless portraitures. Static faces masked the fiery spirit that she knew burned inside.
She looked more closely at one portrait in particular of a man who looked oddly familiar. She stared again, reading the description beside the portrait. It was James Drummond, the tall man who had been ‘smitten’ by her first performance at Kinnaird. In the portrait, his square shoulders and stoic face belied the charm he had conveyed in their brief encounter following her performance.
Taking advantage of Tara's distraction with the carpenter, Adeena squinted and pitched her head from side-to-side, feeling the memory of James’ face pulse to life. She shut her eyes to help conjure the feeling of seeing him, and then alternated opening and closing her left and right eyelids. After a moment, the eyes in the painting seemed to come alive! James was staring down at Adeena, his eyes locked on hers. She blushed as memories of the gleam of gold, the clink of glasses, twinkling chandeliers, the aroma of a wood fire and the perfumed necks of the ladies flooded over her.
He held his gaze on her, and she felt her cheeks growing warm. And then he bowed gracefully lowering his head and his shoulders in respect. He rose from the bow and raised a hand towards her and seemed to mouth ‘my lady’.
Adeena snapped back from her haze to see James’ portrait, stiff and dreary. In those few moments she had had with him, she knew his spirit better than any art historian could ever hope.
“Dee – take a look at this,” Tara called out to her.
Adeena looked over at the huge fresco on the opposite wall. It was a scene that featured a musical performance and what looked like a woman playing the Duncan Cello. Was it Katharine Carnegie performing at Kinnaird Castle?
Adeena froze staring at the fresco.
Am I going mad?
There was that boxy piano and the other musicians from her dream - the violinist and the man on a viola. There was the same gathering of men and women, dressed like those she had seen. Adeena moved closer to read the description of the art:
Preparing for War: A music recital in 1745, inspires Jacobite supporters to pledge allegiance to Bonnie Prince Charles, son of the ‘young Pretender’ who would be King.
“This is the where we’ll display the Duncan Cello,” Tara announced, pointing to a wooden podium that a carpenter was sanding.
Adeena nodded, still absorbed by the fresco. “You’re displaying the Duncan Cello here?” she asked doubtfully.
“Yup. And see those lights in the ceiling?” Tara replied, raising her arm upward to a set of recessed pot lights aimed at the podium under construction. “It will light it up, very dramatically. And, I was thinking, maybe we need a soundtrack to play in the background. What do you think, Dee?”
Adeena frowned. Once the exhibit opened in two weeks all the flirting in the world wasn’t going to help her get close to the Duncan. Only that dim-witted music technician would get to play it as part of the cello’s maintenance regimen.
“Well?” Tara repeated, still waiting for Adeena’s response.
“I think that for once, Tar, you need to trust me,” she huffed. “I can maintain the Duncan Cello better than any jerk-off music tech guy, and we both know it.”
“Can we discuss this somewhere else?” Tara responded as the carpenter chuckled to himself. Pablo stood beside her, rocking uneasily.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put it quite that way,” Adeena said softening her tone. “The Duncan Cello needs a professional musician to play it. Is there no way around this stupid security certificate thing, Tar?”
“Absolutely not,” Tara replied forcefully. “You know Dee, I’m really tired of always cleaning up after you. It’s not my job to be your fairy godmother and grant your three wishes whenever you don’t get your way.”
“So that’s it, then?” Adeena asked. Why couldn’t Tara relax for once in her life, quit drinking all that fucking bureaucratic Kool-aid?
“Yup. No means no. You simply cannot play that cello without a security clearance.” Tara pronounced with an air of finality. “End of discussion.”
Adeena snapped. Losing access to that cello was worth fighting for, even if it meant losing her job and her best friend. “Thanks Tara. You’re a great administrator,” Adeena snorted. “Protecting the government from bad girls like me. What’s next? You going to post my criminal record on Facebook? Why don’t you just trust me?”
Tara glared at Adeena fuming. “That cello is worth five million dollars, Adeena!” Tara replied. “It’s not a matter of trust. If something happens to it, and we void the insurance, then we’re–”
“Fucked?” Adeena barked in a mocking tone.
Pablo and the carpenter both grimaced and looked at Tara.
“You’re out of line, Ms. Stuart,” Tara bristled.
“Good!” Adeena shouted. “I’m tired of being in line, following all your stupid rules that make absolutely no sense! You’ve got a cellist with the NAC Orchestra and you hire a high school drop-out to play a precious instrument he can barely even tune?”
“He’s a drop-out with Level I Security Clearance! I bet he doesn’t have a police record!”
“Yeah, that’s because he still lives at home sucking mother’s milk all day!”
“You’re dismissed Ms. Stuart,” Tara said coldly. “Please leave.”
“Gladly! Good luck opening your exhibit in two weeks! Your other slaves are all out getting lobotomies at the mall. I’m sure they’ll make great researchers!”
THE INSTRUMENTS IN Thomas Peeters’ shop in Gatineau across the river from Ottawa, did not come cheaply.
For the past twenty-five years, the luthier, had created nearly a
whole orchestra worth of stringed instruments including reproductions of originals created by Antonio Stradivari. Thomas, who started working on violins at thirteen, studied violin-making in France and Italy after leaving Belgium and honed his craft across Europe with specialized training in the restoration of baroque-era stringed instruments.
More than a few members of the NAC Orchestra played on a violin, viola or cello created in his small Victoria Street workshop. Thomas spent time getting to know each musician who commissioned an instrument from him. He wanted to understand their preferences regarding the tone they wanted, the comfort and playability sought, and of course the overall look of the hand-crafted instrument he would create for them. He finished each one lovingly, in the knowledge it would be played for many years and handed down from generation to generation.
Adeena had heard about Thomas Peeters from Walter, who played one of his cellos and often talked about the lutheir’s understanding of the relationship between musician and musical instrument. Walter said Thomas was a master craftsman, who was moved by the music that was produced by the cellos and violins he created. He even cared for each of his ‘children’ long after they left his workshop, with regular maintenance and ever-so-precise adjustments.
Adeena, cooling off after locking horns with Tara, was at home scowling at her computer screen. She regretted letting her temper get the better of her. Tara was a true friend that she had always relied on. Maybe someday I’ll be there for her, Adeena thought.
If only she could get that broom out of her ass.
Tara needed something or someone who would sweep her off her feet. Somebody who showed her that ecstasy doesn’t come from balancing a budget or writing another fucking report.
Trying to stay focused, and put Tara out of her mind, Adeena continued to browse Thomas Peeters’ website. She read about his background and training. His workshop blog was full of detailed accounts about the instruments he created or restored, and the musicians he had worked with over the years.
She read how Thomas sometimes replicated instruments that inspired him, such as the The Lady Tennant, a violin crafted in 1699 by Antonio Stradivari. It survived dozens of owners, numerous wars and ended up in Scotland where Sir Charles Tennant gave it as a gift to his wife Marguerite, an amateur violinist. It was sold in 2005 for over $2 million and was loaned to the Belgian violinist Yossif Ivanov. Apparently Thomas was so moved by the story of the violin’s journey to his fellow countrymen, that he devoted himself to a painstaking recreation of the baroque-era instrument.
Adeena picked up her phone to call him. She had a very special assignment for him.
One she hoped he would not be able to resist.
THOMAS PEETERS’ WANTED to get to work a little earlier than usual this morning.
He swept a hand over his receding hairline as if stroking his shock of chestnut-coloured hair would somehow propel him more quickly down the street. Thomas had an extra jump in his forty-five-year-old legs today. He touched his glasses as he caught sight of his quaint two-storey red-bricked shop, which lay just ahead of him. He was more eager to be at work than he had been in some time.
His workshop, home to many of the same tools used by stringed instrument makers for the last three hundred years, took up the first floor of a renovated two-storey house on a little street near the Canadian Museum of History. As he turned the key and opened the heavy wooden front door, he wondered about how he should handle the strange request he had received yesterday afternoon.
The National Gallery of Canada needed a replica of the Duncan Cello, and they needed it fast. He had been dying to see it since he learned it was in Ottawa, and now in a few minutes, a woman from the gallery was bringing it for him to see first hand. She was a friend of Walter Leo, one of his oldest and most loyal customers.
While a pot of his aromatic loose-leaf English breakfast tea sat steeping near his workbench, he scanned his email and opened a web browser. Within a few minutes he had found the Duncan Cello and began reading about its history, and its creator Robert Duncan of Abeerdeen. Thomas studied pictures of the cello closely. He guessed that its creator had spent time in Cremona, Italy. Robert Duncan might have even worked with Antonio Stradivari himself according to the background information he read, adjusting his reading glasses as he absorbed the information on his screen.
Thomas sat back and poured himself a steaming mug of tea. As he stirred in a little sugar, he wondered what it would have been like for the young Scottish craftsman to apprentice with the master himself. What secrets had he learned? What insights had he gained into the acoustics, the varnishes, and a hundred other tiny details that only someone who created an instrument from bundles of raw wood could truly appreciate?
A knock on the front door startled him from his thoughts. As he sat his mug down, the front door opened slowly. He stood up from his stool.
“Hello?” a woman called out. She stepped inside, holding a large Bam cello case, usually reserved for shipping instruments overseas. He knew the hard shell silver-grey case was designed to protect its precious cargo suspended snugly inside on plush cushions.
“Hi!” he responded, stepping closer to greet her. “Thomas Peeters. Let me help you with that.” He took the cello case from her and stood it beside him.
“Thanks. I’m Adeena. We talked yesterday on the phone?” she said. “Thank you so much for making time to see me.”
Thomas looked at the young woman standing before him. Her long copper-tinged hair and green eyes were striking. Somehow she had the look and carriage of a classical musician, the featured virtuoso.
“No problem. Thank-you for calling me,” he replied. “Come-in, come-in. I just Googled your cello and was reading about it. Fascinating!”
Adeena’s eyes lit up and the force of her smile almost knocked him over. What was it the Borg used to say to their victims before they were absorbed into the collective?
Resistance is futile?
A beautiful classical musician carrying a five-million-dollar baroque instrument could have just about anything she wanted in this workshop.
“Let’s take a look at your cello,” he smiled, as Adeena took off her jacket and placed it over a chair. He laid the case down on the floor. She leaned over and unfastened the latches of the Bam flight case, revealing another cello case nested inside. Gingerly she opened the second case, revealing the prize he had been so anxious to see. She stood back after opening it, so he could see it for himself.
“The Duncan Cello,” Thomas said reverently, absorbing the full majesty of the old instrument. He sighed in appreciation. “Oh! Verrrry nice. Yes, I can see he must have learned his craft in Italy. I think he apprenticed in Stradivari’s workshop.”
“Robert Duncan? The man who built the cello?” Adeena asked.
“Yes. His style is definitely influenced by Stradivari, and from what I’ve been reading, he likely spent time in Cremona, perhaps even working with him,” Thomas replied. He carefully lifted the cello from its case and laid it on the blanket that covered his work bench.
Adeena sat down on a stool beside Thomas as he delicately examined the cello, like a jeweller inspecting a precious gem. He used a lamp attached to a hinged arm positioned over his bench to illuminate the instrument, studying every edge and groove of the antique subject that lay before him.
“Can you do it?” Adeena finally asked. “In a week?”
Thomas looked up and studied the young woman sitting beside him. This was no government bureaucrat. There was a fire inside her that could melt stainless steel.
He thought for a moment before responding. “The replica you need, it’s for display only? No one will play it?” he asked.
“No musician will play it,” she said, with what sounded like a hint of sarcasm. “It’s really just for display, but it’s has to look exactly like the real Duncan Cello. We need a kind of ‘stunt double’ to fill in for the exhibit, whenever the real one is . . .” she hesitated for a moment. “You know, removed from the ex
hibit. The real Duncan needs to be played every day.”
He nodded. It did make sense, and he knew that if this was essentially a prop, he could meet the deadline, as long as he dropped everything else.
“You play, right, Adeena? Did I hear you say you’re with NAC Orchestra?” he asked.
“Yes, I just got offered a position. We’re starting rehearsals this week,” she replied.
Thomas smiled and offered his hand to her. “Congratulations! I knew there was an opening. That’s quite an accomplishment.” He offered her his hand. “Would you do me the honour of playing for me? I’d love to hear the tone of this cello. I’ve been wondering about it since you called me yesterday.”
“Oh,” she hesitated, and Thomas wondered if he was being too forward. Some musicians didn’t need much coaxing, especially when he created the companion so integral to their artistry. But not all musicians felt that way.
“Yes, certainly. It’s so special to play,” Adeena said, lifting the instrument from it’s case. She looked up at Thomas. “I have some music that was first performed on this cello in the 18th Century.”
Thomas took a step back and sat down as she got ready to play for him. This was turning out to be quite a morning.
11
ADEENA DREW THE cello closer to her, like an old friend. Thomas watched her intently as she prepared to play. He was someone who truly appreciated the Duncan, but even he did not realize its significance. And as with Walter, she felt a sense of trust for him. Here was a craftsman who devoted himself to the relationship between musician and instrument - the personalities of each fusing to create texture, tone and, if both had it within them, the expression of human emotion.
Adeena closed her eyes, focusing on the lost score. She had come straight from the National Gallery to this little shop a few blocks away, not knowing how things might unfold. She looked again at Thomas, who sat transfixed. He was waiting for her to bring the Duncan Cello to life.
Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I Page 11