Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

by Steve Moretti

  I want to perform there, she thought as the elevator reached the fourteenth floor.

  When she turned the key and opened the door to her condo, she was surprised to find lights on. She looked over to see Philippe sitting at her dining room table

  “Hi,” he said, getting up and walking toward her. “I still have a key, and wanted to see you. Hope you don’t mind”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m surprised you’re still talking to me.”

  “Well, I’ve done a lot of thinking,” he said. “You’ve been through a lot, and maybe you’re just not ready, with everything that’s happened. And everything that’s happening, with you.”

  He stepped forward and gathered Adeena in his arms. They said nothing as they both closed their eyes and held each other.

  “Thank you,” Adeena said, as she looked up at him. “I must be the worst…”

  “Shhhhh,” he said, putting a finger to her lips. “Don’t. Don’t put yourself down. You’re my inspiration. My suffering artist, the musician who stole my heart.”

  “You’re not mad at me? Are we still a…”

  “Yes. I’m mad at you. But I’m more mad at myself for not understanding you. I still want you, still want us. I want a future with you, hopefully as my wife.”

  Adeena nodded. Maybe he did understand her, and could give her the space she needed. “Thank you, Philippe. I’m sorry I’m not easy to be with, or easy to..”

  “Stop, babe!” he said with a smile. “Can we just focus on tonight? You must be hungry after the day you’ve had.”

  “Starving.” It was then she noticed a spread of take-out food containers on the counter from the Thai restaurant they liked. “Oh, nice.”

  Philippe released her and moved to the counter. He poured her a glass of wine and she took a long taste. “That’s just what I wanted. God, I just want to crawl into a hot bath and escape. What a strange day.”

  “Strange, good?”

  She took another sip. The dry, slightly fruity flavours of the wine lingered on her tongue. She closed her eyes for a second as she savoured the taste. “Not sure about good. More like strange, holy fuck.”

  Philippe grinned. Adeena wondered if she was a little too coarse for his refined sensibilities. If so, he made no protest, but just smiled, nodding his head as he reached for the bottle and refilled her glass.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Relax.” She sighed and flopped down onto the sofa as he walked away.

  “Where you going?” she called out.

  “To run your bath,” he responded heading for her ensuite bathroom. “Go ahead. Tell me all about your ‘holy fuck day.”

  PHILIPPE LISTENED TO Adeena’s story carefully as the deep tub filled with steaming hot water. He nodded at the details while he brought her a plate of crispy Thai spring rolls stuffed with shrimp. She dunked them in the plum sauce and launched into an animated recounting of her encounter with Friedrich Lang.

  Philippe was intrigued. As a Parliament Hill reporter, he was used to the games played by people in authority. He liked bringing them down with the power of his pen. The credit though, really went to the contacts he had nurtured over the years. Secretaries, chauffeurs, executive assistants – all trusted him to keep their identities anonymous as they shared details of damaging indiscretions of their bosses. Once he could substantiate a claim, he moved in like a leopard, methodically stalking its prey.

  “So let me understand this,” he summarized, carrying Adeena’s empty plate back to the kitchen, “Lang takes the original copy of the score your grandmother sent to you, transcribes it as if it’s his own, and now threatens to fire you and tell Tara you’ve been using the Duncan Cello, if you say anything?”

  “Yup, that’s pretty much it.”

  Philippe turned it over in his head.

  He spooned some of the red curry shrimp dish Adeena liked so much, pouring it over a mound of sticky rice. He added a few of the pineapple and peppers from the sauce, and as he carried the plate over to her, he knew this had all the trappings of a great story. Too bad it was outside his beat. He could try pitching it to the City Editor, or maybe someone on the entertainment desk. “Lange’s taking an awful chance,” he said handing her the plate. “If this got out, he’d be ruined.”

  Adeena took the plate and nodded her head in agreement and then looked away, seemingly lost in her own world. He had a feeling there was more to her story, something she wasn’t telling him.

  He studied her. She was everything he had ever wanted in a partner. A radiant beauty with a gift for music and a love of art. Yes, she also came with a huge helping of stubbornness, a feisty attitude that bordered on insulting. And she had turned down his marriage proposal. At first he thought they were through. But he wasn’t ready to give up so easily.

  He and Adeena had been intense lovers at first, but it had mellowed over the past year and he wasn’t really sure why. Was it him? Was he too focused on his career? Was he taking her for granted?

  Philippe poured more wine into Adeena’s glass. She looked up at him with a worried expression, biting her lip. “There is something else, something I need you to understand,” she said.

  He reached for her hand, pulling her up off the sofa and leading her toward the open door that led to the bath he had drawn. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  AS ADEENA SLIPPED into the hot bath she felt the world slip away. Soothing warmth enveloped her, relaxing every strand of her aching body. She slipped deeper into the tub, warm pleasure flowing right up to her chin. She closed her eyes. She wanted to purr.

  “Feel better?” Philippe smiled, watching her from the corner of her bed.

  “Ohhhh, yes… “ she sighed. Her clothes lay on the floor of the ensuite bathroom connected to her bedroom. Philippe had silently watched her undress and she sensed his arousal as she slipped naked into the bath. He had a coy look in his eyes and a smile that could be seen from space.

  “The view from here is spectacular,” he grinned. “Now, what was it you were going to tell me, anyway?”

  Adeena didn’t respond. She was floating. Serene, warm, weightless.

  She looked over at Philippe. “Come here.”

  He pointed to himself. “Moi?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  Philippe slid off the bed in one move. “You’re too far away,” she whispered.

  He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and sat on the ceramic tiles on the edge of her oversized Jacuzzi-style bathtub. He began to massage her head, slowly working his fingers through her hair.

  “Mmmm,” she moaned. “That feels good.” Adeena closed her eyes and felt the last vestiges of tension evaporate. He massaged every inch of her head and the small of her neck, and then slowly caressed her cheeks with the back of his hand. “Ahhh…” she sighed.

  His hands drifted lower into the warm water. He moved his hands over her breasts rubbing her nipples with his finger. She raised her arm out of the water and brought it to his face, tracing her fingers over his mouth.

  “I want you,” he whispered.

  She wrapped her arm around his head and drew him close. He bent down and Adeena put her wet arms around him. He kissed her tenderly. She responded willingly, exploring his mouth with her tongue. Their faces remained locked together a long time before he reached around, scooped her up to a standing position and carried her to the bed.

  Their foreplay continued until she just had to have him inside of her. Adeena wrapped her legs tightly around him, urging him on with uncharacteristic ferocity until finally her screams echoed throughout every space of her apartment.

  AFTERWARD, SHE LAY on the bed listening to Philippe’s breathing. He was recovering from the most intense lovemaking they had experienced in months. The pent-up tensions from the last few days were gone.

  Adeena stared up at the ceiling and then toward the window at the twinkling lights of the Ottawa skyline. It reminded her of the candlelight ambiance of Kinnaird. Images of her musical performances in the castle flooded over
her. She closed her eyes. She had to make sense of what happened when she played the Duncan Cello.

  “I need you to understand something – help me figure it out,” she said, reaching over to touch Philippe’s bare chest.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Adeena, that was truly, amazing.”

  She turned her head towards him and looked at him in the soft light. She turned over the details of her journeys to Kinnaird, not sure what they represented, how it was possible or if perhaps she was losing her mind. But she needed to talk to someone about it. Someone who would just listen.

  “You know that I’ve passed out every time I have played that score my grandmother sent me – every time I’ve played it on the Duncan Cello,” she started.

  “Every time? I know it happened when you played for me. It was pretty strange, but . . .”

  “But, what?”

  “I didn’t realize it was every time you play.” He seemed confused. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It’s every time I play that music on the Duncan Cello. I’ve performed it three times. Each time I’ve passed out.”

  Philippe sat up on the bed. “What? What are you saying, babe?”

  Her eyes grew teary. “I don’t know. I really, don’t know!” she half-sobbed, sitting up. “I need to understand what’s happening.”

  He put his arms around her. Her bare skin against his felt good. After a few moments Adeena pulled away and looked at him.

  “Okay, now you have to listen, please.” She stared into his eyes. They were wide open, clear, and she hoped – understanding. “When I pass out, I go into another world, and I . . .” she paused, looking away, and then back at Philippe. “I . . . become someone else. Someone in the past I think, in Scotland.”

  Philippe stared. He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Who?” he finally said, forming the words slowly. “Who do you become?”

  “Katharine . . . Katharine Carnegie, the sister of George and his brother the Captain. They’re on opposite sides of the Jacobite rising of 1745,” Adeena replied, studying his expression carefully.

  He stared at her, confused. His eyes darted back and forth. He said nothing.

  “I don’t know what it means,” she continued softly. “It’s like Katharine and I are … well, somehow, we are the same person, only living in different times. I perform her music, music that I started to compose years ago, and I even sing, words that have been in my head for years.” She looked away. “I sing music that feels like it has always been inside of me. Music I’ve been searching to complete my whole life.”

  Philippe released his hold on her. He studied her without saying anything.

  “What?” she pleaded. He just stared. The silence was deafening. “For God’s sake Philippe, say something!”

  “I’m sorry, Adeena,” he finally replied. “I don’t know . . . I just don’t know what to say.”

  “Tell me you believe me,” she said through desperate eyes. “Tell me I’m not bi-polar, schizophrenic, or just plain fucking crazy.”

  “Babe,” he put his arms around her again, trying to comfort her. “Maybe we just need to find some help.”

  “Help?” she sobbed. “What do you mean?”

  “Passing out like this, I think there’s something very wrong. Didn’t you say your grandmother had issues, and she used to tell you all those stories when you were a kid?”

  Adeena pushed him away and moved backwards on the bed. She wrapped her arms around herself, covering her breasts and holding herself tightly. “You think I’m going crazy, don’t you?”

  Philippe hesitated for a moment. “No. I didn’t say that. But I am worried about you passing out. And migraines?”

  “I don’t need medical advice, Philippe,” she said staring out the window. “I just need you to listen, to help me understand what’s going on.”

  “Adeena, please. Maybe you’re just having some kind of, I don’t know, some kind of intense dream. You’re a musician and you finally made it with the NAC orchestra. That’s all you’ve talked to me about for years. Maybe this is all coming from the stress you’ve been under, with your grandmother passing away and Lang stealing the music?”

  Adeena gripped her arms around herself even more tightly.

  He would never understand.

  She shook her head, wondering if everyone would have the same reaction. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” she muttered. “The one person I needed most in the whole world to just listen, and try and understand.” Her eyes were dry now. Her resolve was stiffening.

  She climbed off the bed and stood naked, staring out at the city through her window.

  “Babe, wait,” Philippe looked up at her imploringly from the bed.

  “You think I’m a nut job, right?” Adeena replied. She suddenly felt exposed, standing before him undressed. She crossed her arms wanting to hide herself from his gaze.

  He didn’t reply. She turned and walked into the ensuite bathroom and closed the door.

  “One thing I can try to do,” Philippe said raising his voice so she could hear him through the door, “is to help expose Lang. I know how to deal with his type.” She said nothing, and waited until she heard him in the kitchen running the water, before she opened the door to her bedroom to get dressed.

  She pulled on a baggy sweat shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms and walked toward him in the kitchen. “And for the record, I am not crazy,” she said, walking out of her room. Her tone was cold. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I do need to find someone to talk to.”

  “You can talk to me,” he replied in a hurt voice.

  “Wrong! You might be a good reporter. But you’re a lousy counsellor.”

  “I’m sorry. I am having a hard time understanding how you can become another person when you play that music. You might feel like you’re this Katharine woman, but I have seen you pass out, right here in this very room.”

  “So what?”

  “So, you don’t go anywhere! You pass out and it must be that your mind takes over when you do. It probably feels like you’ve gone back in time or become another person, or whatever it was you told me,” he said.

  “Did you even listen to me?”

  “Yeah, you go to a castle in Scotland in the 18th Century, right?” Phillip said defensively.

  “You’re mocking me now. Thanks a lot for the support!”

  “Adeena, it’s all happening in your mind. You don’t actually go anywhere. You think you’re travelling somewhere, becoming someone else and it feels like it’s really happening. I get that.”

  “No, you don’t understand shit!”

  “Adeena, please!”

  “You think I’m a fucked-up space cadet, right? A strange little girl who goes on mind trips without drugs, ‘cause she’s half cuckoo.”

  “I never said that! Why are you getting so mad at me for trying to help you?”

  “Help?” she shouted. “Help me? Right! Your idea of help is taking me for shock therapy at the Royal Ottawa nut house!”

  “I just said you needed to see someone,” he retorted. “You think it’s normal to pass out and have hallucinations where you think you become another person? And what about those migraine headaches?”

  Adeena stared at him. He was making sense.

  And that pissed her off even more.

  13

  THOMAS PEETERS HAD outdone himself this time. Re-creating a faithful reproduction of such a rare and precious instrument was not just a job for him. It was a love affair.

  The passion that drove him was something only another luthier could understand. For almost a week he had laboured over the re-creation of an instrument that needed to look exactly like the cello Robert Duncan had brought to life in his 1736 workshop. And not just because Thomas had been hired to do this, it was more about honouring the ancient craft and the original craftsman.

  Ms. Stuart had let him photograph every detail of Duncan’s ancient instrument. He got the photos printed as large full
-colour matte prints which he taped onto the walls of his workshop.

  No detail of the Duncan Cello was too small to escape inspection. The thick canted neck, attached with a rectangular-headed nail, had been a challenge. He had discarded a few attempts before he was satisfied that he had created an exact duplicate. He carefully matched the colour of the nail with a dab of stain mixed with some rusty shavings.

  The fingerboard, which reached about halfway to the cello’s upper corners, was surprisingly easily to build. The wood seemed to understand his intentions as it yielded to his skilled hands. But the problem became the two decorative white lines scratched around the edges. For hours he studied the photos, peering through the jeweller’s loop he kept around his neck. As he studied the detail, Thomas marvelled at Duncan’s workmanship.

  The cello’s one-piece back was a completely different challenge, covered with intricate inked purfing, also applied on the belly. He tried over and over without much luck, to re-create the effect, getting more frustrated with each attempt. Late into the night he finally left it to work on the tailpiece. Its unusual trapezoidal shape curved in slightly and was attached to the spikeless end button by a wire gut.

  Thomas finally went back and finished the purfing using a stencil he created to guide him. It worked well, after he practiced applying it to some scrap wood. He stood back and shook his head in satisfaction after three hours of detailed, precision painting.

  Perfection!

  As he applied the coloured varnishes, after much experimentation, and tightened strings around the pegs, he admired what he had created. Not having to worry about the tone and timber of the cello had let him focus solely on the look. His array of electronic toys for measuring every aspect of vibration, frequency, volume, tonal range, and a dozen other aural elements had not been needed.

  This was a ’stunt-double’ cello, that belonged in Hollywood, not Carnegie Hall.