Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I

by Steve Moretti

  “What’s that?” Adeena replied, glancing at her mother.

  “Do you love him?”

  Adeena sighed again. She stared straight ahead and bit her lip. A tear formed in her eye and rolled down her cheek. “I don’t know. I really don’t know!”

  Another tear slowly followed the path of the first. Jackie reached over and patted Adeena softly.

  “You’ve had a lot to go through, belle. Losing Grandma Stuart, the audition, and all the stress of trying to live up to your dreams. You’ve always wanted to make music, to be a cellist, and suddenly you’re rehearsing with one of the top orchestras in the world,” Jackie said in a low, soothing tone. “You look exhausted. Maybe marriage is too much to think about right now.”

  “It’s not that!” Adeena cried. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Did you not hear what I just said? I don’t know if I love Philippe! How can I marry someone I don’t love?”

  The mother and the psychologist inside of Jackie struggled for control. She weighed a range of options from both perspectives until finally the mother prevailed.

  “You don’t love him? Of course there are going to be doubts. I get it. You’re both strong-willed, and passionate about what you do for a living. You’re so busy with your own careers. I know how much he wants to be your husband. He’s talked to your father and me so many times about you and about the plans he has. This is just my opinion, but I think he would always be there for you, no matter what life throws your way.”

  Tears were streaming down Adeena’s cheeks now. “There’s only one problem, Mom,” she said, her voice quavering.

  “What’s that, belle?”

  “I think I’m falling in love with someone else.”

  THE REACTION TO the Art of Rebellion exhibit far exceeded anything Tara had expected.

  The press, the public and her gallery colleagues were crazy for it. Day after day they set new attendance records. Her boss, André, gleefully sent her updates on ticket sales, along with links to news coverage, social media ‘Likes’ and ‘Tweets,’ along with notes he was still receiving from dignitaries. He praised her managerial skills and sent a stream of compliments on her organization and the unique design of the exhibit.

  There was only one snag. The Duncan Cello. It was the attraction that so many visitors wanted to see with all the newspaper write-ups and the social media buzz, the photos, and the TV coverage. But something wasn’t right. Friedrich Lang’s comments on the night of the opening stayed with her in the days following the event.

  Had she imagined his doubt about the authenticity of the instrument?

  Why did he say those things and what did he know? Is it possible the National Museum of Scotland sent the wrong cello? That hardly made sense. They made such too big a deal about insurance policies and required registered letters from the Minister for them to have screwed that up. She knew that while it was possible, it was extremely unlikely, given the care and protocols and all the documentation they had required before and after shipment of the instrument.

  She had to get to the bottom of this.

  “Pablo,” she called out from her office. “Have you got a second?”

  Her assistant appeared at the door, with a cell phone at his ear. He raised a hand to Tara as he finished off the call. “I’ve got to go, Laureen. I’ll call you back.”

  “Sorry, didn’t know you were on a call. How’s your wife?”

  “Great. She says hi. We’re going out tonight, first anniversary.”

  “Congratulations, Pablo. You two are great together.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Kormos,” Pablo replied, putting away his phone. “What can I help you with?”

  “First thing tomorrow, I need you to get me all the expense claims and receipts related to setting up the new exhibit,” Tara responded, looking out over the glass walls of her corner office. She turned to Pablo and added “Particularly, anything to do with the Duncan Cello itself.”

  WILLIAM CHECKED HIS backpack one more time to be sure he had packed the diary. It was there, sitting right on top. He didn’t trust his aging memory which routinely deleted the clutter of everyday details. Maybe there was only so much room for important stuff - like the history of Europe for the last one thousand years.

  He and Murdo were on their way to the archives in Dundee. As they entered the outskirts of Arbroath, William reviewed what he knew of the little Scottish seaside town. It was here in 1320 that the Declaration of Arbroath was drafted and sent to the Pope, declaring Scotland independent from English rule.

  As important as this declaration was, some claiming it was the model for a group of colonials in America to draw up their own declaration of independence, it paled in comparison to Arbroath’s other gift to the world according to Murdo, who shifted down a gear as they reached the town’s old harbour.

  “Ye ever had a smokie?” he asked as they parked in front of a line of weathered fishing dinghies.

  “I’ve heard of them,” William replied, glancing at the huge sign advertising ‘Oor ane’ - Arbroath Smokies - Sold Here! He stepped out the car into the bright sunlight. “Any good?”

  “Any guid?” Murdo replied in disbelief. “Treasure o’ the sea!”

  William laughed. He loved Murdo’s enthusiasm, and it was nice to have the distraction. As they made their way toward the little fish house across from the harbour, William felt like egging Murdo on a bit more. “Exactly what is a smokie? An ‘Arbroath’ smokie?”

  “Only the finest tasting fish in all the world. Ye know how they’re made?”

  “Smoked haddock?”

  “Aye, smoke to perfection, Will. Absolute perfection! But you need to do it just right, or they’re not worth a damn.” Murdo was in his element now. “Ye start with fresh sounded haddock - put them in a salt tub to get them ready for the fire.”

  “Sounded?”

  “Headed and cleaned. After ye salt them and wash ‘em off really well, tie them together in pairs by the tail with some hemp twine and get your smokie pit ready.”

  “You’ve done this, I take it?”

  “O’ course. Worked summers here going to school. My job was to dig holes for the whisky barrels. I lined ‘em with slate to make a fire in them. Then we fetched the fish on sticks and the smokie-maker took over.”

  “A smokie-maker?”

  “Oh indeed. They know just how much smoke you need, how much to dampen the cloots depending on the day. And after about an hour, when the fish turns golden brown, we take‘em off,” Murdo said. “Had many a taste, straight off the barrel!”

  William was taken with his description. In fact, he soon found out he could have gone further in his praise. They bought a few smokies ‘hot off the barrel’ and the taste was as Murdo claimed pure poetry.

  Finishing off their quintessential Arbroath lunch, Murdo spotted a fellow he knew across the street. “Excuse me, Will. Need tae ask my mate about the sheep auction in Aberdeen.”

  “Take your time Murdo,” William said, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. “We’ve got lots of time. I’m going to get a coffee.”

  As William sipped his steaming ‘white’ coffee he flipped through the diary he had grabbed from the car. He found the entry for 10, September, 1745 that he had skimmed a few days ago.

  He re-read it carefully.

  “George has betrayed me. And he draws sister Katharine into his traitorous design.

  The two have escaped Kinnaird by deceiving the men I had stationed to guard them, to prevent my family from making another disastrous decision. I know not where they fled, but I have reason to believe they travelled to Perthshire and Drummond Castle.

  I have dispatched Finlay, both father and son, to bring them back, and also sent a courier to warn my officers in Montrose that we may soon need to gather the regiment.

  If Katharine, who I suspect has been drawn under Jacobite influence, has developed affections for Drummond, I will deal with her sternly, and confine her if need be - until the head is torn from the bo
dy of this rising. Her petulance lately has become loathsome, and I fear she may need a long period of solitary discipline. Oh, but the Tower in London be closer, to provide its strong antidote.

  As for George, all may be lost with him.”

  William closed the journal and looked across the fishing boats of the harbour. Except for the outboard engines, the dinghies were probably much like the boats that had plied these waters for centuries. He laid the diary on the table and considered the passage. He didn’t remember mention of Katharine and George leaving. He thought that the entry had talked about how the Captain and his brother had walked together and argued about the history of the Union with England.

  Or had he read that at all? If only he had taken a picture of it, he could be sure.

  He took out his phone and snapped a few shots of the pages for this entry. It seemed to him that passages he had already re-read were not the way he remembered them previously. The photos would help ensure he wasn’t treading down the family road of psychosis. Might be an idea to take pictures of all of the entries for the week of September, 1745. He drained the last of his coffee and flipped through the next few pages.

  He was sure the diary entry for 10, September, 1745 had changed. Now it appeared that Katharine and George had fled to Drummond Castle, and that Katharine’s reasons had to do with James Drummond, the Duke of Perth.

  After Murdo dropped him off in Dundee, he needed to make his way to Drummond Castle.

  ADEENA SETTLED INTO her chair on the stage of Southam Hall.

  This was her first formal rehearsal as a member of the National Arts Centre Orchestra. What a difference from the last time she sat on this same stage, scared and trembling that her future depended on how she performed.

  My future.

  She considered the phrase for a moment. Is it in the past?

  Adeena looked over the pages for the cello section of Friedrich Lang’s Voyages of Destiny suite. The music sitting on the music stand, was a line-for-line transcription of the score. Katharine’s music. Her music. She studied the conductor going through his notes at the podium in the centre of the stage.

  She saw Walter and Maria arrive, and wondered about their take on Lang’s blatant plagiarism. Maria walked over to the violin section, waving to Adeena with a smile. She recalled Maria’s passionate plea to share the music with the world. Letting Lang steal it probably wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

  Walter went directly to the conductor’s podium. They exchanged a few words, then walked off the stage together, engrossed in animated discussion, before disappearing behind the black curtains. Maria picked up her copy of the sheet music and walked over to Adeena.

  “I can’t believe you’re letting him get away with this,” she said. “Your grandmother sent you that score from her death bed. This is not his music!”

  “I know. I’m just not sure what I can do.”

  “Too bad we don’t know who really composed it.”

  Adeena was silent, but Maria was fired up. “He’s printing copies of this music like he owns it, because he knows it’s never been published, never been heard before. It’s a crime no one will ever know the real composer. He must have been gifted.”

  “He?”

  “Yes, the guy that composed this work. It’s a damn outrage that Herr Lang is going to get all the credit, instead of him,” Maria said.

  “What makes you think it was composed by a man?” Adeena asked, raising her eyebrows.

  Maria studied her for a moment. A big grin washed over her face. “Oh! I guess it’s my general bias. I suppose technically you could be right, but then women didn’t generally do a lot of composing in the 18th Century, did they?”

  Adeena stood up and turned toward the direction that Walter and Lang had exited the stage. “They did indeed, Maria. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

  ADEENA FOUND FRIEDRICH Lang and his principal cellist a few yards behind the heavy black stage curtain. They were engaged in a heated exchange. She paused a moment, hidden in a dark fold, not wanting to reveal herself just yet.

  “You have a choice, Walter. Play the music, or leave.” Lang hissed.

  “I’ll only play it if you credit the real composer,” Walter shot back.

  “No one knows who he is, for Christ sake! I’m the one putting my career on the line here,” Lang snarled.

  Before Walter could respond, Adeena stepped forward. “I already told you who the real composer is.”

  The two men turned toward her, startled.

  “What? Who?” Lang snapped.

  “Katharine Carnegie, from Scotland. She wrote it in 1745 and performed it with a chamber ensemble. It was a big hit, too. Spellbinding, in fact,” Adeena said.

  “Can you prove that, Adeena?” Walter asked.

  Lang looked at her, his face contorted in anger. She turned toward Walter, trying to deflect Lange’s scorching gaze. “I don’t know, maybe,” she responded. “There’s probably something. There must be a record of it, somewhere.”

  Lang grinned. “Sounds like wishful thinking, Miss Stuart. Maybe you should spend more time rehearsing, instead of threatening me. You’re still on probation you know.”

  “You need to give the credit for this work to her, Mr. Lang,” Adeena replied. She was trying to be professional.

  “Give credit to who? Some fantasy woman of yours?” Lang sneered. “I’m the one bringing it to the world, arranging it for an orchestra, staking my reputation on it. I damn well will take credit for this music. It’s as much mine as it yours!”

  “Wow!” Adeena said, looking the conductor straight in the eye. “And I used to admire you.”

  Walter stepped forward, but before he could say anything Lang interrupted. “You two have a choice to make,” he started. “You can be part of the symphony, shut your mouth and play the music. Or, I can fire both of you.”

  Walter and Adeena looked at the conductor in angry silence.

  “And Walter, before I let you go, I could call your wife if you want, to tell her about your adventures in London. I’m sure she would love to know about your evenings with Maria,” he said with a wicked smile.

  Walter winced at the statement. He glanced at Adeena and then looked back at the conductor. “You bastard.”

  Lang sneered. He seemed to enjoy the power he wielded. “I’m sure your Mrs. would love to know about the morning I found Maria naked in your bed.”

  Walter grimaced. “I didn’t . . .” He looked as if he had more to say, but then seemed to decide against it. He looked over at Adeena, who held her mouth in shock. “Oh shit! Adeena, I didn’t . . . I didn’t want to it go that far. It was only once. We had too much wine. Way too much, I swear!”

  Lang wasn’t done. “Ah, that’s not really true Walter. You and Maria still make such a nice couple.”

  “Leave him alone!” Adeena said.

  “Oh yes, your highness,” Lang retorted. “And let me ask you something Cinderella, with all your high fucking moral standards. Tell me, are you taking good care of the Duncan Cello up at your cottage?”

  Adeena froze. “What?”

  “Oh, c’mon. You know what I’m talking about. You missed the grand opening of your big exhibit. Everyone was there, including me and the mayor, and a bunch of airheads from the government,” Lang said. “Oh, and also someone I think maybe you might know? Ms. Tara? Your boss from the National Gallery?”

  “What are you getting at?” Adeena asked angrily.

  “The big group of important assholes were all there to admire the one and only Duncan Cello,” he continued, his voice rich with sarcasm. “Too bad all they got was a nice fake piece of shit. Oh, it looked so much like the real five-million-dollar instrument to the assembled idiocracy!”

  Walter turned to Adeena. “What’s he talking about Adeena?”

  She hesitated, reluctant to admit anything.

  “Secrets,” Lang answered. “All of us have a few, don’t we? I think it’s best they remain that way and we focus on creati
ng music and letting our sleeping dogs lie. Unless you want them to bite you.”

  Adeena said nothing. She stood for a few moments in silence before she let out a deep sigh and followed the two men back onto the stage of Southam Hall.

  18

  ADEENA POURED HERSELF a glass of wine, and stood in the kitchen of her condo, looking out over the Ottawa River that kept Québec from sliding into Ontario. She noticed there were two missed calls from Philippe on her phone and also a text message from him:

  Dinner? I’m leaving in the morning. Let me spoil you

  She swiped the message back and forth on her phone, as if she was toying with his offer. The glass of chilled Pinot was calling to her and she sipped it thoughtfully, unable to form a response to the simple text message.

  Who am I kidding?

  Adeena was trying to think of a reason why she couldn’t have dinner with him, and yet there really wasn’t anything she could come up with.

  Gee Philippe, I know you love me, my parents think you’re amazing, you have a great family, a good job, you want kids, you love adventure, travelling and making love to me, but . . .

  She poured a little more wine into her glass.

  But I’d rather blackout and dream that I’m another woman from the past with another man no one else will ever meet.

  Adeena took her phone and typed a response:

  Okay. Where?

  While she waited for a reply, she got up and walked towards her bedroom, thinking about what she should wear tonight. The Duncan Cello, sat in the corner, still in the special double-lined travelling case she used to transport it,. She felt an almost magnetic attraction tugging at her as she tried to walk by it. She wanted to ignore it.