The day, bright gold, waited for him. And the morning papers, full of festival news.
He reached for his robe, dropped a gentle kiss on the woman’s brow, and went down the hall to wake the child.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
PROVENCE. MORNING, JULY 8
Sugarman tossed his file on the table and moved to the window to stare down at the narrow courtyard and alleys of Aix. He’d meant what he’d told Beckett. Orsini was close, he could feel it. But he was missing something. What?
Too many things just didn’t add up. He went over the questions in his mind once more. There was always a damned trigger.
His thoughts kept spinning back to Yale. Why had Victor joined the CIA in the early eighties when he’d been so committed to art, to music? It made no sense. Victor had been looking forward to taking his rightful place in the arts world, and then everything changed on a dime. What had been different in those last weeks before graduation?
He closed his eyes. Dinners. Thesis. Those late-night talks about the future, in their suite, in front of the fire.
An image took shape. Sugarman sitting in their suite, gazing into the fire. Alone. Where had Victor been? He stiffened. Of course. Victor’s mother had died. Victor had gone to New York for her funeral. But he’d been gone a long time. Five, six days? Too long. Where had he gone, what had happened? Could his mother’s death have set everything else in motion?
* * *
The wall safe in the quiet, book-lined library stood open. Victor Orsini sat at his desk in the light of a single lamp, gazing down at the letter in his hand. On the smooth ebony desktop, a huge old-fashioned key glittered in the light.
Thank God Sofia had not known about this safe. He shook his head, lifting his mother’s letter to the light.
His given name, Vittorio, was written across the pale vellum envelope. His mother’s spidery script brought back vivid memories of long-ago summers spent in the gardens at the villa in the hills above Florence. The cool sharpness of lemonade on the lips, shifting shadows of the umbrella pines, the scent of late summer roses on the breeze. And the sounds—his mother’s melodious voice, the scratch of her fountain pen in the lovely old notebook, the chords of a violin shimmering across the lawn.
He had been called Vittorio then. He and his sister had been born and raised in New York City, where his father owned several art galleries and his mother taught music on the Upper West Side. But every summer they’d returned to their mother’s villa, while his father stayed in New York.
Then one night, when they were away in Florence, his father died alone in New York, the victim of a gunshot wound when he’d tried to stop a random mugging. His father had been hailed a hero. He’d always believed that the pain shining so brightly in his mother’s eyes was because she hadn’t been able to say goodbye.
In 1978, when he’d gone off to Yale to study philosophy, music, art, he’d been convinced that his future was ordained. To walk in his father’s footsteps, running the successful global art business inherited from his father, having perhaps a second home in Southern Europe, a wife, children. Concerts at Carnegie Hall…
When the men in dark glasses and suits had come to his Yale suite that first time, in the fall of his senior year, with their invitation to join them in Washington, he had laughed in their faces and turned away.
But then his mother had died the month before he was to graduate. And he was given the letter by her lawyer, and the key to her villa in Florence, at the funeral. He had read his mother’s letter—her confession—and in that sickening instant his life was claimed by darkness.
Orsini slipped the letter from its pale cream envelope, gazed down at the black, spidery script.
My Son,
I have been keeping a terrible secret from you and your sister. Now you deserve to know the truth. Your father was not a hero, not the man you believed him to be. The crimes he committed, they are horrific, beyond understanding. But you must know. You must make amends for all of us.
You cannot imagine how it was for us in Florence in 1943, the year of the German Occupation. My beloved Firenze, I never could speak of it to you. Before the Germans came I had my home, my friends, my music. Your father, a friend of my cousin’s, ran a small art gallery not far away. We all had a modest life, even with Mussolini in power. Then Hitler invaded. We were occupied, and life changed forever.
One of my family’s friends was Signore Felix Hoffmann. An Austrian Jew, he left Vienna with his wife and young daughter when the war began, to open a gallery near the Duomo. He had many beautiful paintings, but he specialized in rare music—old scores, autographed manuscripts by the great classical composers, beautiful handmade instruments.
I often took his daughter, Rebekkah, to the park. Signore Hoffmann knew I played the violin, and one day he invited me into the back of his shop, where he showed me a signed Vivaldi score, a Stradivarius violin, and an original Bach concerto. On the table was an inlaid wooden box, engraved with his name—The Felix Hoffmann Gallery. I can still see it. Inside was the most beautiful del Gesù violin I had ever seen, once played by Paganini. Imagine.
“Come next week,” he smiled, “and I will show you my greatest treasure, a violin concerto I found in an attic in Vienna. The most beautiful concerto ever written.”
I counted the days, but when I returned to his gallery, the windows were smashed. Huge yellow swastikas were painted on walls now bare of paintings. The safe broken open, empty. There was no sign of the del Gesù, no sign of Signore Hoffmann, no sign of my gentle friend Rebekkah. Nothing was left. And then I knew that our friends were lost, along with “the most beautiful concerto ever written”
I later learned that the Hoffmanns had been taken to the trains, in the middle of the night. I never saw them again. I never discovered what happened to the del Gesù or the violin concerto Signore Hoffman had found.
In the weeks that followed the Hoffmann family’s disappearance, hundreds of Jews were deported. Friends and neighbors. Artists and musicians. Bread lines were commonplace. We all lived in fear. Our beautiful bridges and churches and homes blown up.
And then the soldiers came one night to your father’s gallery.
Do you know that Hitler, at one time before the war, was a practicing artist? He actually dreamed of building his own art museum in his home town of Linz. And so he gave his orders. My God, the looting, the confiscation, the destruction. Canvases, sculpture, music, religious treasures. Priceless pieces hidden, auctioned, sent out of the country, or burned.
Hitler believed that the Impressionists, the Modernists, were morally degenerate. Your father had a Murillo, a Picasso, a gorgeous Cézanne in his gallery. They would have been destroyed, along with so many other confiscated, beautiful pieces, and he couldn’t bear it. He made a deal with the Germans.
Your father became a collaborator.
He stored and auctioned pieces for the Nazis, bought Old Masters and whole collections at the very lowest prices from our Jewish friends when they fled. Or from those who were under unspeakable duress to sell. And in return, he was allowed to keep most of the pieces in his gallery. I suspect he stole the occasional piece from a confiscated collection as well, before it was sent on to Germany. Stealing from the thieves. Stealing from our friends.
I did not know any of this, when I married your father just after the war. Or even after we emigrated to America. I found out just after he died.
This is the key to my villa in Florence, closed for years, where he hid so many priceless pieces of art, so many rare musical scores and books. The treasures that allowed him to build his business empire in the US, on the backs of so much suffering. The continuing source of money that paid for our home, and Yale, and your sister’s education and competitions as well.
I cannot bear to tell Bianca. Please, protect your sister from this terrible legacy.
Now, only you can make restitution. You must do the right thing.
I love you still, Vittorio mio. Always take care of you
r sister,
It was signed, simply, Your Mother.
Victor Orsini’s breath was harsh in the quiet library, remembering. Feeling the guilt stir once more, he gazed down at the huge, ornate metal key shining in the pool of lamplight on his desk.
After the funeral, he had taken the key and flown to Florence in a haze of disbelief and horror. And there, hidden in the dusty attic of his mother’s villa, he had found a fortune in missing art and music. Shocked, sickened, overwhelmed, he’d known he needed help. Who could he call? Who could he trust?
An hour later, he’d dialed two numbers in the United States, spoken at length to two people from his past. People he trusted with his life. Then, with their guidance, he’d rented a truck and, in the dead of night, moved all the canvases and manuscripts to a safer place. And then he had flown home to graduate.
Guilt-ridden, frightened, desperate—with no idea what he was going to do—he was only sure of one thing on the flight home. There was only one person left in all the world that he loved now. He would protect her, and their terrible secret, with his life.
But that first night after he’d returned to Yale, the suited men from Washington had shown up at his doorstep once more. And this time, he was not given a choice.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
AIX-EN-PROVENCE. EARLY AFTERNOON, JULY 8
Pretending to read the newspaper at a rear table in Café des Deux Garçons, Beckett gazed at the ancient city of Aix-en-Provence. The Golden sat quietly beside him, wary but calm, brown eyes fixed on the sidewalk violinist. Beyond the musician, rows of high leafy plane trees shaded the fountains and exclusive shops of the Cours Mirabeau.
“American concert pianist Magdalena O’Shea is in Aix-en-Provence for tonight’s concert at the Palace of the Archbishop.” Beckett looked down at her photograph. Law couldn’t miss the International Herald Tribune article. If he didn’t show up at the café, they’d find him tonight.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the young Frenchman sitting to Beckett’s right. The colonel raised his head. Maggie O’Shea was walking toward the flowered entrance to the café.
“Easy boy,” whispered Beckett. “We’re not supposed to know her, remember?” The Golden gave him a considering look, but remained blessedly still.
Maggie’s hair and eyes were completely hidden by a wide straw hat with a massive brim, trimmed with a green ribbon that fluttered down her back. Long earrings dangled like wind chimes from her ears. Her skirt was long, loose, and honey-colored, swinging softly with each step. Today, when every other woman in sight wore a “Festival de Musique” t-shirt, Maggie’s shirt proclaimed “ETUDE, BRUTE?” in bold yellow letters.
Something about the way she looked in the dappled sunlight, and the way the silvery chimes danced when she moved, caused more than one head to turn.
* * *
Beneath the broad-brimmed hat, Maggie’s eyes were focused on the Café des Deux Garçons. Zach’s café. She was certain every passerby could see the thumping of her heart beneath the thin t-shirt.
She’d spent the late morning like every other tourist, exploring the cobbled squares and shuttered eighteenth-century homes of Cézanne’s city. Now, it seemed perfectly natural to stop for a glass of wine at one of the outdoor cafés strung like bright beads along the broad, tree-shaded avenue. She remembered the words of the usher at the theatre in Paris. Deux Garçons, Gideon’s favorite café.
A white-gloved hand stopped her.
Maggie stared into the white-painted face of a mime. Suddenly, magically, he produced a huge bouquet of scarlet poppies. Pleading broadly, whistling a popular French love song, he postured for the tourists in the café.
Maggie began to whistle a Mozart melody and returned a single bright poppy to the mime before presenting the bouquet to a startled passerby. Then, to the smiling applause of the café patrons, she moved to a just-vacated table.
* * *
Beckett raised the newspaper to cover his face. Damn if she doesn’t whistle better than I do, he thought. In classical, no less. If Law was in Aix, he’d damn well know Maggie O’Shea was in town. The mime had more than earned the fifty euros Beckett had paid him.
He watched her lift her face to the scattered sunlight.
* * *
The glass shook in Maggie’s hand. She took a long swallow of wine and forced herself to glance casually around the noisy brasserie.
Several men sat alone or in small groups under the bright umbrellas. She eyed each one carefully. No one looked familiar. She turned to search the faces behind her and saw Beckett’s eyes on her.
A woman nearby was relating an amusing story about a snapped cello string, a man’s low voice answered.
She fingered the green ribbon blowing across her cheek, and drank her wine.
Three men entered the café. One, talking to his companions, had his face turned away from her. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the dark, curling hair she remembered. Suddenly unable to breathe, she willed him to turn toward her.
He swung around as if he’d heard her thoughts, and she caught her breath.
His eyes touched hers, paused admiringly, moved on. Light eyes. Not Zach.
Dear God. She stood abruptly, dropped too many euros on the table, and left.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
THE LUBERON HILLS. EARLY AFTERNOON, JULY 8
“Goddamn it!”
Gideon stood in front of an oak armoire in the bedroom of the Luberon farmhouse. An empty envelope dangled from his hand.
The dark-haired woman, curled in a chair by the window, watched him tensely. “What is it, chéri?”
“First no newspapers delivered this morning, then the trouble in the winery. And now—where are the tickets, Celeste?”
She looked away. “Dane came by. When you were in the vineyard.”
“Dane’s back? He was here?”
“Yes. He said he needed tonight’s gala tickets for Victor.”
“So you gave him the tickets, just like that? Without asking me?
“Please, Gid. I’m sorry. You weren’t here and—you know how Dane frightens me.”
Gideon turned angrily from her. It wasn’t her fault. But to miss tonight’s concerto… Suddenly he stiffened. “Celeste. What about the abbey tickets for tomorrow afternoon?”
“He took all the tickets.”
“Damn him to hell! Where is Dane now?”
“He left hours ago.” She raised a delicate hand to his chest. “Gid—”
Gideon pulled away from her. “Then I’ll find him.”
“No!” She gripped his arm. “Please, Gid,” she whispered. “You’re scaring me. It will be dark soon, chéri, it’s too late. Don’t leave me.” Her hand moved down his chest to his flat stomach. When her fingers reached the brass buckle, his hand closed over hers, stopping her.
“Please,” she pleaded. “Just for tonight. We’ll go to the abbey tomorrow, I promise you.” Her hand loosened the narrow belt. Warm fingers slipped lower, lips moved across his breastbone. Her tongue was hot and quick, the small fingers demanding.
He sighed and moved against her.
“Gid, let me love you. We will make our own music tonight, yes?”
She took his hand and sank to the floor as the setting sun turned her skin to gold.
I’m going to that performance tonight, Celeste, he told her silently. I can call in a favor, get another ticket. No matter what you say. Or do.
He bent over her.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
AIX-EN-PROVENCE. EVENING, JULY 8
In the intimate inner courtyard of the eighteenth-century Palais de l’Ancien Archevêché—the Palace of the Archbishop—the stage lights dimmed. A hostess dressed in white showed Maggie to her tenth row center seat just as the first violinist of the Orchestre de Paris strode onto the stage.
The open-aired courtyard was small, steep, and bowl-shaped. Maggie had arrived early to wander the aisles of the roofless theatre in search of Zachary Law. To her surprise and pleasure, she
had spoken to many old friends and colleagues in the music world. But not the man she sought. Now, one final time, she searched the expectant faces around her. No bearded, sensitive face, no dark brooding eyes in the dusky light.
She turned to scan the upper tiers behind her. There, off to the side, was the colonel. He touched his forehead in salute and folded his arms across his chest.
Maggie smiled and returned her eyes to the stage as the oboist tuned the orchestra with the oboe’s long one-note A. The program in her hand announced that the evening’s All-Tchaikovsky program was a Gala Benefit for the Performing Arts of Provence. Surely Zach would never miss the Piano Concerto No. 1? Not when it had consumed him—possessed him—that long ago Boston summer.
He’s here, she thought. I feel him.
Applause broke into her thoughts. The conductor was taking his bow, then sweeping his arm toward the wings to welcome the French soloist. Like an expectant child, Maggie crossed her fingers and held her breath.
A tall dark-haired man strode forward. Her heart skipped in her chest. OhdearGod…
A stranger’s face turned to the audience. She exhaled slowly. Foolish, to hope Zach might have walked out onto the bright stage.
The young soloist settled himself at the Steinway grand piano. Just for a moment, Maggie was eighteen again, breathless and blinded by the searing spotlight, sitting at the newly tuned Baldwin on the stage of Boston’s Symphony Hall. Trembling hands clasped in black silk lap, unable to control the wild beating of wings against her ribs. Trying like hell to remember the opening notes of the Rachmaninoff Concerto No. 2 in C minor.
You won’t forget the opening passage, Slim.
And Zach had been right. You won’t forget, she told the soloist now.
The conductor raised his baton for a beat of silence. Then the huge introduction of Tchaikovsky’s B-flat minor concerto, which critics still insisted was in the wrong key, began with the call of the horns. The pianist’s hands descended into an ocean of sound. Maggie wondered again why Tchaikovsky had never repeated this haunting opening theme anywhere else in the concerto.
The Lost Concerto Page 21