Eighty Days Red

by Vina Jackson

  Fran was waiting for me in the wings minutes after I made my exit, having pushed through the crowd and flashed her backstage pass and a smile at security so that she could congratulate me. She stared at Chris as the crowd went wild, and the lights swept over the band one last time as they left the stage, fingers of green and red light gleaming against the hard wooden floors.

  ‘He’s pretty good,’ Fran said.

  ‘Chris? Yeah, I know. He’s like a different person when he plays.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Just more confident, I guess. And I can see you all getting into the music, like you’re high or something …’

  ‘We’re not. Always been very boring like that. Chris is massively anti-drugs, says he doesn’t want to upset his creative flow by fucking up his brain cells.’

  ‘Fair enough …’

  I left her looking after our jackets in the wings, and headed off to hunt down a couple of drinks, taking advantage of the short break between acts. We didn’t get that many big acts in New Zealand, and even then they always went to the major centres: Auckland or Wellington, sometimes Christchurch. Neither of us had seen that many gigs at home. Fran seemed content drinking it all in, and staring up at the Academy’s starry ceiling which even after several visits to the venue still made me feel as though I was watching a show outdoors.

  I returned just in time to see the stage lights dropped into blackness, save for a single red spot that lit up the centre of the stage. A trapdoor had opened and a cage was slowly rising out of it, with Viggo Franck inside, crouched over with his hands wrapped around the bars in a gesture of defiance. He raised his head and grinned as the cage reached level with the floor, and I was almost deafened by the high-pitched screaming of the women in attendance. Fake smoke bubbled across the stage and when it dissipated, the cage had disappeared and he was standing with his legs apart wearing virtually the same outfit I’d seen him in the other day. Low-slung black jeans, leather boots, a ripped T-shirt. If it wasn’t for the fame, and that Casanova aura that hung around him, he could have been any guy in a pub in London, though definitely not the sort that you would introduce to your mother.

  He was on stage for about an hour and a half with his band, building to a final crescendo with a track from his first album, Underground, a song with a screeching guitar solo in the middle which he played on his knees, leaning over backwards so that his head rested on his ankles. He reportedly practised hot yoga in a special sauna room in his mansion and my mind immediately wandered when he demonstrated his flexibility.

  Fran elbowed me in the ribs after the show, as we headed off to find Chris and the others.

  ‘You know you’re going to be one of dozens, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re presuming I’m going to sleep with him.’

  ‘Well, obviously. Just so long as you know you’re not the only one. Probably not even the only one today.’

  ‘You think I should avoid him?’

  ‘God no!’ she said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘How many chances does a girl get to fuck a rock star? Go for it. Just make sure he covers his loving, won’t you.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot …’ I replied, remembering that the first time I’d slept with Dominik we hadn’t used a condom. A stupid mistake that I hadn’t repeated since. With anyone.

  ‘No helmet, no ride,’ Fran added, giggling as one of the stagehands hovering by the dressing rooms glanced at her and lifted an eyebrow quizzically.

  The scene in Viggo’s dressing room was quieter than I expected. He was sitting on a stool drinking a bottle of beer and Chris and Ted were relaxing on a black vinyl couch pushed against one of the walls. The rest of Viggo’s band had gone out to track down some more drinks. The room itself was fairly stark. Walls painted white with A4 printed signs warning occupants not to smoke belied the ashtrays that rested on the dressing table. Ella was leaning close to the mirror, wiping off her make-up with baby wipes.

  They applauded when we walked in. Viggo’s gaze lingered on Fran’s short shorts. ‘Hey, our little star!’ Chris said. ‘They loved you.’

  ‘They loved you guys, more like. Listen to it out there.’

  A bunch of fans, most of them women, had gathered around outside and were shouting ‘Viggo, Viggo’, and occasionally ‘Chris!’

  ‘Chris isn’t a very sexy name,’ I said to him, cheekily. ‘You should change it.’

  ‘So everyone keeps trying to convince me,’ he said, ‘but it’s too late now. I’d feel like a fool.’

  Viggo put his beer down, grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him, so I was standing between his open legs. I was wearing a short skirt with tights, and could feel the scratch of his denim brushing against my legs. His touch hit me in a rush, like a glass of champagne going straight to my head, and I had to force myself not to fall straight into his arms.

  ‘So, darling,’ he drawled, ‘did you bring your violin? Will you play some more for us later?’ He rolled the word ‘later’ as though he was referring to something much more X-rated.

  ‘I would love to,’ I replied breezily, resisting the urge to press my body against his. It was one thing to hook up with an obvious womaniser in private, but quite another to do it publicly. I didn’t want to be the butt of Chris and Fran’s jokes for the next decade.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we should go.’

  The crew had loaded everything into a couple of vans out the back, and arranged to take Chris and his band’s stuff back to the studio where they’d pick it up next week, leaving us free to travel in Viggo’s cars, a couple of fairly nondescript black sedans with tinted windows. He apparently drove a black 1987 Buick most of the time, but preferred to keep his anonymity after shows.

  The cars pulled up to a gated complex in Belsize Park. It was about 2 a.m. by the time we got there, and the neighbourhood was deathly quiet.

  ‘Loads of celebrities live on this street,’ Chris whispered to me. ‘And their unsexy names didn’t do them any harm.’

  ‘I see your point, but I’m sure plenty of people would disagree.’

  ‘There’s no pleasing some people,’ he replied, rolling his eyes at me.

  The interior of Viggo’s mansion was nothing like I expected. No snakes in tanks, or aquariums full of nude women swimming as had been rumoured. The place was barer than bare, almost spartan, but for a few art pieces positioned to catch the light. A sculpture of a bird with its wings outstretched was suspended from the ceiling. A spiral staircase in pale timber and metal snaked up the centre of the room.

  ‘Is that a Hirst?’ Fran asked, staring at a long oblong painting, a white background covered with perfectly round coloured dots.

  ‘God no,’ Viggo said, standing a touch closer to her than I was comfortable with. ‘What kind of person do you take me for?’

  I stared at the painting more closely, noticing tiny m’s painted in the centre of the coloured dots like sweets.

  ‘Clever,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Viggo replied. He was running his hand lightly up my skirt, brushing his fingers against my stockinged thighs. I shivered in response. ‘I don’t like things that aren’t clever. Now, come upstairs with me, the show hasn’t finished yet.’

  The second floor was much more like I had imagined. The place looked like a harem, furnished entirely in deep-red and purple with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, plush, goldcoloured carpet and an array of black leather couches in unusual shapes that I suspected were designed for activities that might be pictured in the Kama Sutra. In the centre of the room was a fountain, and in the middle of the fountain, a lifelike statue of a woman.

  At least, I thought it was a statue, until she gracefully unfurled a hand and pulled a pin out of her long, blond hair which tumbled around her shoulders. She turned slowly to face us, revealing small bare breasts and totally smooth genitalia.

  Her movements were subtle and beautifully executed, as far away from the stereotypical stripper as you could imagine. She
had positioned herself in such a way that the water bursting from the fountain appeared to flow up her legs, stopping just as it reached the barrier created by her flesh. Next to her pussy was a tattoo of a tiny gun.

  A dim memory began to echo in the recesses of my mind. The world was full of dancing girls, but I’d only seen one who moved like this, with an identical weapon marked into her skin.

  It was the Russian dancer who had performed at the place, a private club in New Orleans that Dominik had taken me to. I recalled with a flush of humility and arousal how, after we had watched her impossibly erotic dancing, Dominik had instructed me to dance for him on the stage. I had done so, nude but for ruby-red nipple rings and a butt plug.

  Luba.

  She met my eyes and smiled.

  4 The Angelique

  The small shop in Burlington Arcade where he had bought Summer’s violin was shuttered, although it was already mid-afternoon. Dominik peered through the glass door and noticed piles of mail gathering dust on the floor on the other side of the narrow letter box. A notice on the door redirected enquiries to a telephone number which he noted down.

  He rang it later.

  There was no answer.

  He tried again at hourly intervals.

  Around ten in the evening he was just about to hang up on his final attempt for the day, after

  letting the phone ring for several minutes, when someone finally picked up.

  The man sounded elderly and spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘It’s about the store in Burlington Arcade,’ Dominik explained.

  ‘You should get in touch with the letting agents,’ the man answered.

  ‘That’s not why I was calling,’ Dominik said. ‘I was once a customer. Bought a violin there.

  I just had some questions I wanted to ask …’

  ‘We went out of business. I decided to retire. Just not worth the bother any longer,’ the man said. ‘I don’t think I can help you.’

  ‘Were you the owner?’ Dominik asked.

  The man’s voice didn’t sound at all like the assistant who had sold him the Bailly. ‘I was.’

  ‘I don’t think we met. Your colleague sold me a beautiful instrument, but I’m now keen to

  find out more about its history, the previous owners …’

  ‘Weren’t you supplied with a certificate of provenance? He should have provided one.’ ‘I was. But the information proved quite sparse.’

  ‘You can’t expect me to remember chapter and verse on every instrument that went through

  our hands, surely?’

  ‘I know. But I was just wondering …’

  ‘Why?’

  Dominik hesitated for one brief moment. How could he explain it? That he was clutching at

  straws? That he wanted Summer to come back into his life? That he had become a writer with nothing to write about?

  ‘It’s difficult to explain. The person I bought the violin for is—’

  The other man cut him short. ‘Was it the Bailly?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Dominik admitted, surprised.

  ‘Ah …’

  ‘So …’

  ‘Listen, it’s late. Why don’t you call me tomorrow morning; not too early though, and maybe we can arrange to meet up.’

  ‘Absolutely. I’d love that.’

  The shop’s owner lived close to Dominik, in north London, his house a ramshackle cottage off a private road near Highgate Village. The front garden was overgrown, the lawn peppered with weeds, and rose bushes which hadn’t seen a trim in ages. The front doorbell didn’t work and Dominik had to repeatedly knock hard before he heard any signs of life inside.

  The moment the man opened the door and peered at him, Dominik recognised him. Somehow the soft voice on the phone had made him think the man was much older than he actually was. He was, at worst, in his late fifties. He had seen him before. Twice, in fact. And each occasion was lodged deep in his brain.

  He had been present at two of the most excessive parties Dominik had attended on the London scene during his wilderness months. More of a voyeur than a major participant, the man had usually faded away after his initial enjoyment of the woman who had volunteered to be at the centre of attention, and then had spent the rest of the evenings sipping a glass of white wine and watching the others – and Dominik – as they continued to play with and use the woman. Dominik had initially found the situation a little creepy, but by then the action in the room had taken over his attention.

  The instrument dealer’s rheumy eyes looked at him. There was no sign of recognition. He evidently did not remember Dominik. After all, the sights on display on those particular infamous hotel room evenings had been pretty distracting and more notable for bodies and body parts than faces.

  ‘We spoke on the phone – I’m Dominik,’ he introduced himself.

  ‘John LaValle. Come inside.’

  He led the way to the front room. A massive grand piano sat at its centre, its top littered with a mess of old, yellowing newspapers, partitions and broken-spined books.

  LaValle showed him to an old leather armchair and sat himself down on the piano stool to face him. He offered Dominik a drink, which Dominik declined, and helped himself to a measure of Scotch from the adjacent liquor cabinet.

  ‘Keeps me alert, you see,’ LaValle said, pointing to his glass and the amber liquid stirring inside it before taking a few slow sips.

  ‘You weren’t at the store the day I acquired the violin,’ Dominik remarked.

  ‘No. A great pity. My colleague, who left my employment shortly afterwards, felt he could make a bit of a name for himself and please me by disposing of it. As a matter of fact, I had no intention of selling that particular instrument.’

  ‘Oh. Why?’

  ‘It was a collectors’ item. Strictly speaking, worth so much more than what you ended up paying for it,’ LaValle said. ‘It had only come into stock a few weeks earlier through a lawyer in Germany disposing of an estate’s assets, unaware of the violin’s value or significance, and I was of a mind to keep it for myself, bring it back here. I felt it would be safer under this roof …’

  ‘Safer?’

  ‘It’s an instrument that has a habit of getting lost.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  LaValle ignored his question. ‘But I gather it’s no longer in your possession. Did you intentionally purchase it for a third party?’

  ‘It was a gift,’ Dominik confessed.

  ‘To Summer Zahova. A rather expensive gift, no?’

  ‘How did you know that?’ Dominik asked.

  The older man rose, leaned over to the piano top and pulled a folded poster from the mass of papers lying there, unrolled it and, with a flourish, presented it to Dominik.

  It was the poster that had initially been produced to advertise Summer’s first solo concert. Cropped just beneath her chin and below her midriff, although allowing for a cascade of red curls to emerge like tentacles from the unknown space above, it showed her torso and stomach, her breasts artfully concealed by the body of the violin, its deep orange burnish contrasting with the pallor of her skin.

  It was erotic and intriguing and had no doubt played a major part in attracting a sell-out audience to her performance, drawing a crowd to the venue where the face of the mysterious violin player would be revealed.

  Dominik realised he never did try and obtain a copy of the poster at the time.

  ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘It’s surprising that no one appears to have noticed at the time that the violin displayed in the photograph was the Angelique,’ LaValle pointed out. ‘It’s so distinctive.’

  ‘The Angelique? I was told by your colleague at the time that it had been manufactured by a French luthier called Bailly. His name appeared on the pegbox, beneath the strings.’

  ‘Oh yes, Bailly was the man who created the instrument. But he made many such violins. It’s just that this particular one comes with a lot of history. An interesting man, our Mr Bail
ly. Very interesting indeed. Most violin makers, luthiers as you put it, were initially Italian, but Bailly was one of the few French artisans who carved a distinctive reputation for himself in this delicate trade.’

  Photo © www.mattchristie.com

  LaValle took a further sip of his whisky.

  ‘I assume you’re not a collector of vintage instruments, seeing that you passed the violin on to Miss Zahova, so I was wondering what is now your interest in it?’ he asked Dominik.

  ‘I just collect books,’ he replied. ‘That’s enough of a pastime. I was just curious. I was thinking of writing something about musical instruments. A novel. And having been involved in this particular Bailly violin to a certain extent, I thought it could be a starting point for my research.’

  ‘How interesting.’ LaValle nodded.

  ‘I’d love to know more. You’ve certainly whetted my appetite,’ Dominik pointed out. ‘You mentioned something about the instrument getting lost?’

  ‘More to the point, stolen,’ LaValle said. ‘In fact, during the fortnight I had the instrument in safe storage at the store in Burlington Arcade, there were two breakin attempts. More than we’d experienced in the previous twenty years we’d been in business. Highly suspicious. Not that anyone knew it was there. We never advertised it, whether in store or in our catalogues. I’d barely had time to identify it after it came in from Germany. Whoever it was tampered with our alarm system, broke a few cabinets and locks but never located the safe where I had stored the Angelique. Unfortunately, the breakins affected our insurance premiums, yet another reason for winding the business up a few months later, although by then you’d acquired the instrument. I’d been running it for too long, and was getting bored with the work. But don’t let me bore you with talk of business rates and taxes …’

  ‘No, I’m fascinated.’

  ‘And Miss Zahova has it insured, I hope, and in a safe place whenever it’s not being used.’

  ‘I assume so. We don’t see much of each other these days.’

  ‘How sad. She appears to be a striking woman.’