by Paul Adam
Three encores followed before it became obvious that Yevgeny wasn’t going to reappear, whereupon the audience began, reluctantly, to disperse. Margherita, Guastafeste, and I left the cathedral and walked across the Piazza del Comune to the town hall. The square was floodlit, almost as bright as day, and crowded with concertgoers making their way home or to restaurants for a late dinner. We crossed the courtyard in the centre of the Comune and paused by a door, where an official checked off our names on a list—struggling to find them until he located a supplementary sheet of late additions.
A long flight of stone stairs took us up to the Salone degli Alabardieri on the first floor; then we passed through an arch into the Salone dei Quadri—the Salon of the Paintings—a long, narrow room with a high ceiling and walls hung with paintings by Boccaccino, Miradori, Cossali, Cattapane, and others, some of them four metres high and five or six metres wide. A doorway on the far side of the salon led to the most famous room in the town hall, the Sala dei Violini, where the city’s collection of fine string instruments is kept, including violins by Stradivari, Guarneri, and Amati. The room was closed this evening, a uniformed security guard standing outside it to keep people away.
We helped ourselves to glasses of wine from a table and retreated into a corner. I glanced longingly at the door to the Sala dei Violini. I would far rather have been in there, studying the great luthiers’ inspiring creations, than out here at a civic reception. I generally do everything I can to avoid formal functions like this. I loathe the shallowness of them, the tedium of the small talk, all these people I do not know twittering on at me like tepid water dripping from a tap. But I wanted to see Yevgeny. Our encounter that afternoon, our confidential discussions, had made me feel close to him. I wanted to tell him how much I’d enjoyed his playing.
“Gate-crashing, eh, Gianni?” a voice said beside me.
I turned, to see Vincenzo Serafin gazing up at me, his mouth twisted into a grimace that I think was meant to be a sardonic smile.
“I thought this party was for movers and shakers only,” he continued. “If I’d known they were letting anyone in, I wouldn’t have bothered coming.”
He gave a harsh, humourless laugh and glanced at the two people accompanying him.
“You know Maddalena, of course.”
I nodded politely at his mistress, a stick-thin fake blonde with the sharp face and angular body of a fashion model. She sniffed disdainfully at me, then looked round the room, her eyes bored and vacuous.
“And this is a friend of mine from Paris,” Serafin said. “François Villeneuve. This is Gianni Castiglione. He does work for me from time to time. When I can’t find anyone better.”
I ignored the slight—I think it was a joke, but with Serafin, you can never be sure—and shook hands with Villeneuve.
He was a short, goatlike man with crooked, slightly buck teeth, a shock of untidy grey hair, and a covering of pale fluff on his chin that was too insubstantial to warrant the term beard. He gave the impression of good-natured affability, until you looked into his eyes. His eyes were cold and cloudy, like chips of frosted glass.
“How do you do?” I said. “Are you here for long?”
“Just a few days,” Villeneuve replied in hesitant Italian.
“You are staying in Cremona?”
“At the Hotel San Michele.”
“God knows why,” Serafin said sourly. “A provincial little backwater like this. He could be in Milan with me, a real city. But he wanted to see how the yokels live.”
“I hope you enjoy your stay,” I said. “Have you been here before?”
Villeneuve shook his head.
“This is my first time. But it seems an attractive city.”
“First impressions can be deceptive,” Serafin said. He tapped me on the chest with his forefinger. “I’ve got a violin I want you to look at for me. It might be a Bergonzi, but then again, it might not.”
“I’m a bit busy at the moment. I’ll have to check my diary,” I said coolly.
“Busy?” Serafin said, his lip curling. “What, scraping away at bits of wood? I don’t know why you modern violin makers bother. You heard that sound tonight. Doesn’t it make you want to go away and slash your wrists?”
“Not everyone can be a Guarneri,” I said.
“No, thank goodness. If Guarneris were two a penny, where would dealers like me be? I sat there this evening and, you know, I was strongly tempted to dash out, snatch il Cannone from Ivanov’s hands, and make a run for the exit.”
“Yes, but you’re not really built for running, are you, Vincenzo?” I said dryly.
He gave me a sharp look, then forced a thin smile.
“What I wouldn’t give to own a violin like that,” he said. “What’s it worth, twenty million? I have clients who would pay fifty million for it. Probably more.”
“We’ll bear that in mind,” Guastafeste said. “Should anything unfortunate happen to the Cannon.”
“Oh, yes?” Serafin said. “And you are?”
“This is Antonio Guastafeste. Of the Cremona police,” I said, enjoying the moment.
Serafin’s eyes narrowed. His tongue flicked out and touched his lips nervously. Then he recovered himself, waving an arm in the air expansively.
“I’m just talking, of course. Who wouldn’t want the Cannon? I’m sure Gianni here would, wouldn’t you, given the chance?”
“What for?” I said. “To shut away in a bank vault or a private collection? It belongs to the people. It should be heard; it should be played. The last thing I want is to own it.”
Serafin patted my arm in an exaggerated gesture of sympathy.
“That’s why you’re just a simple luthier, Gianni, and I’m a millionaire.”
He took Maddalena by the arm.
“Come on, darling. Let’s see who else is here.”
They moved away across the room, weaving in and out of the groups of people, searching for someone more worthy of their attention.
“What a horrible little man,” Margherita said. “Is he always like that?”
“Not always,” I replied. “Sometimes he can be quite unpleasant.”
“How on earth do you work with him?”
“He’s a very successful dealer, very well connected. And occasionally—very occasionally, when he wants something—he can be perfectly charming.”
“Who’s the blonde with him, the clothes horse? His wife?”
“I love it when you’re catty,” I said. “No, Serafin’s wife is kept hidden away in the country, like one of those madwomen in gothic novels. I’m sure it suits her as much as him. Maddalena is his mistress.”
“She’s a bit young for him, isn’t she?”
“Mistresses of rich men tend to be,” I said.
A white-coated waiter came past with a tray of canapés. We helped ourselves, then spent an amusing few minutes trying to spot the celebrities at the reception. The footballer was there, of course, accompanied by a woman who was even blonder and thinner than Maddalena—if such a thing were possible. Guastafeste pointed out a couple of flashy local businessmen who, he claimed, had links with organised crime, and Margherita thought the man holding court at the other side of the room was a well-known fashion designer from Milan, or possibly a film actor—she couldn’t be sure which. For Cremona, it was an impressive turnout. We are not quite the provincial little backwater Serafin sneered at to his French friend, but neither are we a sophisticated, cosmopolitan city like Milan, our close neighbour to the northwest, in whose preening shadow we have always lived. We like it that way, of course. We are quiet people, without great pretensions. We are happy to remain watching from the wings while the Milanese shout and strut about on the stage.
I sensed a sudden movement in the room, the guests shifting sideways, repositioning themselves as a phalanx of men in suits swept into the chamber. The group marched to the far end and broke apart to reveal Ludmilla and Yevgeny Ivanov and the mayor of Cremona in their centre. The room fell sile
nt. The mayor held out his arms, as if to embrace us all, and launched into a speech of great length and even greater tedium. He welcomed the Ivanovs to the city, then veered off at various irrelevant tangents, clearly under the delusion that someone other than his fawning acolytes was interested in what he had to say.
Throughout the whole rambling address, Ludmilla stood straight and attentive, obviously relishing being the centre of attention. But at her side, Yevgeny was a picture of embarrassment, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on the floor, which, unfortunately for him, showed no signs of opening up and swallowing him.
Finally, the speech came to an end. There was a brief round of applause and then the guests got back to the more pressing business of talking and drinking and being seen.
“What a load of drivel,” Guastafeste said in disgust.
“The fellow’s a politician,” I said. “He can’t help it.”
“Can we go now?” Margherita asked.
“In a minute,” I said.
I’d just noticed a skinny figure in a black dress suit creeping stealthily round the perimeter of the room. Yevgeny Ivanov stopped next to us, his back pressed to the wall like a cornered animal. Margherita, Guastafeste, and I closed in round him, sensing instinctively that he needed our protection. He seemed lost for words, so I congratulated him on his performance.
“Thank you,” he said in English. “But it was not just me. It was the violin, too.”
“You have il Cannone with you?” I asked.
“The insurance company men take it away from me. It is on its way back to Genoa now.”
“It must have been quite an experience, playing Paganini’s violin.”
“Yes, amazing. My own violin is Stradivari, but it is nothing compared to the Cannon. The sound, it will seem very thin now.”
He looked anxiously round the room, keeping his head down, as if he didn’t want to be spotted.
“I am glad you are here,” he said in a low voice. “These things, I hate them. Strange people talking to me, saying nothing. It is good to see a face I know.”
“Thank you for inviting us,” I said. “These are my friends, Margherita Severini and Antonio Guastafeste. Antonio is the cellist in the quartet I told you about earlier.”
“Ah, yes.”
Yevgeny shook their hands. He thought for a moment, then said to Margherita in Italian, “Please excuse my Italian; it is not good. But you are in Gianni’s quartet, too?”
“Oh, no,” Margherita replied.
“She plays the piano, though,” I said. “Rather well.”
“Not at all well, actually,” Margherita said. “I’m strictly an amateur.”
“But amateur does not mean bad,” Yevgeny said. “To play for pleasure only, that is good. Sometimes I wish I was amateur, too.”
“Your Italian is very good,” I said. “Your mother said you didn’t speak much.”
“Yes, well, my mother. She does not believe I do anything well.”
“Except play the violin,” Guastafeste said.
“Sometimes not even that,” Yevgeny said, and laughed uneasily.
“When do you leave Cremona?” Margherita asked.
“On Tuesday,” Yevgeny replied. “Then I have concerts in Venice and Florence and Bologna. After that, I fly to New York, then Japan and Australia. At the end of next month, I am back in Italy—Milan and Turin.”
“It’s an exciting life.”
Yevgeny gave a sad little smile.
“Exciting? No, I don’t think so.”
“You have plans for the next two days?” I asked.
Yevgeny shook his head.
“Some practice. A lot of looking out of hotel window. Hotels, airports—that is where I live these days.”
“Come for lunch tomorrow,” I said on impulse. “You and your mother.”
“For lunch?”
“If you have no other plans. It would be my pleasure.”
Yevgeny hesitated.
“Well . . . if you are sure?”
“I would like nothing better.”
“That is nice. I will have to ask my mother, of course. I do not get invite to lunch much.”
“You astound me.”
“People think I am too busy, too grand. They keep distance from me. I spend my life travelling, but I never meet anyone.” He paused; then his eyes lit up. “I could bring my violin. We could play quartets. What do you think?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “We are not good enough for you.”
“What does that matter? We do not perform.”
I looked at Guastafeste.
“I’m not on duty tomorrow,” he said.
“It will be a shock for you,” I said to Yevgeny. “We really aren’t very good.”
“I would like it.”
“Then I’ll phone our viola player and see if he’s free. Shall we say—”
I broke off as a figure loomed up beside me, almost barging me out of the way to get to Yevgeny.
“Signor Ivanov, a truly memorable performance. Superlative playing. Allow me to congratulate you. Vittorio Castellani, professor of music at the University of Milan.”
Castellani reached out, grasped Yevgeny’s hand, and pumped it up and down. Yevgeny stared at him with the terrified look of a man accosted in the street who fears he’s about to be mugged.
“I’m something of an authority on Paganini, you know,” Castellani went on. “I’m doing a piece for the Corriere della Sera. Il Cannone coming back to Cremona, that kind of thing. So what did you think to the violin?”
Castellani pushed me sideways with his arm, treading on my toes in the process.
“Excuse me, would you mind?”
I stepped back. Not that I had much choice. Castellani wasn’t the type of man to let anyone stand in his way. He swung round, giving me a close-up view of his leather jacket and thick swept-back hair. The pungent scent of his aftershave filled my nostrils.
“I particularly liked your interpretation of ‘Nel cor più non mi sento,’ ” Castellani said to Yevgeny. “Of course, Paisiello has fallen out of fashion these days, even in Italy. I saw a production of La Bella Molinara at Spoleto a few years ago and, frankly, I can see why. ‘Nel cor’ is just about the only half-decent thing in the whole opera. . . .”
I looked across at Margherita and she rolled her eyes at me. “An arrogant loudmouth” was what she’d called Castellani earlier, and though she wasn’t far off the mark, there was more to him than just his mouth. He’d been a hardworking academic once, a respected musicologist who had written several well-received books on music, including a biography of Paganini, which I had on my shelves at home. But somewhere in his late thirties, he’d branched out and started a parallel career in journalism, writing initially only about classical music but soon becoming a self-proclaimed authority on rock and pop, too. Endowed with the glossy good looks and superficial charm that the broadcasting industry requires in its presenters, it wasn’t long before he was making guest appearances as a pundit on television, giving his opinions on a wide variety of subjects, from archaeology to Zen Buddhism. It was true—as Margherita had said—that he knew very little about most of these topics, but that was immaterial, for his audiences knew even less. What counted was his viewer-friendly demeanour, trendy clothes, and ability to talk in sound bites of no more than the twenty seconds deemed by television producers to be the maximum attention span of the average Italian couch potato.
Castellani had become the acceptable face of the intellectual classes, an academic who could hide his learning beneath a veneer of populism but still maintain some credibility. Producers liked him because he added a touch of gravitas to their lazy, shallow programmes, and Castellani liked them because of the fame and adulation that came with a broadcasting career. Once you have answered the call of the television siren, there is no escaping her pernicious embrace. He was no longer a musicologist and university teacher; he was a “personality,” and in becoming one, he had lost his identity.
“I must say, I’ve rarely heard ‘I Palpiti’ played better,” he was saying to Yevgeny. “You know the story behind it, of course, that Rossini wrote the original aria in the time it took him to boil a plate of rice for his supper. Utter rubbish. I don’t believe a word of it. Rossini enjoyed that kind of dissimulation—portraying himself as an indolent bon viveur who knocked off his operas in a couple of weeks. . . .”
Castellani paused and turned to the hangers-on who had accompanied him across the room. As celebrity entourages go, it was fairly modest, consisting of just two people—a dark, saturnine young man and a slim, attractive girl who looked like a student.
“Marco,” he said to the young man. “Bring me another glass of wine, and something to eat. I’m starving. And some wine for Signor Ivanov, too.”
“No, no, I can get it myself,” Yevgeny protested, trying to edge away along the wall.
“Nonsense. Marco will bring it. That’s what he’s for. Chop, chop, Marco, I’m dying of thirst here.”
Marco turned and I saw a cloud of resentment pass across his face as he walked away. Castellani reached out to the pretty young woman.
“Mirella, dear, come over here. I’m sure you’d like to meet Signor Ivanov.”
Castellani grasped the girl by the hand and pulled her to him, slipping his arm round her shoulders in a manner that was more proprietorial than affectionate. I took advantage of the moment to squeeze myself between Yevgeny and Castellani.
“My apologies,” I murmured, “but Signor Ivanov is wanted elsewhere.”
“What? What do you mean . . .” Castellani began, but by then I had taken Yevgeny by the arm and was leading him firmly away.
I didn’t stop until we were across the room, at least fifty other people between us and Castellani. Guastafeste and Margherita had followed, Margherita unable to contain her glee at my audacious manoeuvre.
“You should have seen Castellani’s face,” she said. “Bravo, Gianni. I wish more people had the nerve to do that to him.”