“Nice of you to make it,” Tony teased, and Daniel gave him a shove.
“Where’s your stuff?” asked Aaron.
Daniel dug the toe of his Reebok into the dirt.
“Can’t play.”
“What! Why not?”
“You sick or something?”
All eyes were on him.
“Mr. D. told Dad it might hurt my fingers, so I’ve got to give it up—”
“No way!”
“But he’s not even your real teacher anymore. Can he do that?”
“Man, that sucks!”
Among the general sounds of amazement, anger, and sympathy, one by one the boys drifted away to start the game. Soon only Aaron was left.
“Are you gonna do what they say?”
Daniel looked at him and he could see that Aaron understood.
“Guess so, you know what Mom’s like.”
“Well, we can still have catches and stuff, if you like.”
Daniel shrugged. “Whatever.”
“I . . . I better go. Come over later and I’ll whip your ass at Tomb Raider. Okay?”
“Maybe.”
Aaron hesitated. “Are you gonna watch us?”
Daniel turned away quickly. “Nope. See ya.”
“Yeah.”
He walked to his bike, picked it up, and rode away without a backward glance. He fought the tears for as long as he could—fourteen-year-olds didn’t cry—but grief was a new emotion and he couldn’t beat it. Eventually he didn’t wipe the tears off his cheeks until he had to and only then because his eyes were so full he couldn’t see where he was going.
The next morning Daniel had a rehearsal in the local hall for the youth orchestra’s summer concert, an eclectic mixture of light classical, show tunes, and American favorites. The conductor, Mr. Simmonds the chemist, was as enthusiastic as he was amateur. But all the kids loved him because he imparted his passion for the music and explained the stories behind the pieces. The skill levels differed widely, so the odd extra note or early entrance was par for the course. No one really cared and they all ended up in the same place at roughly the same time. Daniel was the star attraction. His mother was concerned he might pick up bad habits from Mr. Simmonds and had taken some persuading to let him play this year. Normally Daniel enjoyed it, but today nothing could bring a smile to his face. His playing was mediocre and mechanical and he didn’t stay for the postrehearsal Coke, cookies, and chat about the music.
His journey home took him along the main street, past his father’s shop, past his old school, down the country road for a couple of miles, and then through the corner of the forest to the house. He had the violin case in a leather traveling bag on his back and his music in the saddlebag. As he reached the forest he heard the sound of voices. He stopped and listened; they were getting closer. He recognized the nasal twang of Richie, the leader of the Stonyridge gang. They were rivals of the Cubs and uneasy friends in the highly competitive world of fourteen-year-olds.
Suddenly a group of six teenagers broke through onto the path in front of him. Carlos and Richie, old baseball foes, were the only two he knew, but they were all older and stronger than him.
“Hey! Look at this.” Richie walked over to him. The others followed and they formed a circle around the bike. Daniel felt a stab of impatience; he wanted to get home.
“Hi, Richie, guys.”
“Daniel Horowitz. Thinks he’s too good for Newbrick now. A big-shot violin player. I heard you don’t play ball anymore.”
The sneering note in Richie’s voice made Daniel bristle.
“Who told you that?” he asked.
“Just heard it. Last night. Baseball too stupid for you now, with your fancy ways? You too busy playing crap music?”
Daniel was seriously outnumbered, and he didn’t like the way this was going.
“Nah, I missed yesterday, ’at’s all.”
“Sure, whatever you say. You used to be quite normal, for a Cub. Now you’re the weirdest one of the lot.” The other boys laughed and one of them gave him a shove on the shoulder. Carlos reached for the bag on Daniel’s back.
“Let’s, like, have a look at this violin thingie, seeing as you’re here, like.”
Daniel pulled away. “Don’t touch it! I’ll . . . I’ll show it to you.” He slipped the bag off his shoulders and laid it across the handlebars of the bike. They watched as he unzipped it to reveal the black case.
“Looks old, kinda used,” Richie said.
“Can’t your parents, like, afford a new one?”
Daniel looked up at the boy, the contempt he felt showing on his face.
“No, you moron, the older the instrument, the better the sound.”
“Don’t call me a moron, you little prick! Let’s, like, see this piece a junk.” Carlos snatched at the open case and knocked it sideways off the bike. The violin case fell upside down on the earth. Before Daniel could get away from his bike to pick it up, the boys had it. They took the violin out and held it up. Carlos picked up the bow.
“Be careful!” Daniel demanded indignantly.
Richie laughed. “Ohhh, boys, we’ve upset him; maybe the nerd will cry. Doesn’t look that flash to me.”
“It’s not. The flash one, the one that’s worth thousands of dollars, is at home.”
Daniel couldn’t keep the smugness out of his voice.
Someone tweaked the strings repeatedly with his finger. “Can you play it like a guitar?”
Daniel tossed his bike aside and tried to retrieve his possessions. Carlos had the bow between his two hands. He held it away and snapped it in half. Daniel let out a howl of fury, but instinct told him that punching the boy would be a mistake.
“You jerk! That costs about three grand. Your parents’ll have to pay for it.” Carlos dropped the two bits, still joined by the horsehair, onto the ground.
“Did any of you, like, see me do it?” he asked the rest of group. They all shook their heads solemnly. Richie grabbed the violin off the boy who was plucking it, turned it over, and scratched a line down the middle of the back with his car key. Then he dropped it into the discarded case.
“Come on, let’s split. Forget this stupid music crap, Horowitz; it’s for chickens, girls, and fags. Go back to baseball.”
They broke into peals of laughter as they ran into the cover of the trees and vanished. Daniel listened to the sound until it was gone. Then he picked up the two bits of bow and put them into the case. He turned the violin over and ran his finger along the surface scratch. It wasn’t deep and could be easily mended but would mean a slightly altered sound. It was his second violin, but still . . . He closed the case, zipped it into the traveling bag, and slung it onto his back; then he retrieved his bike and continued on his way. For a while his mind was blank, numb with shock. Suddenly the rage and frustration at his situation bubbled up, and he let out a sustained scream of sheer resentment. The noise was lost in the wind rushing past his face, but the act of making it made him feel better.
Just before the gate to his house, he came to a screeching dead stop. An idea resounded through his agitated brain like a drum roll and he knew instantly that it was the right choice. It was so stunningly simple and logical. It’d solve everything. Why had it taken him so many hours to form a plan? All he had to do was find a way to tell his mother.
I’m sorry but I can’t believe you’re persisting with this. It’s just ridiculous!”
Daniel watched the three people sitting in a row in front of him. His parents were on the sofa and Mr. D. was in his wheelchair; they looked like a panel of judges. Daniel’s French violin and bow sat on the coffee table between them. It was very hot and ominously still; there was an impressive thunderstorm brewing, both outside and in the living room.
“Why?” His mother’s voice was full of the controlled exasperation he knew
so well.
“I told you already, Mom, a hundred times. It’s just not fun anymore; ball is fun. I want to play ball. I don’t want to play the viol—”
“But you’ve always loved the violin.”
“And don’t you like the lessons?” Mr. D. smiled nervously at him, as if he was a disobedient toddler.
“Sure.” He shrugged.
Cindy Horowitz rose and began to pace the room. Her long legs covered the area in a few strides, and her hands twisted around a handkerchief in a continual motion. He was reminded of something his father had said to him yesterday; his mother was not used to defiance.
“I’ve had enough of this stupidity, Daniel. Life is not all about fun. You’re fourteen years old and you do not decide what you do. For ten years we’ve kept you focused on this instrument, no matter what. You will practice and have your lessons! You will play at the symposium and you will be returning to the institute.” Her voice was crescendoing to something just under a shriek, and her blue eyes were full of rage, but he stood his ground. This was all she could do, yell at him.
“Or what? I don’t want to, Mom, and you can’t make me. I’ll just refuse and you can’t force me to hold it. I want to play ball and go to school here, like the other kids. I want to be normal.”
“You’re not just normal, Dan, you’re extraordinary.”
His father’s voice was measured and calm, and Daniel knew it was meant as a compliment, but it grated on him.
“Only if I play the violin, Dad. If I don’t play, I’m normal—”
“Ordinary is what you are if you don’t play the violin.” Cindy spat the comment at him.
“Okay, Mom, ordinary will do.”
They stared at each other for a moment and then Cindy drew a deep breath. “What if we ground you? No going outside this house, for anything, no friends, and no more ball games?”
Daniel shot a look of horror at his father, who held up his hand, palm facing her.
“No, I think that’s a bit too drastic, honey. If we just give him time—”
“He’s had two weeks and he still refuses to pick the damn thing up. We’ve been patient long enough. If you want to be stubborn, Daniel Horowitz, I’ll show you stubborn. In ten days we leave for Washington, D.C. It’s a huge honor, this symposium that Maestro Gomez has invited you to. You’ll take your violin and you’ll play. If anyone else asks you to play, you’ll play. Do you understand me? If you refuse, we’ll . . . we’ll . . . we’ll send you to a boarding school far away from your friends.”
The threat sat between them for a full moment while mother and son continued to glare at each other. Daniel was pale but his expression hadn’t changed. They’d had this argument, in some form, every day for two weeks.
“Boarding school exactly where, Mom? Philadelphia? Can I go to my room and read? I guess there’s no point asking to go outside.”
“Too damn right there’s no point. Oh yes, I suppose you can go and read. How about finishing the book on Paganini?”
Chapter 6
Washington, D.C.
August 2008
Here’s to another successful symposium.” Rafael Gomez looked up and smiled warmly at his wife. He sat at the grand piano playing one of his own jazz compositions. The rhythms echoed through the large apartment and bounced off the full-length windows, with their views across the Potomac to the sparkling lights of Washington, D.C. A very large black-and-white cat lay stretched across the top of the piano and blinked its amber eyes in conversation. His wife held a glass of Taylor’s 1963 vintage port outstretched toward him and he took it from her.
“Gracias. If I keep out of the way, and everyone else just does their jobs, it will be another huge success, yes?” Their glasses clinked together in one clear note, like a bell chiming. He got up and followed her across the room. As he relaxed back into the comfortable chair and sipped the port, he studied her by the flickering light of a large candelabrum on the sideboard.
At thirty-two she was twenty years younger than him, lithe, long limbed, olive skinned, with thick dark hair, great bone structure, a wide mouth, and large soft brown eyes. She was a beauty, no doubt about it, a reflection of her varied gene pool—Hispanic, Caribbean, First Nation, and European. But he’d been surrounded by beautiful and sexy women all his adult life. What made Magdalena Montoya different was her soul. She was a gentle person with a calm, almost serene air about her, and she never spoke ill of anyone. A wise head on young shoulders, his sister had said.
He’d met her four years ago when her PR company had signed up as a sponsor of the Washington Opera and she’d come along to the opening night of an opera he was conducting. He’d been introduced to her at the postopera gala. When she finally accepted his dinner invitation, he’d discovered she had a passion for classical music and played the flute, but she wasn’t a professional musician so had no interest in using him to further a career and he found this incredibly refreshing. Four months later he’d nervously proposed beside a huge decorated tree on Christmas Eve and she’d accepted. Everyone was amazed. It was her first marriage and his third.
“Dollar for your thoughts,” she said softly.
“Oh, nothing very unusual, just thinking about what I am, such a lucky man. All this”—his arm swept the large open-plan room—“and you. I must have done something wonderful in a previous life to deserve it but I don’t know what.”
She walked across to the chair, her bare feet silent on the polished wooden floor, and pushed the coffee table away. Then she took the glass from his left hand and the Cuban cigar from his right and placed one on the coaster and the other in the ashtray and sat down astride his lap.
“Funnily enough, I was thinking the same. How much I love you.” She kissed him passionately, and his arms enfolded her as he returned her kisses. Then he stood up, lifting her into his arms at the same time.
“Time for bed,” he said gently.
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him again.
“Cristina once told me that nothing distracts you from good port, a good cigar, or good music,” she teased. “I nearly said, ‘You want to bet?’ But that’s not the sort of thing a daughter should know about her father.” Rafael laughed and carried her across the lounge into the bedroom.
It was the day before the symposium, a beautiful, sunny summer’s day with a zephyr blowing in from the Potomac. Rafael walked quickly through the entrance to the Kennedy Center, acknowledging the smiles and nods from the people milling around. Occasionally he stopped to shake a hand, kiss a cheek, exchange a few words, or sign the odd autograph, but he was making his way purposefully to the office of Jeremy Browne, the artistic director of the Washington Opera.
Browne was a dapper Englishman, except for his wayward hair, which always looked as if he’d stuck his finger in a light socket and received a thousand volts to kick-start his day. He had a charming public persona, but those who worked with him knew him to be sophisticated, cunning, and highly efficient. Rafael considered Browne a fair, but demanding man. The Englishman had a strong vision for the company, and as long as you tried your hardest and demonstrated loyalty, he’d move heaven and earth to get you what you needed. Staging opera was an expensive operation, involving all aspects of the arts—singing, orchestration, acting, dance, and visual design—and Browne needed to walk a tightrope between artistic integrity and business acumen. He was on the phone and waved Rafael to a seat. When he made a gesture with his free hand as if raising a cup to his lips, the Spaniard shook his head to decline the offer.
“Have to go now, my darling girl, you’ll never guess who’s just walked in. Your favorite conductor . . . the very man . . . yes, yes, I will . . . and we look forward to seeing you in about ten days, we’re all very excited. Ciao, bambina.” He hung up and extended his immaculately groomed hand across the desk.
“Buenos días, Rafael, sorry about that. Loredana sends you a
ll her loving as usual.”
Rafael smiled as he shook Browne’s hand. “Wonderful, I certainly look forward to that. And how is her Violetta?”
“She says she’s almost ready. Michael heard her and he said she’s sounding sensational.”
“Muy bien. I trust Michael’s judgment. Let us hope that the audience, it is as discerning, or perhaps, as forgiving?”
Browne laughed and raised one bushy eyebrow. “Indeed. Are you ready for this media intrusion?”
Rafael nodded. “Of course, all for the good of the company.”
“Working title is ‘Making Classical Music Sexy.’ No comment. I asked for the questions to be e-mailed; I’ll run through them and you can practice your answers.”
Rafael suppressed a smile. Browne micromanaged and he wouldn’t let his star conductor give a lifestyle interview to a major newspaper without checking the responses first.
“Fire away.”
“Where were you born and what was your childhood like?”
“In Spain. Madrid, which makes me a Madrileño, in 1956. My parents ran a restaurant, and my sister and I, we lived with them above it. I was a happy child. I loved football and bullfighting. I used to go to sleep, you know, with the guitar music drifting up to my bedroom window.”
“That’ll lead on to if music was important from an early age.”
Rafael smiled at a memory. “I have a nice story. My parents, they had a cabinet of records and before I was three years old I used to sit in front of the stereo player and conduct to the zarzuela with my grandmother’s knitting needle.”
“Brilliant! That’s what they want.”
“By the time I was ten, I was composing and conducting and singing in the church choir. Believe it or not, I had a pure boy soprano voice. I used to sing at local weddings and parties and make money.”
“So why did you become a conductor?”
“I was at the Julliard and one day the conductor of the orchestra, he didn’t arrive. He liked to drink, you know? So I had fifteen minutes’ warning and I took his place.”
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