Rafael was about to leave his dressing room for the night when Jeremy Browne knocked on the partially open door.
“Hello there, what a magnificent concert. May I steal a moment?”
Rafael managed a tired smile. “Of course, what is it, my friend?”
He gestured toward a chair and the Englishman sat down.
“I won’t keep you long. There’s a meeting scheduled Monday and I wanted to give you a heads-up. Give you time to think about it. What do you know about Egypt?”
“They have a lot of camels? And sand, I believe. I did see The English Patient.”
Browne smiled. “About the Opera House in Cairo.”
“Ah . . . I believe it is quite a modern building, very good acoustics, and a first-class orchestra. I’ve often thought it would be great fun to do Aida there. Why?”
Browne pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it on the coffee table between them.
“Because this is a very interesting letter, from their GM. In three years they hold a six-month global expo in Cairo, and all sorts of cultural and sporting activities are planned. There’s to be a massive football tournament for one. And an opera extravaganza. For eight whole months. They’re issuing invitations to several companies and we’re one of them.”
Rafael sat forward and focused his attention on the letter.
“And?” he asked softly.
“I’ve done some investigating and, although nothing’s confirmed yet, I’ve managed to find out some of the intendeds. Teatro alla Scala will open the festival with Aida. The Met wants to do something relatively new and lavish, maybe even Tan Dun’s First Emperor. Covent Garden has gone for popular and suggested Bohème, Carmen, or Traviata, and the Australian Opera is considering its options. I’m thinking it’ll be something a bit more adventurous, maybe a Britten or a Donizetti. Vienna will go with their stunning Otello, Berlin, possibly that updated Rigoletto. And the really interesting one is the New Israeli Opera doing Nabucco.”
Rafael didn’t bother to hide his surprise.
“Oh my God, what a . . . brave call. Asking them at all, I mean. Where do you think they will put us?”
“Don’t know, possibly between the New Israeli and Vienna. They’ll want the big three spread out. Any immediate thoughts?”
“Well, one name springs to my mind straightaway, but it isn’t a composer.”
“It’s going to take some careful juggling of singers, because some will be booked elsewhere already. Competition for top voices will be fierce, and they’ll want a wide range, not the same few voices—”
“No, no, I was thinking of Sergei. You know, not so long ago he mentioned that he was looking for something new? A grand project, something to get him enthused again. He has a relatively short attention span. What if we offered a Russian opera? In his honor, of course; he so loves all that international recognition, and we could pull out a violin solo for the Guarneri.”
Browne was suddenly animated. Rafael knew any mention of Sergei Valentino would have a positive effect on the conversation.
“Russian! Of course! Eugene Onegin, Boris Godunov, Fedora—”
“What about Pique Dame? It’s dramatically different and Tchaikovsky, his darkness will appeal to the Egyptians. There’s been something of a revival in recent years, you know, with Domingo, some fascinating productions still around. Do you want me to talk to Sergei?”
“No, I’ll make the first move. Dinner and a chat. When I know he’s keen, you can join the debate and help him to love our choice. You’re so good at that.”
Rafael nodded slowly.
“As you wish. Now, if there’s nothing else, I must get some sleep. Tomorrow is another day of discovering the next generation of virtuoso.” He smiled his innocent, beguiling smile at Browne, who clearly didn’t know whether to laugh at the joke or respectfully agree with him.
How much do you practice?”
Maria Wong sat on a high stool in the South Opera Lounge and faced the collection of young violinists sitting in a semicircle. She was Eurasian, dainty and fine boned, with lustrous black eyes and a genuine Strad in her hands. Daniel couldn’t take his eyes off the faded violin and her very, very long fingers.
“Well, I think you could say I belong to the minimalist school of practice. I know some people insist on eight hours a day, but, you see, I regard practice as my best opportunity to identify problems in a piece and solve them. That can usually be done in two or three hours, and sometimes it’s best done at the piano, without even playing your violin. Of course you need to build stamina, especially at the stage you’re all at, so that’s very important too. But you should be aiming at quality time, not quantity time, when you plan your schedule. Next?”
“Do you change style if it is new composer?” The accent was foreign, Russian. Daniel turned his head to look at the questioner. It was Tatiana. Maria smiled at her warmly.
“Interesting question. Let me demonstrate.” She stood up.
“When you want to play something like a Debussy sonata, you play like this.” She played a small piece of music.
“You can hear that I have a light bow, with minimal pressure on the strings and a vibrato that makes a rather spontaneous sound, but when I play something like Brahms, I want more depth, more sonority. So I play with a lot more hair flatter on the string, giving me more volume of sound, like this.” She played another snatch of music.
“So to answer your question, yes, very much. Part of learning a piece is deciding what style you’re going to use and also how you capture the sound the composer intended you to make.”
Daniel kept sneaking glances at the battered violin case that sat at Tatiana’s feet. What did it look like close up? How did it feel? How hard was it to play? These questions had been reverberating through his mind since the concert and he was dying to ask them.
Half an hour later he got his answers, or rather, didn’t get them. Maria Wong asked Tatiana to play for her. Daniel watched closely as she opened the case and lifted out the violin, then he sagged back into his chair. This wasn’t the concert violin; it was probably one she’d had for ages. The girl went through her routine quickly, rosin on the bow, wiping the strings, tuning at the piano with the accompanist, and tightening the screw on the frog, and then she began to play a piece of Mozart.
His attention wandered, and he began to look around the room. A crystal chandelier hung in the center and there were tapestries and paintings on the walls. The carpet was a pinky color, like salmon before his mom cooked it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that the noise had stopped and she was putting the violin back in its case. He was too disappointed to look at her. Instead he wondered if every room in this place had a crystal chandelier and if the architects had argued over which chandelier to put in which room, and then his mind started to calculate how many crystals there might be in all the chandeliers in the whole building—
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go in there.” The doors behind them burst open with a resounding crash, and a man strode in, followed by an agitated, large woman who was trying to stop him. Daniel recognized him instantly as the very tall man he’d seen talking to the maestro during the intermission the night before. He had a glossy black beard, curly black hair, and thick-rimmed glasses that sat halfway down a long nose. He stopped and his gaze swung around the occupants of the room.
“Sir! I must ask you again to leave. Now! There’s a private master class going on in this room—”
Tatiana was hiding the violin case behind her back.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you all over this building. Play it!” he demanded. His accent was English. She didn’t move, and Daniel wondered why she didn’t just tell him the violin wasn’t the del Gesú.
“I said, play it!” he roared.
She hesitated a second longer, then with a sudden darting movement she l
eaped slightly sideways, ran around the semicircle of chairs, across the room, and out the door.
“Come back!” It was an explosion of sheer frustration. He turned on his heel and was about to follow her when the woman blocked his path.
“I must protest most strongly, sir. You’ve upset one of our students, and I think you should leave the center now. I’ve called security.”
“Didn’t you hear it? It isn’t the same violin,” Daniel blurted out suddenly in a small but clear voice. The man spun around and looked straight at him. He was clearly angry, and Daniel could feel his own heart racing as the man towered over him.
“What did you say?” he asked sharply.
“I said, it’s not the same violin. As the one she played last night.”
“What do you know about her violins?”
“Nothing. I just know that the one she played today was ordinary.”
“He’s right.” It was one of the other pupils, a girl sitting two seats away from Daniel. “It isn’t the same violin. It sounds totally different.”
The man turned to the woman who’d followed him in. “I’m sorry; please accept my apology for the interruption.”
Chapter 9
Daniel wandered down the steps and into the Grand Foyer. He passed several groups of people, none of whom took any interest in him, so he sat down on the rim of one of the brass planters. It was nearly lunchtime and he wasn’t sure where to go next. Two women walked into the foyer from the Hall of States. One of them was the African American woman he’d seen talking to the maestro during the intermission the night before—she worked here, she might know! The other woman was taller and had really long black hair.
“Excuse me.”
They both turned toward him.
“Yes? Can I help?” asked the African American woman.
“I need to find Maestro Gomez. It’s important.”
“What’s your name?” the other woman asked. Her voice was soft and her eyes were smiley, and he decided immediately that she might help him.
“Daniel Horowitz.”
“Ah, Daniel Horowitz. You’re the one who . . . the young violinist, the Hillier winner?” she asked, looking at him in a way he recognized. She’d heard about him and now she was putting a face to the name.
“Yes. I need to talk to him; it’s very important. Do you know where he is?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” She extended her hand toward him. “I’m Magdalena Montoya; nice to meet you, Daniel Horowitz. I’m just about to hijack him. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll do it together.”
He followed her into the Opera House. A young man was standing on the stage singing “Che gelida manina” from La Bohème to a loud piano accompaniment. He sounded very nervous and slightly flat. Several people sat down in the front, listening and scribbling in books. Magdalena stood just inside the door until the aria came to an end. Then she pointed to a figure over to the right in the back row. It was Maestro Gomez. He glanced over and gave her a little wave.
“Come on, this way,” she said in a half whisper. They threaded their way through an empty row to the aisle and then up to where Rafael was stretched out.
“¡Hola!, gorgeous woman, fancy meeting you here.” He extended his hand toward her.
“I came to make sure you have lunch and look who I found.”
Daniel watched her take the hand in hers and bend to kiss the maestro on the mouth, before sitting down beside him. Rafael leaned forward and smiled at him.
“Hello, Daniel, and the lovely Miss Wong, how was she?”
“Very cool. She told me her brother was a semifinalist at the Hillier, on the piano.”
“He was indeed. Matthew Wong—he’s a very talented pianist.”
Daniel wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to tell the maestro about the man who’d burst into the class but not in front of this woman.
“Do you know who this is, Dan?”
“No, sir.”
“This is my very wonderful wife, Magdalena. Mags, meet Daniel Horowitz.”
“Oh, we’ve met. I just didn’t tell him that I have the dubious pleasure of being the esposa.” There was laughter in her voice. Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel saw movement on the stage as a plump young woman walked out to the piano and gave the accompanist some music. Rafael watched her, glanced at a sheet of paper on the seat beside him, then seemed to make up his mind.
“We should leave these poor young things in peace.” He pulled himself up and guided them out the door and back to the Grand Foyer.
“How about a plate of ice cream on the terrace?” Daniel nodded enthusiastically and Mags smiled playfully at her husband.
“Whatever you want to do, my love. You lead and we, your loyal subjects, shall follow.”
Rafael laughed and took her hand.
“I make the mistake of telling a journalist that this woman makes me feel like a king, Dan, and she won’t let me forget it.”
They followed him upstairs to the KC Café, where Rafael ordered sandwiches for them and a vanilla and butterscotch sundae for Daniel, to be served on the Roof Terrace. While the staff set up the table Rafael showed Daniel the marble walls engraved with the words of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy and the amazing view down the Potomac River to the Jefferson Memorial. It was a cloudless day and the sky was a deep azure blue.
After they were seated and served, Rafael turned to Daniel. “So tell me, Dan, what did you think of Tatiana’s violin last night?”
Daniel finished his mouthful.
“The absolute best thing ever. Better than any violin, even better than Maestro Vincelli’s real Strad. It is the coolest violin in the whole world!” he said emphatically.
Rafael nodded his agreement. “She played the Pag rather wonderfully too, did you not think so? It rewards fury and fearlessness.”
“It was my finals piece.”
“I remember. I conducted you so I heard it right up close.” They grinned at each other conspiratorially.
Talking to the maestro didn’t feel like talking to an important adult; somehow it felt like he was just a friend who loved music, like he could say anything, Daniel thought. It was a satisfying thought.
“Who’s the man you were talking to at the intermission?” Daniel asked suddenly. Rafael stopped eating.
“And why do you want to know that?”
“I saw him again, this morning. That’s what I wanted to tell you. He interrupted Miss Wong’s class.” The sandwich dropped to the plate, and Daniel knew he had the maestro’s complete attention.
“Tell me what exactly happened, son. Everything you can remember.”
“Well, Maria asked Tatiana to play and she did—Mozart—but it wasn’t the same violin. This one was ordinary.”
“No, the Guarneri is back in the safe.”
“He just came crashing in, with some woman telling him to leave. Tatiana had put her violin away but he told her to play, yelled at her. She looked really scared. Like she thought he was going to steal it. She ran out. But we told him that it wasn’t the same violin.”
“What did he do then?”
“Nothing, he just left. Who is he?”
“His name is Roberto di Longi and he’s not a bad man, very intense, but not bad. He’s a restorer and a dealer and he lives in London. He is a true expert. You know, I think he knows more about violins than anyone else I’ve ever met. Like any expert, he will tell you he can recognize any violin, only by its sound and the wood grain. But with Roberto I am more inclined to believe him, what he says, because he really, truly knows his violins.”
“So why is he mad at Tatiana?”
“He’s not mad at her; he is mad about the violin. It is a Guarneri del Gesú. We all know that much for sure. Sergei assures us the label says 1729, but Roberto, he is convinced it is actually a 1742, and every ti
me he hears it, he tells me once again how convinced he is.”
Daniel was eating slowly and watching him. Mags was sipping her coffee, also watching her husband with renewed interest.
“Do you think he could be right?” she asked.
“Don’t know . . . maybe. If anyone can tell, he can.”
“Does it matter?”
“If he’s right, it matters very much. Seventeen forty-two is accepted as the best year; Guarneri del Gesú made his greatest ones ever then. He made only thirteen and they’re all accounted for, except for the famous missing one. Destroyed in the war, they think, but no one knows for sure. When 1742s change hands, they sell for millions of dollars. Dan, have you read about Il Cannone?”
Daniel nodded, pleased he’d paid attention in the musical history classes.
“Paganini played it.”
“He did indeed; it’s a 1743, and the Lord Wilton, a 1742, and the sound, it is exquisite, sublime. You know, the Valentino family has owned this Guarneri for many years and Sergei assures me it is a 1729. A genuine Guarneri certainly, but one made in 1729. So one of them is wrong.”
“How many Guarneri violins are there in the world, altogether?” Daniel asked.
“About two hundred and fifty by Giuseppe. There were several others in the family and they all made violins. But he was the master.”
“Do they know where all of Giuseppe’s violins are?”
“Pretty much all, I think. I am not an expert in this,” Rafael admitted with a wry smile.
“But I could probably find out if I wanted, couldn’t I? On the Internet.”
“Sure, most of them. Some will be in private collections. Why this interest, Dan?”
Daniel was licking the last of the ice cream off his spoon.
“We had a Guarneri del Gesú once. But we lost it.”
Rafael stirred his coffee slowly and didn’t look up. Daniel wondered if the maestro thought that he couldn’t see the interest the man was trying to hide. Adults could be very obvious when they were trying too hard to be subtle.
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