Keeper of Secrets (9780062240316)

by Thomas, Julie

  “We?” Rafael asked. Something in his tone of voice made Mags look at him sharply.

  “My poppa. He grew up in Germany before the war, and his papa was a banker. His family had a music room with lots of beautiful old instruments, and two of them were violins. But the Nazis took everything away, the house and the bank, and he got sent to a camp.”

  “That’s very sad. And one of these violins was a Guarneri?”

  Daniel laid his spoon down on the saucer.

  “Yep, a Guarneri del Gesú and an Amati. That’s what Poppa told me. He was very proud of them. He used to play the Guarneri when he was my age.”

  “Do you know what year your Guarneri was?”

  Daniel frowned; it was something he should remember. Whenever his poppa started to talk about it, his nana always found a reason to change the conversation.

  “Seventeen twenty-something; I forget the exact year.”

  In one fluid movement Rafael sprang to his feet. He held his hand out to Daniel, and his excitement was obvious. “Come with me. I have something to show you!”

  Daniel got up and hesitated, looking at Mags.

  “Come on, hurry,” Rafael ordered. They could hear the impatience in his voice. Mags gave a sigh.

  “Okay, okay, we’re coming. Better do as he says.” She flashed a smile at Daniel.

  Rafael walked them at a rapid pace to the lift and down to a dressing room. In one corner stood a large stereo system and a stack of CDs. He hunted through the pile, reading labels and tossing them aside.

  “Raffy?” Mags stood with Daniel, watching. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Looking for . . . ” His voice trailed off, then he found it and held it out toward them. “This. You must listen to this.” He loaded the CD into the player and flicked through the tracks.

  “Come here, Daniel. This is a 1742 Guarneri. This is Maestro Yehudi Menuhin playing the Lord Wilton.”

  The allegro from Bach’s Concerto in E filled the room. Daniel felt the same sensation of wonder returning. It was a magical sound, urgent and sumptuous and yet wistful at the same time, and it completely engulfed him. Rafael instinctively began to conduct the orchestra, using smooth, broad movements to reflect the undulating music. Daniel was as fascinated by the man’s agile body, and his expressive hands responding to the melody, as he was by the sound. The allegro reached its conclusion and Rafael sank to the ground, obviously spent by the emotion. When he looked up at Daniel, he was grinning with delight.

  “That is your heritage, my boy. That is the sound you should be making, a genuine Guarneri. Then you would play and, oh my God, what a sound you would make! Everyone would stop to listen. You are a once-in-a-generation talent. Don’t you see? It is the gift from your poppa. We must find that violin and we will find your heritage, Dan. Then you’ll play for the whole world.”

  Chapter 10

  Monte Carlo

  September 2008

  On the last day of the symposium Rafael had chosen and announced which of the astonishingly talented musicians would perform at Sergei Valentino’s gala night, raising money for the Russian’s favorite charities. Sergei rotated the venue around his homes and this year it was the turn of his hilltop villa in Monte Carlo.

  Countess Ludevica de Savilla was a remarkably well-preserved eighty-year-old, with soft skin, delicious caramel-colored hair, and deep-set, cornflower-blue eyes. Not for the first time Rafael wondered if her carefully lacquered chignon would taste like the spun cotton candy he’d bought Cristina every year at the upstate county fair when she was a small girl. He pulled his mind back to what she was saying.

  “. . . so we thought this year we’d run a book on it. Would you care to have a guess, Maestro? Five hundred euros and you’re in.” Her voice was deep and throaty. He chuckled.

  “Me? Now, what makes you think that I am a gambling man, Countess?”

  “Oh, come now, dear boy. We’re only a mile from the most gorgeous casino on earth. How many years have you been coming to darling Sergei’s bashes, and you’ve never ventured inside the Monte Carlo Casino? And if he’s going to tell anyone the subject of his ice sculpture, it would be you.” He took a champagne flute from the gold tray on offer and smiled at the waitress.

  “Thank you. I’ll admit to a trip or two but only with Sergei, in a moment of . . . weakness. But I must protest, Countess, you know he hasn’t told me anything about it. Not even a hint. He wasn’t, to tell you the truth, overly impressed with Beethoven last year. The hair wasn’t right; it looked more like Jeremy Browne. So I think it might be a more ancient theme.”

  “Older than the eighteenth century?”

  “Much. My guess is . . . Bast.” He sipped his champagne, his brown eyes twinkling at her. She blinked at him and he could see her surprise.

  “What on earth did he write?”

  “She, Countess. Bast was the Egyptian goddess of music. She’s usually portrayed as a lion, or a beautiful girl with the head of a cat, I believe. She would look just magnificent in ice. And it is time we had a woman, no?”

  She was about to comment when they were joined by Yuri Medvadev, a young artist who lived in New York and painted Mother Russia for a steady market of homesick compatriots. The countess turned to him.

  “Tell me, have you heard of—what was it, Maestro?”

  “Bast,” Rafael said with a small knowing smile in the Russian’s direction.

  “An Egyptian goddess, a lion, or cat with a female head. I believe she was in charge of physical pleasure, er, sex and so on, so she was probably quite busy. But why do you ask, Countess?” Yuri sounded perplexed.

  “Rafael! What have you been telling me?” The countess rounded on him in mock horror.

  “I never said she was just the goddess of music. It is a very appropriate combination, music and sex, yes? Actually, I think it’s more likely to be Chin-hua Niang-niang.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Valentino gesturing to him from over by the doors onto the terrace.

  “But if you’ll excuse me, I think I am being summoned,” he added.

  The countess laid her hand on his arm.

  “You can’t leave like that, my darling man. Who is this person? Another composer I’ve never heard of? I’m feeling positively ignorant tonight.”

  Rafael smiled a little guiltily.

  “I could leave it for you to find out before next year’s ball, but of course I wouldn’t be so annoying. He’s the Chinese god of the violin.” With that he took his leave and walked across the room to the doors.

  Valentino stood on the terrace, his enormous back to the room, gazing out at the sparkling city below them. As always, Rafael felt a fleeting sense of trepidation as he approached. Sergei Koylaovich Valentino was a vast man, six foot five and over four hundred pounds, his bulk hidden under impeccably cut Ralph Lauren shirts and Brioni suits. More impressively still, his attitudes matched his size. He lived life to the fullest and fulfilled his gargantuan appetites with boundless energy and enthusiasm.

  Rafael had known him for eight years and during that time had watched him donate tens of millions of pounds, dollars, and euros to numerous artistic and educational causes. Of course, Valentino could afford to—the man was worth billions, courtesy of the mineral and gas reserves of his homeland—but his generosity tended toward the spectacular. Rafael had never managed to shake off his nagging uncertainty over Valentino’s mental stability. On the surface the Russian was a charming, affable host with a huge laugh and Rafael knew many people considered him fortunate to be the confidant of such a remarkable man. Very few had seen the chilling, pale green eyes skewer an unfortunate employee with such swiftness it took Rafael’s breath away, or heard the lashing from his tongue. Behind that charm lay a brilliant mind and a violent temper, someone who, Rafael suspected, would make a formidable enemy.

  “I love this view. I never ti
re of it.” The English was heavily accented and the bass voice deep and guttural.

  “It is magnificent,” Rafael said, drawing level with him.

  “I sometimes wonder what my father would make of it. He was such faithful servant of the Party, and he lived such a gray life, an ordered life.”

  “But do you miss what you’ve never experienced? He was probably happy, yes?”

  “I doubt that. He hated the rewards they gave my grandpapa for being a war hero; all he wanted was to serve the Motherland. Such limited dreams, no vision. For all we know, my friend, there may be gold in these hills. This house could be built on top of a billion-dollar fortune.”

  “Shall we bring shovels next time?”

  Valentino turned to stare at him and then laughed, the cupid bow lips moist and red.

  “Very good, Raffy. I get the license from the prince and you organize shovels for your orchestra.”

  Rafael laughed.

  “Something tells me there’s a joke here about the Anvil Chorus, I just can’t quite find it. Have you added Tatiana to tonight’s program?”

  Valentino swung around to face back toward the room. His fleshy hand held a long glass of bloodred liquid. Rafael guessed it was Campari and soda.

  “Do you want to hear her?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you actually want to hear the Guarneri.”

  “That too.”

  “You are master diplomat. Yes, I had the violin sent over for her. She’s doing very well, Maestro Montenagro says she has enormous talent. But she doesn’t want to play the way he teach her; he’s so structured, she plays by instinct. It’s the gypsy in her.”

  “There must be room for all kinds of expression. I don’t believe in limiting a young person’s passion. If you restrict creativity too much, you know, shut it in a box when it’s still developing, sometimes it dies.”

  Valentino glanced at him sharply. “She has said words like this to you?”

  “No, no, nothing at all. I was actually thinking of someone else entirely. I will enjoy her sound, however she plays. She could play ‘Three Blind Mice’ on that instrument and it would sound heavenly, no? By the way, Sergei, have you had a call from Jeremy Browne?”

  The Russian put his glass on the wall and lit a cigarette.

  “About the Traviata gala? It is settled.”

  “He hasn’t invited you to dinner then?”

  “No, what does he want now? More money?”

  “Quite probably.” Rafael glanced at his watch. “I had better check on Mr. Psliwesky and make sure he can hold his cello. The preperformance nerves, they are going to play a big part in this young man’s career.”

  “Give him vodka.”

  “He’s Polish and he doesn’t drink.”

  Valentino grunted.

  “And he wants to be star? Tell Misha to start herding them into the music room.”

  Once again Tatiana followed Jan Psliwesky on his cello, and she waited impatiently for the enthusiastic applause to die down before she climbed the half-dozen stairs to the raised platform. There were around four hundred people standing in the vast room. The tapestries that lined the walls featured intricate designs of treble clefts in silver and gold thread, interspersed with famous musical figures playing their instruments. Heavy gold curtains hung at the huge windows, and the floor was dark polished wood. Above the audience the ceilings were covered in lavishly painted frescoes.

  As well as the best emerging talent from the symposium, paintings by new artists adorned the public rooms of Valentino’s huge house, and sculptures sat on pedestals where they could be admired. An invitation to participate guaranteed a flood of offers of work. At the end of the evening, he would announce some of his contributions for the next twelve months, sometimes without bothering to tell the recipients beforehand. He liked to surprise people and demonstrate the power that his money gave him.

  Tatiana’s sleeveless gown, in midnight-blue velvet with Swarovski crystals sparkling on the bodice, clung to the curves of her long body. Her thick chestnut-colored hair was held back in a large silver clip. There were murmurs of appreciation as she tuned with the pianist seated at the baby grand, then took up her stance, fiddled with the screw on the heel of the bow, and paused, bow above the strings.

  Tchaikovsky’s Mélodie demonstrated the spellbinding power of the Guarneri to perfection, as its complicated runs climbed to lingering top notes, then fell to an achingly sweet and soft finale. The woman’s body moved gently with the melody and her face was a study of intense concentration. She played with admirable restraint and control.

  Rafael Gomez, at the front of the crowd, was completely oblivious to the fact that people were probably watching for his reaction. The sound brought tears to his eyes. He was reminded for the millionth time why he’d chosen to make classical music his life—because it embodied all that was great and perfect and emotional. There were certain pieces of music that his son, Miguel, had played on the piano and his late wife had loved to hear; the light of pride had sparkled in her beautiful eyes—

  Applause and shouts of “Brava” rang out all around him as Tatiana came to an end. Rafael coughed abruptly and shifted his stance, bringing the mask of impassivity down again. Suddenly he was aware of a movement in his peripheral vision, to his left. Tatiana had taken her deep curtsy and walked off the platform. At the base of the steps a tall figure stopped her and grabbed her wrist. It was Roberto di Longi.

  “Let me look at the violin!” he commanded loudly.

  Tatiana was surprisingly composed. The wrist he’d grabbed held the bow, and she put the violin behind her back. The people around them shrank away, and a hum rippled through the crowd. Rafael arrived at his side.

  “Not here, Roberto,” he said quietly. “She doesn’t deserve to be frightened.”

  “I don’t want to scare you,” di Longi said impatiently to the girl. “Just let me have a look at this violin.” In one movement he pushed her and she lost her balance. At the same time he reached around her, grabbed the instrument by its neck, and stepped away, the violin in both hands. He peered into the long, upright f holes and at the tool marks on the scroll, then ran his hand over the wood. The sparkling oil varnish made it look as if someone had dipped it in liquid toffee.

  Rafael extended his hand and beckoned to di Longi to hand it over.

  “Roberto, give it back to me. I’m sure we can—”

  “No, no, Raffy, it is okay . . . let him look.” The voice was unmistakable. Valentino stepped out of the crowd. He appeared very calm, but his eyes were icy cold. Tatiana ran to him and he enfolded her with one arm. Rafael thought she suddenly seemed very small clinging to his side.

  “What are you looking for, my friend?”

  “You know what I’m looking at.” Di Longi’s voice rasped with an edge of stress and something approaching desperation.

  “And you won’t find it. We’ve had this conversation before, Roberto. This is a genuine 1729 Guarneri. It is a magnificent instrument and I am proud to say it has been in my family for over fifty years.”

  But di Longi ignored him, turning the violin over and over in his hands, holding it up to the light and following the flame pattern in the grain with his forefinger. Finally he muttered, “I thought so.” Then he walked over to the Russian and held out the violin. Valentino gave a dramatic bow and took it back in both hands.

  “I’m sorry,” di Longi addressed Tatiana. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “She is easily frightened; she’s Russian.” There was a momentary pause as the two very tall men eyeballed each other, neither giving an inch.

  “We both know what that instrument is, Sergei, and if you think I won’t prove it, you’re mistaken,” he said. Then he walked the length of the room, making no eye contact on the way, and out the open doors. Before he reached the door, Valentino had t
hrown back his head and let out a huge roar of laughter.

  “What fun, eh? I knew there was a reason why I invite him, such a pompous man. Play something for us, darling, play this mysterious fiddle!” He put the violin into Tatiana’s reluctant hand. She hesitated but he gave her a gentle nudge toward the steps and slowly she climbed them again. A wave of noise swept around the room as people started to talk in hushed tones. She tuned the violin with the pianist and tightened the bow again. The lovely melody of Shostakovich’s Romance from The Gadfly spilled out over the heads of the crowd.

  Rafael was torn between the exquisite sound coming from the violin and watching Valentino moving from group to group, shaking hands and laughing, pointing at the stage and agreeing with the praise heaped on both his possessions. Suddenly it occurred to the maestro that di Longi might well be in a talkative mood, so he slipped to the edge of the room and walked briskly out the huge open doorway.

  Chapter 11

  Roberto di Longi was pacing back and forth across the gravel. The massive white stone mansion rose up behind him, lit by numerous burning pitch poles stuck into the lawn along a sweeping driveway. He was waiting for the valets to bring him his car and was obviously still extremely angry. Rafael stood in the shadows for a moment and watched him; if the Englishman was incensed enough he might answer questions without asking too many. As soon as di Longi saw Rafael walk down the wide steps he stopped dead.

  “Arrogant, insufferable man! He’s so infuriating,” he exclaimed.

  “We are in his house, so I guess he can be as infuriating as he likes. Are you going back to your hotel?”

  “I want to get as far away from here as possible, why?” A sleek red BMW swung into the turning area.

  “There’s a café about ten minutes away, at the foot of the mountain road; let’s have a drink. I want to ask you something,” Rafael said as the driver opened the rear door.