“You’re going to kill me anyway, so I might as well tell you the truth. I did.”
The man picked up the phone and held it to his ear.
“Yes, sir.”
Yuri watched as he clicked the phone shut and put it in his pocket.
“And now it’s time to pay for that, Captain.”
Half an hour later the man stuffed Yuri’s mutilated body into the trunk of the farm car, doused the vehicle with gasoline, and set it alight. It exploded and burned fiercely. He put his sunglasses back on, picked up his briefcase, and walked up the drive to his car.
Chapter 39
Moscow
Summer 2006
Sergei stood outside the bar and looked at the flashing neon sign. It wasn’t one of his usual haunts, and his well-honed internal radar told him it was owned by the Russian mafia. He kept his distance from them, at least in public, but it was very late and he was thirsty and, besides, he felt like some company. He didn’t come back to Moscow often, only when business compelled him, and with every trip he was amazed at the changes.
Oh well, a quick Campari and soda and then back to the apartment to catch the news on CNN, unless something else took his fancy.
Inside, the decor was surprisingly modern and luxurious, with thick carpet, comfortable leather booths around silver-colored metal tables, dominated by a massive granite bar top. Halfway through his second Campari and soda a familiar sound cut across the babble of voices and clinking of glasses. It came from the room next door and it was a violin. The music was Sibelius, the Violin Concerto in D Minor, and it was being played by someone who really knew how to play.
He got up and followed the sound, through a beaded curtain and across a room where four men sat playing poker at a table, to an open doorway, and into a lounge area. Three men sat on a banquette against the far wall, and an older man sat in a large leather chair. In the center of the room a young woman played a violin. Several things registered with Sergei simultaneously. She was tall and slender, with auburn-colored hair and golden eyes like a lion; she had some Slavic blood and she was absolutely stunning; she was playing a genuine antique violin; and she looked remarkably like Yulena would have looked at that age. He stood and stared while she finished the piece. The four men clapped, then the older man spoke.
“Very good, my sweet, go get a drink.”
She put the violin and bow into a case and walked toward Sergei, then past him and out the door without looking at him. He could see bruises on her arms, and her eyes looked dead and lifeless.
“Can we help you?” one of the men asked.
“No, thank you. It was the music.”
Sergei turned on his heel and followed her.
The first time he tried to talk to her she ignored him, and then she got angry and told him to leave her alone. He could see she was frightened, so he changed tack and approached the owner of the bar, offering a cash incentive to let her drink with him. To his surprise, she was intelligent and articulate and knowledgeable about music. It took three visits before she told him her name was Tatiana and she’d grown up in an orphanage in Archangel. When she was thirteen, she’d been thrown out to earn her living on the street so she’d boarded a train to Moscow. She was now seventeen, and Sergei could see she was far from a naive virgin. When he asked her where she’d learned to play like that, she went silent and the fear returned to her eyes so he changed the subject.
Within a week he’d persuaded her to come back to London with him. He promised her he’d replace the clothes she left behind and give her an even better violin to play and no one would ever hit her again. There were many things he didn’t know about her, but the one thing that mattered was that when she played, she made his heart stop.
On their first day in London he took her shopping and bought her armloads of clothes, some fine pieces of jewelry, and many pairs of very high-heeled shoes.
Then he brought out the violin and showed it to her. She was quiet and somber and examined it thoroughly before she began to tune it at the piano. He watched her from across the room.
“No one has played this violin for forty-one years,” he said suddenly. She stopped what she was doing and looked at him.
“Why not?”
“It belonged to my aunt and she . . . died. I’ve kept it ever since, and no one has been good enough.”
She smiled at him shyly. “Thank you. What would you like me to play?”
“Can you play ‘Liebesleid’?”
She nodded.
“That was my aunt’s favorite piece.”
“Then I would be honored to play it for you.”
She tightened the screw on the bow and put the violin to her shoulder.
“How does it feel?”
There was a hint of anxiety in his voice he couldn’t hide.
“Right.”
He smiled at her and wondered if she had any idea of the mixture of emotions he was feeling.
“I know it sounds weak, but I love to hold it and feel the wood, so smooth and cool, so many secrets locked inside.”
“It doesn’t sound weak at all; you love fine instruments, and this is the most beautiful violin I’ve ever seen.”
She started to play. She was assured and confident, the bow sweeping over the strings and her fingering precise and accurate. The music took hold of her lithe body, which was turning and dipping in time with the lilting melody. Sergei stood very still, his arms folded across his colossal chest, watching, his expression betraying nothing. He didn’t move when she finished.
“I’ll play a little Paganini and maybe some Mozart,” she said and then began to play again. Her fingers flew through the Paganini Caprice no. 5 and then some of Mozart’s Violin Concerto no. 5. Finally she lowered the violin and he stirred.
“Thank you.”
“Did it please you?”
“Very much. Tatiana, would you like to have lessons? From a maestro?”
Her eyes widened. “On this violin?”
“I know she’s difficult to master, but she rewards diligence. I would like to see you perform in public and there’s someone I want you to meet; he’s a friend of mine, Rafael Santamaria Gomez. He’ll know the right career path for you.”
In every house Sergei owned, the Guarneri had its own keypad-controlled glass case and beside it sat a framed photo of Yulena. He smiled at the photo as he put the violin back. Tatiana’s resemblance tugged at his heart. Long ago he’d accepted that he didn’t have the capacity for a monogamous intimate relationship and that wasn’t what he had in mind—the thought of Tatiana rejecting him was just too painful to contemplate. She would become his muse, his past, his present, his piece of perfection, if he could only keep her in a glass case with the violin.
“All good things come to those who wait,” he murmured to Yulena.
By October 2008, Tatiana had fulfilled that initial promise and was performing at Sergei’s private parties and concerts. He could deny her nothing, and she wore haute couture gowns and shopped at the most expensive stores in the world. He encouraged her to read about all the composers and discuss their work with him and with Maestro Carlo Montenagro, her teacher, and Natalia Petrova, a gifted Russian violinist who lived in London. Tatiana was a sponge, thirsty for knowledge, and she knew it delighted Sergei when she found joy in a new composer.
She was also aware that everyone else speculated on the nature of their relationship— she was nineteen and he was sixty-one—but she never commented on it to anyone. The truth was he hadn’t laid a finger on her, and she knew now that he never would. He used women when he needed them, but she didn’t see them and didn’t ask about them. There were aspects of him that frightened her. Like Rafael, she’d seen his temper directed at others, and at times she felt like a possession, but she knew he’d never hurt her. She dreamed of living and working in the United States, playing with a major orchestr
a and being a soloist. But, no matter what, there was always the violin and that drew her toward him more magnetically than anything else. She didn’t love him, but she was in awe of him, and when he was away, she missed him.
On a warm early fall evening, Tatiana stood in front of the full-length mirror in her suite at the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington, D.C., and surveyed the results of an afternoon of pampering. Her gown was Gucci and her sandals Manolo Blahnik. Her hair was in a simple French roll, and her makeup was subtle. Sergei came into the room from the balcony.
“I’ve been watching the White House, across the road. He’s doing what we’re doing, getting ready for the opera.”
She gave a small laugh.
“And he will go by limousine too?”
“With a few extra cars. You look wonderful, my dear.”
“Thank you.”
He picked up the diamond necklace and examined it.
“South African blue whites,” he said as he put it around her neck and fastened the clasp. She was putting large diamond earrings into her ears.
“Very sparkly”—she smiled at him in the mirror—“no matter where they’re from.”
He held out his hand to her.
“Come, it’s time to see what these artists do with my money.”
Restoration
Part Four: The Violin
2008
Chapter 40
Washington, D.C.
October 2008
The sound began softly and almost eerily, with melancholy notes, hinting at the heartache to come, echoing around the packed auditorium and building to an aching intensity. Over two thousand people settled expectantly into the plush red seats and focused their attention on the spectacle that awaited them.
At the podium Rafael’s body was in total harmony with the music, arms moving rhythmically to coax the very best out of the orchestra. Suddenly the bright swell of the strings took over and carried the preludio to its gentle conclusion. The curtain rose slowly on a party scene in nineteenth-century Paris, the women in exquisite evening gowns, the men in tails, all moving to the swaying music and toasting their frivolous lives. A large chandelier hung over the lush salon, candles glowed in the ornate candelabra, and the light sparkled off the heavy gilt mirrors and the raised glasses. Loredana di Carlo took center stage in a soft off-the-shoulder gown encrusted with crystals, her dark hair in ringlets and a champagne flute in her right hand. She looked stunningly fragile, but her powerful lyric voice soared out into the theater.
Aria by aria, duet by duet, act by act, the story of Violetta Valéry, a courtesan dying of consumption, and her ill-fated romance with a handsome young nobleman, Alfredo Germont, took the audience on an emotional journey.
Rafael was complete concentration; sweat poured off him, rolling down his face and into the collar of his evening shirt. This was what he lived for, the opportunity to take truly sublime music and bring it to life. His right hand held the baton and kept the beat while his left clenched and pointed and encouraged and indicated where he needed more power or a note of heart-wrenching softness. He knew the orchestra trusted him completely, and the music was as old a friend to them as it was to him. Onstage the world-class tenor, soprano, and baritone followed him, and he followed them in the perfect symmetry of well-rehearsed art.
Reunited again, the lovers played out the last moments of Violetta’s tragic life in the bedroom of her Paris home, and after the dramatic music of her death, the opera came to an end with a rousing last few bars from the orchestra. Rafael’s arms dropped to his sides and his head slumped forward onto his chest, eyes closed, passion spent. For a few brief seconds there was complete silence before thunderous applause broke out.
The opening night postopera gala was always a glamorous affair and an important one in the financial life of any opera company. Donors needed to be thanked and sponsors recognized. Tonight Rafael had another purpose in the back of his mind, and he moved from one group of well-wishers to the next more rapidly than usual, accepting congratulations and kisses and agreeing with the comments. He was almost halfway across the crowded room when the circle he’d just joined parted suddenly. A familiar booming voice cut through the excited noise around him.
“Raffy.”
The Russian embraced him in a strong bear hug, and the arms felt like bands of iron as he was held against the massive chest.
“Sergei. I’ve been looking for you.”
“It was magnificent, my friend. Stupendous. Wonderful cast.”
“Thank you, it did go well. Have you seen Loredana?”
“Yes. You were right, as always; she was perfect for the role. I tell her this.”
Rafael gave a chuckle and accepted a salmon canapé from the tray offered by a waiter.
“Thank you. And I’m sure she’d agreed with you. Sergei, come this way, come with me, I want to talk to you.”
Rafael led him out onto the terrace. Slowed momentarily by people wanting to offer congratulations, they eventually found a corner away from the crowd. The night was still unseasonably warm with a slight breeze off the river gently moving the air. The lights of Georgetown glittered toward the north.
“What is on your mind, Raffy?” the Russian asked congenially.
“I want to tell you a story and then, maybe, ask you a favor. You know, some months ago I judged the Samuel J. Hillier—it was the turn of the violins this year.”
“I’ve heard of this. The winner was very young, I seem to remember.”
“He’s extraordinary, Sergei. He’s fourteen, Jewish, from Illinois; his name is Daniel, Daniel Horowitz. I invited him to the symposium last month. He has an excellent technique but more than that, expression you would expect from a twenty-year-old, yes? He really understands what he plays, and his interpretative skills, they are extremely advanced.”
“Another Joshua Bell?”
“At least, with a much pushier mother. I do, you know, truly believe this boy is a once-in-a-generation talent.”
Rafael could feel Sergei watching him intently and when he turned to face him, the Russian took a sip of champagne and then raised an eyebrow at him with a quizzical expression.
“For you, who hears so many, to say such a thing? I must hear him.”
Sergei was sometimes hard to read, and Rafael had no idea how he’d react to the request.
“He has a problem. And that’s where you come in, my friend.”
“Really?”
“He’s given up. Doesn’t want to play anymore, and no one can get him to pick up his violin. He’s at the Hamilton Bruce in Philly. I’ve spoken to his teachers, because you know this happens sometimes when children hit this age. A child, he has to . . . to make the decision to be dedicated and that means sacrificing things; in Daniel’s case it’s baseball. But he’s also frightened by his own talent, by his potential future.”
“It’s a young age to have everyone make a fuss of you.”
“And to have self-discipline. You know, I think he’s learning he can say no, and there’s nothing his parents can do about it. That gives him some power, a sense of control over his life.”
“And you want to help him?”
“I do. He’s a very good kid, and he reminds me of myself, you know? I too loved sports, football, I argued with my parents, the music won. But I didn’t have a tenth of the talent he has in his little finger.”
“So what can I do?”
Rafael paused, and then took a deep breath; it was too late to turn back.
“I know you love to foster young talent, and without you I couldn’t stage the symposium. I want Daniel to feel the power of his gift. More than that, I want him to experience true genius, to . . . to hold it in his hands. If he plays a real masterpiece, once, just once, it might inspire him. You know, Sergei, I want to be able to say to him, ‘work hard and one day you could own a violin like this.�
� It might make the difference, yes?”
Sergei was looking straight at him, and Rafael could see his pale eyes had begun to dance with excitement. He knew that look.
“You want him to play the Guarneri.”
“Yes,” the Spaniard answered simply.
Sergei was thinking, processing the options, weighing up what was in it for him. Rafael was very familiar with the process, and he knew the brilliant mind would miss nothing, including the possibility it was a setup. That was why he’d declared Daniel as Jewish at the very beginning, so Sergei couldn’t accuse him of subterfuge. Finally the big man smiled.
“Perhaps Maestro Montenagro should give him a lesson or two? So he knows what to do with her? She is very hard to play. And then, if he’s good enough, this little protégé of yours, he could give a concert, no? . . . In my music room, for invited audience, his family, Roberto, James Keller, that Swedish fellow who wants to buy my beauty so badly. I will draw up a list. It will be fun! But first, you understand, I must hear him play, Rafael. Can you bring him to me?”
Rafael nodded thoughtfully.
“I can do that, if you tell me where and when, yes?”
“After the next Sussex concert. He can hear Tatiana play her.”
“Excellent. You won’t be disappointed, I promise you. And there is one other matter. Egypt. Sergei, come on, Parsifal?”
The Russian threw back his large head and roared with laughter.
“Absolutely. Of all the opera companies invited and all the glorious productions from all round the world, who will they remember? The one who dared bring Wagner to the party.”
“And we would offend the Muslims with a Christian theme, and the Jews, who hate Wagner, and maybe end up with protesters outside the house? An injunction against us? You know it’s happened to companies before.”
Sergei laid his hand on Rafael’s arm. “Yes, but the people will flock to see, and the media will congratulate us on our courage,” he insisted.
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