Keeper of Secrets (9780062240316)

by Thomas, Julie

  “Jeremy won’t do it.”

  “So he takes my money, but not my advice? This is not your argument to have, my friend. Just put time aside to revise your Parsifal and leave bargaining to me.”

  Two hours later Rafael lay on his stomach, stretched out on the huge bed in his apartment as Magdalena massaged his back and shoulders. The adrenaline still coursed through him and the music whirled inside his brain, and every so often his fingertips tapped the covers.

  “So what will you do once Daniel has played the violin?” she asked suddenly.

  “Hhhhmm? I’m not absolutely sure, yet. I think I need to talk to his poppa again and maybe Roberto.”

  “Who’ll want to rip it away from Sergei immediately and restore it to its rightful owners, then convince them to sell it to him.”

  “They won’t sell, ever, I could see that in their eyes.”

  “Do they have any idea what it’s worth? Do you?”

  “If it’s the lost 1742, my research says anywhere from four to eight million dollars, probably closer to eight, you know it’s in fantastic condition. Many collectors would be desperate to own it.”

  She stopped massaging.

  “Good God, Raffy! And you expect him to just hand it over?”

  “No, I don’t, not at all. You know, I think it could get very ugly. Their word against his word.”

  “And what about Jeremy? The opera company?” she asked as her fingers and thumbs resumed their regular pressure on his rhomboids. “What’ll happen when he finds out what you’re up to? The company needs Sergei, you need him.”

  He sighed.

  “I know. I have been thinking about that side of it too. To be fair to Jeremy I need to tell him what is happening, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do, most definitely. And if he orders you to stop, for the good of the company, what will you do then?”

  There was a long pause. He rolled over and looked up at her; her brow was drawn into a concerned frown, and her dark eyes were serious.

  “I think Jeremy is a good man, and he also very much loves classical music. He has a conscience. I think he will understand when I tell him some of the incredible story they told to me. That violin is Daniel’s heritage. You know, there is much more—how can I say it?—at risk than just getting something back. I think Daniel will play it, learn how to play it well, and want to play it for the world. There are other wealthy sponsors, but a talent like Daniel’s, a virtuoso talent, that’s generational, it comes along maybe once in a lifetime!”

  She stroked his hair and smiled down at him.

  “And I think you’re a romantic and a very good man. A much better man than Jeremy Browne, who will see his sponsorship disappearing out the door to another opera company. Sergei supports them because of you, he doesn’t live here, he believes in you. If you destroy that, he’ll walk away and Jeremy won’t care a jot for some kid and his talent.”

  Chapter 41

  Mayfair, London

  October 2008

  Sleep was an elusive luxury for Sergei Valentino and he didn’t always take chemicals. Sometimes he used the long night hours to work or think or listen to music. On this night he wandered around the underground vault in his palatial Mayfair mansion. Soon after his grandpapa’s death, he’d returned to the dacha and found the hidden treasures where he’d been told they would be, in a hole under the floor of the summerhouse. He knew it was all war loot, things his grandpapa had brought back from Berlin and not handed over to the Motherland. Sergei’s father would’ve been furious at the deception against the Party, and his aunt would’ve demanded their return, but to whom? The owners were long since dead, and who knows how many German hands they’d been through before they reached his? There were two beautiful paintings—one he knew was extremely valuable—some silverware and jewelry and three illuminated manuscripts. He’d added to the collection over the years and divided it between his homes, but the original treasures remained in London. In a moment of generosity, he’d given the wonderful string of natural pearls to Tatiana and they looked magnificent against her skin. But, as always, his favorite was the Guarneri. It had the strongest power to draw him, and he spent countless hours sitting beside the case, holding it in his arms.

  “I think he’s going to play it,” he said, looking at the photo of his aunt. “You would like that. An American playing your violin, probably the first American to ever play it! Maybe the first child to play it, who knows. If it could talk, it could tell us so much.” He sighed. “It could tell us so much.”

  Roberto di Longi vividly remembered the first time he held a violin. His mother had taken him to Harrods to look at instruments while his father, a tailor, was working at the shop on New Bond Street. He was nearly five, and the piano dwarfed him. Then the helpful shop assistant had shown him a cello, but that was cumbersome and uncomfortable. The flute felt cold and strange against his tiny face, and his mother said no to the drums before he even sat down. Then she put a small violin into his hands, and he fell in love.

  Every week he had a lesson from Mrs. Moretti, who spoke Italian with his father and instructed him in broken English, using a large ruler to point to the notes on the page. He knew he’d never be a virtuoso, and playing in the school orchestra convinced him he didn’t want to be a jobbing musician. But a world without his beloved instrument was impossible to contemplate.

  Music was his favorite subject at school. In his university thesis, he described the violin as a three-dimensional combination of architecture and mathematical precision, unique in the extent of its ability to influence emotion through sound. What fascinated him most was the fact that in half a millennium, since the founding of Andrea Amati’s workshop in 1560, the basic design of the violin had changed little, and many of his friends would argue it’d been improved upon nearly as much. It was timeless, a classic concept born of the maker’s passion and artistry.

  After graduation he moved to Italy and immersed himself in the culture and history of Cremona, marrying a local girl, the daughter of a well-known luthier. As the years passed his knowledge grew, and the more people who needed his expertise, the more he learned. In 1990, he opened a small shop in West Hampstead, selling and repairing violins in conjunction with a well-known luthier. He attended auctions and bid on behalf of buyers wishing to remain anonymous, and his reputation for gaining a bargain grew in tandem with his knowledge base. His life was enjoyable, he was passionate about his business, his marriage was strong, he had three talented children, and he could give them all they’d ever want. He was a contented man.

  And then one day he heard Tatiana play what was called the “Valentino Guarneri.” When he consulted the program notes, something in his built-in radar, his professional compass that processed the stack of accumulated knowledge and memory, told him the notes were wrong. It began as a casual curiosity and grew into a matter of principle, a question of his honor as an expert. He told himself that the fact he didn’t like Valentino was irrelevant. What mattered was the opportunity to solve a musical mystery and to be seen to be right.

  On a late October day he sat at his desk, pieces of a violin lying on a green cloth in front of him. Slowly and gently he picked up each piece and examined it, an eyeglass in his left eye and white gloves on his hands. The pieces were battered and scratched, the varnish dull and worn into patches. He put them together like a jigsaw puzzle. A middle-aged woman appeared in the open doorway.

  “I know you said not to disturb you, sir, but there’s a phone call.”

  He looked up.

  “Ask them to call back.”

  “Normally I would, sir, but it’s Maestro Gomez and he asked me to tell you it’s about a small needle in a continent of hay. He said you’d understand.”

  Roberto put down the piece in his hand and smiled.

  “Thank you, Dorothy, put him through.”

  Across the Atlantic Ocean, Daniel was
in the living room of his grandparents’ house. He looked at the photos from the shoe box and listened solemnly to his poppa and his feter Levi as they explained the full story of their violins, what their papa had done to the Guarneri and why, and then what had happened to it. It was like a puzzle; all the snatches he’d heard over the years fell into place beside all this new information and formed a picture.

  Maestro Gomez had told them that he believed the violin Tatiana played was their violin. Now he understood about the man who was so sure the label was wrong, because it was. He wasn’t a bad man, just intense, and right. Daniel nodded slowly as he remembered his own reaction to hearing the violin at the symposium. He’d felt compelled to tell the maestro about the instrument and the special sound it made. Now he wanted to tell them.

  “It’s the best violin in the whole world,” he said, “better than any Strad I’ve heard. It made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.”

  He looked over at the table where his parents sat. His mother was obviously dying to join in the conversation, and he felt guilty because he couldn’t help hoping she wouldn’t. His father’s hand was very firmly on her knee. When Daniel turned back to his poppa, he could see that there was something more, something he was hesitating to say.

  “What is it, Poppa?”

  “We have a special favor to ask of you, Daniel, something we need you to do for us.”

  “I’d do anything for you, Poppa,” he said simply, “and you, Feter.”

  “We need you to play again. Maestro is going to ask the Russian to let you play our violin, but you need to play well to convince him. Maestro has a plan to get our violin back, but it won’t work unless you play for him.”

  Daniel’s violin case lay on the table. He hadn’t asked why they were bringing it. He’d assumed it was another attempt to get him to play, and he was too sick of the fighting to say anything until he had to. Now he got up, walked to the table, opened the case, and picked up the violin and bow. It felt right. His mother started to say something, but his father touched her arm firmly and shook his head.

  “It doesn’t mean I’ve given in,” Daniel said, looking at them. “I’m just doing it for Poppa and Feter.”

  His father nodded. Daniel could see the gleam in his mother’s eyes, and he knew that no matter what he said she’d see this as a victory. It annoyed him but there was nothing to be done; he couldn’t refuse. His family needed him. He was the only one who could do this, and it felt good to be important to them. He went to his poppa and held out the instrument.

  “Will you practice with me, Poppa?”

  The old man didn’t take the violin.

  “Play me something, Dan.”

  Daniel played a note and fiddled with the pegs. Levi rose and went to the piano.

  “Come, tune with me.”

  When he was satisfied, Daniel started to play Debussy’s “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.” The notes flooded back and he had to hold himself in check as his desire to play made him race ahead. When he finished, his poppa nodded.

  “Very good and you haven’t played for some time. This piece is a prelude, from a series, but they were written to be played as individual pieces. It’s harmonically complex and very lush. What you need to think about is what Debussy was thinking about. He wanted you to find the essence of beauty in this piece. It’s about love, intense and passionate love and yet very tranquil at the same time. So you have to be thinking about smoothness and control, long flowing bow, and gentle transitions.”

  Daniel put the violin to his chin again.

  “Did you play this piece, Poppa?”

  The old man smiled at him fondly.

  “I played this piece the very first time I played my Guarneri, for many of my papa and mama’s friends in our wonderful music room. It feels like last night!”

  “How old were you?”

  “I was fourteen, same age as you, but not as good as you. Now, play it for me again and remember, watch the timing.”

  Chapter 42

  Washington, D.C.

  October 2008

  It was performance day, and Rafael was having a catnap on the sofa in his dressing room at the Kennedy Center. His tails hung next to the crisp white shirt, white waistcoat, and red cummerbund. His white bow tie lay on the coffee table with the gold cuff links and his score for La Traviata. The thoughts juggling for supremacy in his brain banished any hope of sleep so he stared at the painting on the wall. There was a soft double knock on the door.

  “Rafael? It’s Jeremy, may I come in?”

  He swung his feet onto the floor and sat up.

  “Certainly,” he called out.

  Jeremy wore a gray suit with a saffron-colored lining, a charcoal shirt, and a yellow tie. He looked as immaculate as ever, apart from his trademark wild hair.

  “I heard you were looking for me,” he said as he crossed the room and sat down in an easy chair. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, no, not at all . . . well, not with the production.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  Rafael hesitated.

  “How vital is Sergei, really, his money and so on, to our financial position?”

  Browne gave a slight frown and cocked his head to one side.

  “Why? Have you done something to upset him?”

  Rafael could hear the barely hidden concern in the man’s tone and felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. Perhaps Mags was right.

  “Not yet. But I might, perhaps, be about to.”

  “Do tell. Is this about Parsifal?”

  “No. It’s a long story, and I won’t have enough time right now for all of it. It’s about the Guarneri. I know from whereabouts it . . . er, came. Who it belongs to. Before Sergei’s grandpapa. And perhaps he doesn’t have as much right to it as he thinks.”

  Jeremy chewed on his bottom lip. “War loot,” he said suddenly.

  Rafael nodded.

  “Absolutely. Berlin 1939. It could be, I think, a watertight claim and with a survivor alive to identify it. But I know that nothing will happen unless I make it happen.”

  “Have you met the survivor?”

  “Yes, he is very credible, knowledgeable . . . musical even. No question he’ll recognize it. And those great instruments are so individual.”

  “You’ll upset Sergei.” Browne’s voice was full of caution.

  “I think that is putting it mildly. He will never forgive me—”

  “Don’t do it. Everyone here has too much to lose, Rafael, including you, especially you.”

  His expression was set; Rafael could see he’d made up his mind.

  “I know that. But what does the Horowitz family lose if I don’t? I mean, haven’t they suffered enough? Lost enough?” Rafael asked, more to himself than to Jeremy.

  “And what about the people you work with, the orchestra, the singers, the backstage crew, the symposium—don’t you owe something to them, too?”

  It was an argument he’d expected, but somehow when he had it with himself it was easier to refute.

  “Leaving the opera company aside, you conduct concerts for him and, presumably, he pays you very well. Can you afford to lose that?”

  He ignored the question and the irritation he felt at the intrusion.

  “There’s another side to it, Jeremy, an important side. The survivor has a grandson and he could be virtuoso, a talent beloved by a generation. He won the Samuel Hillier when I was chief judge, back in February. But now he refuses to play, because his future frightens him. You know, if we can get that violin back, it may just inspire him to play again.”

  “Does he matter more than the violinists in your own orchestra?”

  Rafael got up and began to pace the room.

  “That’s unfair and you know it. Sergei is not the only donor we have—”

  “But he�
�s by far the largest, by millions. We’re the envy of every company, and it’s because of you, his friendship with you. We depend on that; surely that matters most.”

  Rafael could hear the anger in Browne’s voice and the determination to prevail over a higher argument. Somehow it seemed to represent the prejudice that had cost the Horowitz family so much, and it crystallized his thoughts. He stopped and faced the Englishman.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t give it up. It’s wrong, Jeremy. What happened to them is so, so wrong and this opportunity . . . a chance to . . . to put something right. I just can’t ignore it. That’s not me. Who I am. I could not look at myself again.”

  Jeremy got to his feet and walked to the door.

  “Put it out of your mind for now; you need to concentrate. I believe Sergei isn’t here tonight, but he is in the house for the final two performances. Think long and hard about it after this run is over, Rafael. If you were after my blessing, you don’t have it. I think you need to reconsider your priorities.”

  Daniel sat on his bed listening to music on his iPod. The sounds of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony rolled around his head and he imagined Rafael on the podium in the recording studio, encouraging and demanding the melodic majesty from the orchestra. It helped him to keep his mind off the other emotions that he found hard to control. He hadn’t hesitated for a second when his poppa asked for his help, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt important. He was the only one who could do this. It was hard to imagine what his poppa’s life had been like; he had no frame of reference in his own world. Except for the music, his passion for the violin—that Daniel understood only too well. The rest was like something from another planet, some remote history lesson he’d heard in school, and yet, they were his relations in those old photographs. He fingered the dimple in his chin; Poppa had it, Great-Grandmama had had it. Great-Grandpapa had also been passionate about this particular violin. They were real flesh-and-blood people and they’d died terrible deaths, and now, maybe, he could make something right for them. And because of his decision his parents were very happy and his mother kept hugging him. He wished she wouldn’t, but it was far better than yelling and crying and arguing all the time.