But what about the baseball? Was he kidding himself? Had he actually lost a battle or the war? Was he back playing for good now or was he just helping out and when the violins were safe, where they belonged, could he reestablish his position? Was it, as Aaron had said, a tactical retreat to consolidate his front line?
Maestro would know. Tomorrow Daniel was off to England to start the big adventure, with his father and Maestro Gomez, the people who seemed to understand him and fight in his corner better than anyone else. Yep, Maestro would know. When the time was right, he’d ask his hero about the baseball, about whether he’d surrendered or just made a tactical maneuver.
Chapter 43
Sochi Hall, Sussex
October 2008
Ladies and gentlemen.”
From his position in the doorway Rafael could see Sergei in front of three hundred seated guests. He was waiting patiently until the buzz of conversation died away and they all turned their attention in his direction. It was an early fall afternoon and the Russian stood in the ballroom of his Sussex home, a microphone in his hand. Behind him sat an orchestra of young musicians, all award winners or graduates from past Washington symposia, and Rafael knew they would acquit themselves well.
“Thank you so much for being able to come to my little concert. To start proceedings, this wonderful orchestra will play the beautiful intermezzo, from Cavalleria Rusticana by Pietro Mascagni.”
Polite applause followed as Rafael strode into the room. He shook hands with Sergei and mounted a podium placed in front of the orchestra. Sergei took his seat in the front row. Rafael made eye contact with the musicians and tapped his baton on the stand, drawing their mental focus to him. He gave them an encouraging wink and raised his baton. On the downward stroke, the gentle melody filled the room and began to swell, carried by the strings, until the piece came to an end with one long sustained note. The audience clapped loudly and Rafael raised his hands, palms upward, telling the orchestra to stand, and then he turned to receive the applause. He could see Daniel sitting beside his father, his eyes glowing with excitement, clapping enthusiastically, and he gave him a wink.
“Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Now we have a special treat. Tatiana is going to play for us. She plays the Guarneri del Gesú violin, and she’s going to play a composition by Pablo de Sarasate. He was a virtuoso violinist and a composer also. He was born in my country, Spain, in the middle of the nineteenth century. He played in public for the first time when he was just eight, and when he was twelve, he was sent to study at the Paris Conservatoire. He won their highest honor when he was just seventeen. His work influenced many composers, and he had amazing technique. If we could only hear him at his peak, but alas, there were no recordings. In 1883, he wrote this piece called the ‘Carmen Fantasy,’ on themes from Georges Bizet’s famous opera, Carmen.”
While he was speaking Tatiana had walked through the door and into the room. She wore a shimmering silver dress that flowed over her curves like mercury, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She held the violin by the scroll and the bow, both in her right hand. She gave a shy smile in the direction of the conductor, tuned the violin briefly, tightened the screw on the bow, and took her stance. The orchestra came in first, but she was only seconds later. The melody was a mix of heavy drama, designed to show off the technical skill of the violinist, and a soft, delicate gypsy sound. At one stage Rafael put his finger to his lips to bring the orchestra down to an aching pianissimo. He and Tatiana made regular eye contact and exchanged smiles; when she was playing alone, she had his full focus. The first half finished with the familiar tune of the sexy “Habanera” and the audience burst into wild applause.
Rafael turned to face them, a wide grin on his face, and he took Tatiana’s hand and kissed it. She was good, he admitted to himself, and oh, she knew how to make that violin sing! He thought that one of the most exciting things about a violin like the Guarneri was that you never knew for sure how it would sound on any given day and today it was making music fit for the angels.
They waited for the clapping to subside, and then she took her stance again, violin under her chin, for the second half. The songs of Carmen echoed seductively around the room, both the erotically inviting “Seguidilla” and the frenetic gypsy dance. The music became more and more complex and demanding, the accelerating pace reflected in her body movements. Horsehair came loose on the bow and flew about her as she built to a spectacular finish.
Daniel sat spellbound all the way through, afraid to move or breathe in case he woke and it was just a dream. The sound was so superior to anything he’d ever heard before and so versatile; it commanded and pleaded and rejoiced and flirted with him and flooded his senses. Then it was over and he felt completely drained. All around him people were on their feet, clapping and shouting, “Brava!” He sat very still and stared at the woman who was holding the violin and bow in one hand and acknowledging the crowd with a nod of her head. Rafael took her hand again, held it aloft triumphantly, and then kissed it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Tatiana.”
Still Daniel didn’t move. She was playing his poppa’s violin, the violin that belonged to— He felt a sharp nudge in his side and the moment was gone. His father was looking down at him, frowning. He stood up and clapped.
The next morning Rafael collected Daniel and David in Sergei’s Rolls-Royce and they went back to the mansion. The car swept up the long graveled drive and stopped at the bottom of the broad steps. The driver got out and opened the rear doors for the two men and one teenaged boy, who carried a violin case. They were shown into the library. The center of the large room was dominated by a long and intricately carved Elizabethan table, but the rest was comfortably decorated with a piano, four leather armchairs, a Persian rug on the polished wooden floor, and a magnificent fireplace and was lined floor to ceiling with bookcases full of books. Sergei flung open the double doors at the far end of the room.
“Good morning, Raffy. Nice to meet you, David, and especially good morning to you, young Daniel.”
He shook hands with each of them and gestured to the service laid out on the table.
“Tea or coffee or some Coca-Cola?”
Rafael observed Sergei as he put the child at ease, talking to Daniel about music, composers, his school, the symposium, mathematics, and even baseball. For a man who’d never had children, he was remarkably skilled at connecting with, and listening to, the boy’s opinions. David was cautious and protective. Rafael could see that he was watchful for any comment on the family violin, but Daniel knew he wasn’t to mention it and he stuck to the script beautifully.
“So,” Sergei said finally, beaming at Daniel, “you’re going to play for me, no?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what are you going to play?”
“Some Debussy and some Paganini, sir.”
Sergei laughed delightedly.
“Wonderful choices, some of my very favorites.”
Daniel prepared the violin and tuned at the piano with Rafael, then when they were both satisfied, he turned toward Sergei.
“This is Debussy’s ‘The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.’ It’s a prelude from a series, but they were written to be played as individual pieces.”
“Quite right. When you’re ready, my boy.”
Rafael knew Sergei’s routine and watched him settle into the chair and focus his attention on the child, blocking out everything else. Daniel began to play the lilting melody, slowly and expressively, and when he finished, all three men clapped.
“And now which Paganini?” Sergei asked.
“Caprice number twenty-four and then some of the first movement of Violin Concerto number one in D Minor.”
“Goodness me, Caprice twenty-four? One of the most difficult pieces ever written for solo violin. Even after many years of study, most players lack the technique needed for this piece.”
&
nbsp; Rafael smiled and gave the Daniel the note to tune again.
“Listen and be astonished, my friend,” he said.
This time Daniel seemed to play as if his soul were on fire, his fingers flying over the fingerboard at dizzying speed and his bowing strong and confident. Seated at the piano, Rafael could see Sergei but not Daniel, and halfway through, the Russian leaned forward and stared intently at the performance. With the concluding note, Daniel’s head went back and his arms dropped to his sides. Sergei was on his feet instantly, clapping.
“Bravo! You are a truly exceptional talent.”
He walked to the boy and put his huge hand on Daniel’s shoulder, took the violin from him, and examined it. Then he looked over at Rafael and smiled.
“You’re right, as I knew you would be. This child is a genius. And now I have something to show you all.”
He led them down a series of corridors at the back of the house to a solid metal door with a keypad instead of a handle and lock. He punched in a number sequence, and the door slid back into the wall. They followed him in, and he swept his arm expansively around the room; it held three glass cases and nothing else.
“This is the prize trio of my whole collection. Meet Amaretto,” he said as he walked to the nearest case. “She is a 1715 Stradivari violin, and this is Lucetta,” he continued, moving on to the next case. “She is a 1611 Maggini viola, and of course, the one I call”—he was at the third case and he gazed lovingly into it—“Yulena. My 1729 Guarneri. Come meet her, Daniel.”
They watched as he punched another sequence into a keypad on the case and the lid sprang up slightly. Then he carefully lifted the violin from the satin and handed it to Daniel. It felt heavier than the boy had expected and very smooth, almost silky under his fingers, and surprisingly cold. He ran his hand over the back and stared at the perfect grain in the maple as it shimmered with the intense color of the red/yellow varnish. His forefinger traced the scroll and the long f holes, and he felt the fingerboard under the strings. Very gently he plucked one. Sergei held out the bow.
“Play a scale.”
He put the violin to his chin, looked at Rafael, and played a simple G major scale. He hadn’t expected to be allowed to hold it, let alone play it. The sudden sound bounced off the walls, loud in the enclosed space, and David turned away for a moment. Daniel wanted to go to his father and hug him, but he knew he couldn’t. Neither he, nor his father, had ever seen his poppa play a violin and here he was, holding the very one the old man had played when he was a young boy. When David composed himself, he pulled a small digital camera from his pocket and stepped forward.
“May I take a picture of him, sir? For his mother?”
Sergei beamed with obvious pride. “Absolutely, you may.”
“Thank you.”
Rafael smiled at Daniel.
“Try a two octave, the B major,” he said gently.
Daniel played the more complicated scale, hesitated and fiddled with the pegs, then closed his eyes and started to play some of the Paganini. It sounded harsh, and he stopped abruptly and handed it back to Sergei.
“Don’t worry, son, she is very hard to play and you have to be fearless, like Tatiana. But you will learn. I will get Maestro Montenagro to help prepare a piece or two and when you’re ready, we will have a little concert!”
Daniel retreated to stand beside Rafael; he knew that he was trembling, and that made him feel ashamed. His head pounded with complicated emotions, and he wanted to run out of the room. What surprised him most of all was that he wished his mom was there. Then he felt Rafael’s hand touch his head for a brief reaffirming pat and all was well.
Chapter 44
Vermont
October 2008
Rafael left Daniel and David in a London hotel, flew to New York, hired a car, and drove straight to Simon and Levi’s home in Woodsville. He felt humbled by their delight in seeing him.
“Could I have another look at your shoe box?” he asked as they sat at the table and drank coffee.
“Certainly.”
As Simon fetched the box, Rafael drew an envelope out of his jacket pocket.
“But first, I have something to show you.”
He handed two five-by-seven-inch photos to Simon.
“Oh, my!”
The old man almost dropped them, then grasped them tight and brought them closer to his eyes.
“Daniel.”
“Yes, Daniel, and the Guarneri; he did very well.”
Simon caressed the picture with his finger, then handed the bottom one to Levi.
“Look at it, Levi,” he said without taking his eyes from the image.
“It is yours, yes? Do you think?” asked Rafael anxiously.
Simon didn’t answer immediately, and when he looked up, his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Yes, Maestro, it’s her. I haven’t seen her for sixty-nine years and she hasn’t changed at all.”
Levi opened the shoe box, picked up the photo of the two boys, and passed it to Rafael.
“Nearly eighty years separate these two photographs,” he said softly, “and it is the same instrument.”
Simon spread the contents on the table.
“Most of this came in the pouch with Levi to London, so he should explain it.”
Levi shifted, and Rafael was reminded of the discomfort he’d seen when the old man spoke about himself on their previous meeting.
“This is a letter of introduction my papa wrote to a man who ran a bank in London, but when I visited, he refused to see me. These two sheets are a list of our possessions, written in my papa’s handwriting; the ink is faded, but you can still read them. These are two portraits, of Mama and Papa. This drawing was done for me by my sister, Rachel. It’s me playing the piano, and there’s a poem she wrote about me on the back. These were my identity cards when I first came to England. And this little pouch contained some precious family jewelry. Most of it was used to buy my freedom, and what was left has been given to Simon’s wife, Ruth, or his daughter-in-law, Cindy. I never married.”
Rafael picked up the list.
“Thank you. Are the violins on this list?”
“Yes, halfway down page one, under musical instruments.”
Rafael read the list silently, shaking his head in amazement as he came to the end.
“A Flemish double virginal. An Italian lute, an ivory serpent; you know, I’ve heard about the serpent but never seen one. Good Lord, what a room that must have been!”
Simon touched his arm. “Oh, it was, Maestro. The walls had music notes in gold leaf all over the wallpaper, I used to try and make them into a tune. There was a huge Steinway grand and such a chandelier. It was Austrian, of the finest crystal, and my, how it sparkled. The instruments were in gold-bound glass cases—”
“He doesn’t want to hear all that!”
Levi’s voice was a harsh mix of impatience, guilt, and the pain of loss. Simon removed his hand, and his shoulders slumped, his eyes downcast. It was a reflex reaction to disapproval, and the poignancy of it pulled hard at Rafael’s heart.
“These are beautiful,” he said as he picked up the miniatures. “You know, I can see why Daniel is such a good-looking boy.”
Elizabeth Horowitz’s proud beauty was perfectly captured in the small likeness. She was turned slightly sideways and her smile was enigmatic, her skin translucent. Benjamin had sparkling eyes, a round face, and an enormous mustache.
“That is how I remember them,” Levi said.
“That is how I like to remember them,” Simon added softly.
“And this is all you have left?”
“Not quite, Maestro.”
Simon retrieved a bundle of faded yellow envelopes tied together with blue ribbon from the sideboard.
“After you left last time, Ruth reminded me that my aunt had giv
en me these. They’re letters written by my mother to her sister-in-law in New York before the war. My aunt had kept them all. Avrum left Berlin in 1925 and settled in New York. He married a wonderful American woman, Esther, and my parents never met her. But my mother loved to tell her about life in Germany, what we did and where she shopped and the parties she had. I think she was showing off a bit, but the letters mention the violins a lot, especially the Guarneri. When Levi and I settled in New York, Avrum and Esther were very good to us both; we were family. When Avrum died, Esther gave me the letters; they are written in German and without her husband to translate, she couldn’t read them.”
Rafael turned the bundle over in his hands.
“That’s wonderful. What a thing to have. Simon, can you have translations made for me? Of the list and the parts of the letters that mention the violin, and a copy of that photograph?”
“Of course, Maestro.”
“Good. I want you to come to London. There are some people I want you to meet. Will you come?”
“We’d be only too happy to.”
He smiled at the two men. “You know there will be many people looking over your grandson’s shoulder when he plays these pieces. Important people from years ago. And he will feel their presence. You will need to help him with that.”
Thousands of miles away Daniel was in the music room of Sergei’s London home, holding the Guarneri in his playing stance. Two feet away a small, middle-aged man sat on a high bar stool and examined him from head to toe. Daniel tried not to look as if he was scrutinizing back. The man was Italian, bald, with a small gray goatee beard and round steel-rimmed glasses. His movements were quick and precise as he darted forward and made a minute change to the angle of the violin relative to Daniel’s body and then moved his fingers on the bow slightly. Then he sat back down on the stool.
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