“You begin now,” he said solemnly.
Daniel started to play a scale. Halfway through, the man held his hand up, palm facing Daniel.
“Va bene, now we address the technique.”
As he drove back to New York, Rafael played a game of moral Ping-Pong with himself. At one end of the table was an angry-looking Jeremy, and behind him all the employees of the opera company and the soloists on contract and the audiences who attended performances. At the other end were Simon, Levi, Daniel, Cindy, David, and Roberto. Rafael was the ball, and he flung himself from one end to the other listening to all the arguments.
The most important thing to remember, Maestro, is that surviving the camp doesn’t make you better than all those who died. On one level it was about a strange kind of fate, an arbitrary and completely unpredictable sort of . . . karma.
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?
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.
If I can help, I’d be only too glad. I might narrow down the haystacks a little, but it’s still a bloody small needle in a continent of hay, and while you’re thinking about it, consider this. If Valentino’s little masterpiece isn’t a 1729, what is it? When was it made? Is it the priceless missing 1742?
What was he doing? What had he started? There was no doubt in his mind that Sergei’s instrument had belonged to the Horowitz family prior to the war. His conscience told him that it’d been stolen, twice, and they’d never willingly relinquished ownership of it. But Sergei was his friend and they’d shared some long late-night sessions over a vodka bottle. He knew that Sergei’s beloved aunt had been given the violin by her father and she’d played first violin in the Moscow Philharmonic, been a favorite of Shostakovich, and a decorated war heroine, a pilot, but most important the closest thing he’d known to a mother. For all his bravado and bluster, Sergei was a human being and he’d had people ripped away from him, too.
Rafael knew what that was like, how the grief slowly sank into your bones and seemed to settle there; just because you got used to it didn’t mean you ever got over it. Speaking of grief, how much of this dedication to Daniel seeped from behind the door permanently shut in his heart? Miguel, his son, could have been a concert pianist—his future had been tantalizingly close—but Rafael grieved for the child, not the musician. He sighed deeply and frowned. However unpalatable it was, the decision was made and the ball had decided on which side of the table it wanted to be; there was no going back.
Chapter 45
Covent Garden, London
October 2008
Five men sat in comfortable armchairs drawn up to the table in a meeting room at the Covent Garden Hotel. Above them hung three red light shades; between them sat water glasses and bowls of sweets. Rafael was at the head of the table, Simon on his left, and Levi on his right. Beside Simon was an excited Roberto di Longi, and beside Levi was a cautious Maestro Carlo Montenagro, the violin tutor. An enlargement of the image of Daniel playing the Guarneri lay in the center of the table. They were all listening to Maestro Montenagro, who spoke slowly and precisely, giving his words due consideration and translating his thoughts from Italian in his head as he went.
“Several years ago I was invited to play, by the mayor of Genoa, both Il Cannone and the Vuillaume replica of it. I have also played once the Lord Wilton, a 1742 Guarneri. They share some, how do you say it? . . . common manners. And this one, she is same. The sound box is short, and the box and belly are thick, remarkably thick—that is because he put so much wood in the resonator. She has the 1742 flame grain in the maple and that very deep orange-red on old-gold ground luster, in the varnish. The 1729 was more a honey color.”
Roberto was nodding, and Rafael could see the joy on his face. It was the first expert confirmation of his theory he’d ever had.
“Most important, she has temper,” Montenagro continued. “Did you know Paganini called the Cannon ‘terribly angry’? He named her for sound she sometimes made, the explosive power, like cannon shot. The boy, he had terrible time with her at the beginning, she not like him at all. He was very nervous of course and so she had a wolf note on the top C on the fourth stri—”
“For me as well!” Simon cried excitedly and then raised his hand to his mouth. “Oh my, I’m sorry, gentlemen; you must forgive me. I battled that wolf note so many times.”
Rafael touched his arm. “Don’t apologize, Simon. You know that note; that’s a good thing.”
Montenagro waited a moment and then resumed.
“But when he relax, she tunes herself. Such a thing is what a 1742 Guarneri does. So I agree with you, Roberto. I did not look at her label, but she sounds and looks like a 1742. I have thought this for some time.”
Roberto cleared his throat. “Thank you, Maestro. I can’t tell you what it means to hear you say that. I would like to add a couple of other points, if I may. The f holes are longer, so obviously a Guarneri trait, but these are so much more elegant than his usual ones. He took such care. And look at the scroll; it’s rugged and it has his tool marks, but it was clearly made after Giuseppe Giovanni Battista Guarneri, his father and mentor, died and we know that was either 1739 or 1740. His scrolls changed dramatically after his father died, and this is obviously a later one.”
Montenagro took a photograph from his pocket and laid it on the table next to the other one. The two violins looked identical.
“This also is most interesting. This violin, it also has one-piece maple back and an orange varnish on old-gold ground. It’s a famous 1742, known as the Wieniawski, after Henryk Wieniawski, one of the greatest virtuosos of the nineteenth century, and owned by Mary Galvin since 1998. There are two things about it you should know.”
Everyone was staring at the picture of the second violin.
“Guarneri del Gesú, he used to make his violins in pairs, sometimes, not always. There are violins that look almost identical, but this one, it has no pair. I believe very much that this, the Wieniawski, is companion violin to the Guarneri that Sergei Valentino owns.”
“Have you told him this?” Rafael asked sharply.
Montenagro hesitated.
“No. And second, it has interesting history. Richard Talbot bought it in 1932, at Anderson galleries in New York for the princely sum of sixteen thousand dollars. Some French and American soldiers stay at his mansion in Aachen in 1944 and they say a French solider, he finds violin in a hidden vault. He begins to play. An American hears him and offers to buy the violin. So the French solider, he sells it for some packets of cigarettes. Then in 1948, the American GI, he takes it to Rembert Wurtlitzer at the Wurtlitzer office in New York to see if it is worth anything. Rembert recognizes it, of course, and wires London, to Hills, and asks if they know what happened to the Wieniawski Guarneri. They wire back and say it has been stolen from the Talbot house in 1944 and is still missing.”
“What happened next?” It was Simon, and his voice was raw with suppressed hope.
“Many negotiations, but eventually it was returned to Richard Talbot in Aachen, the rightful owner.”
Rafael saw Simon’s fist clench and then relax.
“That’s promising, I think,” he said firmly. “In law, they call it precedent. Roberto, tell us about the label.”
Roberto nodded enthusiastically.
“I believe the label has been altered to read 1729, to obscure the true value. Like the Sloan that was repaired by Bein and Fushi in the 1990s, it read 1734, but they believed it was a 1742 so they changed it back and repaired it. We would need another expert to authenticate that. Comparative acoustic tests and dendrochronology tests to establish the exact age of the wood; those sorts of procedures are easy and reliable.”
“Simon?”
The old man looked across the table at his brother, who gave him a little nod, then sighed deeply.
“If it is our violin—and it is—then the label will read 1729. But the true age is 1742. My papa had it changed by an expert luthier in Berlin in 1935. To make it seem an inferior instrument. He was going to hide it, but I couldn’t bear to stop playing it . . .”
His voice trailed off. Roberto thumped the table with his fist.
“I knew it!”
Rafael smiled at him.
“I know you did. Now, if we all agree that it is a 1742 and that it belongs to Simon and Levi, yes? The question next is, what are we going to do to get it back?”
“Rafael’s right,” Roberto said. “There are two separate issues, proving that it is a 1742 and therefore it is the instrument that these gentlemen lost, and then persuading Sergei to give it back. I have to say, and I know that this is not what you’ll want to hear, I’m certain that there’s nothing any of us could say to him, to persuade him—”
“But it’s ours,” Simon interrupted him, and Rafael could see the intensity in his eyes.
“I know, but he has a family provenance as well, from his grandfather.”
Rafael moved uncomfortably and picked up the photo of Daniel playing. Roberto continued on, seemingly unaware of the emotional hornet’s nest he was entering.
“I suspect the best way will be an official claim. My research has taken me in several directions. The Holocaust Claims Processing Office in New York is one. Also the American Association of Museums has been very active in this area; they have guideline—”
“May I ask something?” Levi spoke for the first time.
“Of course.” Rafael nodded. “You don’t need our permission.”
“How would a claim prove to anyone that the violin is ours? Surely it will come down to our word against his? And we are old men; time is not our most abundant resource, gentlemen.”
He spoke with a quiet dignity and frankness. Simon watched him and nodded sadly.
“To know for sure that it still exists and not to have it, play it, own it, is harder than when we thought it had gone forever,” Simon said suddenly. “It’s more than just an instrument, it’s a symbol . . . a symbol of what we had, what we lost, the people we lost. Nothing reminds me more of my papa than his pride and joy, that violin. It was not just our physical possessions they took; it was the whole fabric of our lives. They robbed us of our family.”
He paused and Rafael could see he was collecting his thoughts, finding the words to make them understand. “Many years ago I watched a German, like me—a music lover, like me—lift it out of its case and play it. Then he told me that I shouldn’t own such a thing and my papa was probably dead. Do you know what I did? I punched him, broke his nose! The wonder is he didn’t shoot me, but it was only 1939. Instead he called me a dirty Jew bastard and hit me with his truncheon, broke my left hand. For five and a half years I survived the worst hell humankind has ever known and I did it by keeping alive my memories, by willpower and by my ability to play the violin. I swore to myself I would find my violin, and you think I’m going to give up now, just because I’m an old man?”
Chapter 46
Mayfair, London
Late October 2008
The nights had begun to close in more quickly, and a chill wind swirled around the buildings and shook the leaves from the trees. Indoors the heating was going on, fires were lit, and people were starting to think about the long winter ahead. Upstairs, in her bedroom at the Mayfair mansion, Tatiana was brushing her hair and complaining.
“But if he plays well, people will want to hear him. He’s five years younger—”
Sergei smiled at her indulgently. “Not nearly as pretty!”
“No one cares about that. There are so many wonderful violins. Why does he have to play the Guarneri?”
“Because it’s the best, and he deserves to learn how to make beautiful music on her.”
“Why does he ‘deserve’?”
“Because he’s put years of work into building his skill and he’s very good.”
“Is he better than me?”
“Is it a competition?”
“Of course. You might want him to play instead of me.”
He was standing behind her now and stroking her hair. She didn’t want him to but didn’t feel secure enough to ask him to stop. No matter how many talented musicians Rafael had brought to Sergei, he’d never let anyone else play the Guarneri, so what had changed?
“Don’t worry about him, princess. He’s a talented boy and he’ll play her just once in public. To convince him to keep playing, and I think it’s working, from what Raffy says. If he graduates, well, I may lend him one of the others to play and record, but you will play her for me forever!”
Tatiana put the hairbrush onto the dressing table and gave a small smile into the mirror, saying nothing and showing nothing in her leonine eyes.
Downstairs and toward the front of the house, in the music room, Daniel was having a lesson with Maestro Montenagro. He was playing the allegro from Vivaldi’s Concerto in B Minor and the man paced around him constantly, judging his technique from all sides. Over in one corner David sat on a stool watching. He could see sweat beads gathering on his son’s forehead, and he could imagine how much Daniel’s fingers and arms must be aching with the effort.
David remembered how his father used to sit, silently, and watch his lessons. Had Simon longed to join in, to correct and encourage, all those years ago? Had he, in turn, remembered his own lessons in the glorious music room and the pride of his papa? This simple act of watching a violin lesson connected them back through the generations. David missed playing, and he’d often thought about taking it up again, but Daniel’s talent was so beyond anything he’d ever achieved, he felt intimidated. Over the past few weeks his loyalties had torn him in two; he understood his wife’s motivation, and he felt for Daniel. He knew the toll not playing and constant arguing was taking on the child. And he’d learned more about his father’s war experiences in the past month than during the rest of their relationship. How could his father and uncle tell so much to Rafael—
Suddenly the door swung open, and Tatiana walked in. Without making eye contact, she stalked over to Daniel and pulled the violin and bow out of his hands.
“Attenzione!” Montenagro leaped forward but not fast enough to stop her. The Russian put the violin to her chin and started to play the same piece. She played with a deft touch—making a point, David thought. When she finished, she handed the violin to Montenagro.
“That is how she wishes to be played,” she said, turned on her heel, and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
Excuse me, Maestro Gomez, I was wondering, could I have your autograph?”
Rafael and Magdalena were sitting at a table in the hotel bar, sipping wine and watching the world coming and going. Groups of people observed him and gossiped among themselves; every so often someone smiled shyly at him, and he returned the smile. Finally a middle-aged blonde got off her bar stool and walked timidly toward them.
She held a paper napkin and a pen in her hand. He reached out for them.
“Certainly.”
“Are you here for a concert?”
“Yes, but it is, unfortunately, a private one. What’s your name?”
“Katherine. I love opera and symphony music. I’ve seen you conduct many times; you’re just amazing to watch.”
He signed the paper with a flourish and handed it back with a smile. His eyes flashed at her and she flushed.
“Thank you very much, and there you are, Katherine.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.”
Reluctantly she moved back to the bar, still watching them. Mags gave a sigh, and he could see the humor, patience, and indulgence i
n her expression.
“So what is your plan for Saturday night, Maestro Manipulator?”
“Daniel will play and then Simon and Levi will know for sure what it is, that it is theirs. We find them a very good lawyer and, I think, lodge a claim. They have a very strong case. Then the public reaction will help.”
“Won’t that take ages? You’re not going to try and persuade Sergei first?”
“At the moment he has no reason to hide it, but if he thinks that people want to take it away, it’ll go into a vault somewhere and never see the light of day again.”
“Maybe his conscience would prevail . . .” Her voice trailed off thoughtfully. Rafael took a sip of wine.
“Fond as I am of him, I think Sergei has no conscience.”
“Raffy, aren’t you concerned for Daniel? It’s a lot of pressure on a young kid, and he’s had quite a break from performing.”
He nodded.
“I know. Carlo says he’s doing very well, though, and he loves to play it. The hard part for him is when he has to give it back. He’s a performer, it’s in his blood. You know, the only thing I worry about is that it means so much to him now. He knows his poppa will have a very hard time not reacting when he sees it and I think that possibility, it is frightening for Daniel.”
Roberto di Longi loved a captive audience. He sat across his display table from two elderly gentlemen who were as crazy about musical instruments as he was. The thought of sharing all the precious masterpieces in his vault gave him an itch of anticipation and vanity. Between them lay a long strip of green baize, and on it sat three violins. He picked one up and handed it gently to Simon.
“This is a Nicolas Lupot, made in Paris in 1798, nice red varnish on a golden-brown ground. Lupot was a very talented maker, and his instruments command a good price on the market today.”
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