Playing With Fire

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Oh, that awful competition!” Laura sighed. “Why must everything be about who’s the best, who’s number one? I wish we could play music just for the joy of it.”

  “Aren’t you enjoying this now?”

  She was silent for a moment as she regarded the music. “Yes,” she said, sounding surprised. “Yes, I am enjoying this. But having that competition hanging over our heads—it changes everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Because now it’s not about fun. It’s about pride. There’s something you should know about me, Lorenzo. I don’t like to lose, ever.” She looked at him. “If we’re going to compete for this prize, I have every intention of winning.”

  6

  Every Wednesday for the next two months, Lorenzo walked across the bridge to Dorsoduro. At four o’clock, he’d knock at the door on Fondamenta Bragadin and would be ushered in by the eternally sour-faced housekeeper. He and Laura would rehearse “La Dianora,” then break for tea and cakes, at which time Professor Balboni sometimes joined them. Afterward they would play whatever music amused them, but at the end of the session, they always returned to “La Dianora,” which they had settled upon as their competition piece.

  The cello part frustrated Laura. He could see it in her face: her deeply etched frown, her squared jaw. “Again!” she’d demand after she’d stumbled through a difficult passage. And after the next flawed run-through: “Again!” And: “Again!” This girl was so fierce that she sometimes scared him. Then she’d burst out in delighted laughter when, after an hour of struggling over that cursed passage, she’d suddenly get it right. In the span of a single afternoon, she could surprise and frustrate and enchant him.

  No longer was Wednesday a day like any other. Now he thought of them as Laura days, when he’d step into her house, her world, and forget about his own. When he could sit knee to knee with her, close enough to see the glow of perspiration on her face and hear her soft intake of breath as she attacked the strings with her bow. A duet was far more than two instruments playing notes together. It was also about joining in perfect harmony, about linking minds and hearts so completely that you know the precise instant when your partner will lift her bow and let the final note die.

  As the competition drew near, they were close to achieving that perfection. Lorenzo pictured the two of them onstage at Ca’ Foscari, their instruments gleaming under the lights, Laura’s gown pooling on the floor around her chair. He imagined their flawless performance and the triumphant smile on her face. He and Laura would join hands onstage and take bow after bow as the audience applauded.

  Then they’d pack up their instruments, say goodbye to each other, and that would be the end of it. No more rehearsals, no more afternoons with Laura. I must remember this moment. After we go our separate ways, these memories are all I’ll have left of her.

  “Oh for heaven’s sakes, Lorenzo!” she snapped. “Where is your head today?”

  “Sorry. I lost track of which measure we’re on.”

  “Measure twenty-six. You did something odd there, and now we’re not together.” She frowned at him. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He rotated his shoulder, massaged his neck. “It’s just that we’ve been at this for hours now.”

  “Shall we stop for tea again?”

  “No, let’s just push on.”

  “Are you in a hurry to leave?”

  Leaving her was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was nearly eight o’clock and the scent of dinner had begun wafting in from the kitchen. “It’s late. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

  “I understand.” She sighed. “Oh well. I know you find it hard to be trapped here with me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We don’t have to like each other. We just have to play well together, right?”

  “What makes you think I don’t like being with you?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Three times I’ve invited you to stay for dinner. Every time, you’ve declined.”

  “Laura, you don’t understand—”

  “What should I understand?”

  “I assumed you were just trying to be polite when you invited me.”

  “Polite would be one invitation. Three invitations surely goes beyond mere politeness.”

  “I’m sorry. I know that Alda isn’t comfortable having me here, and I didn’t want to make things difficult.”

  “Did Alda actually say this to you?”

  “No. But I can see it in her face. The way she looks at me.”

  “Ah, so now you’re a mind reader. You take one look at Alda and you know exactly what she’s thinking. And oh dear, she disapproves of you, so of course you don’t dare accept my invitations. Are you so easily discouraged by everything in life, Lorenzo?”

  He stared back at her, stung by the truth of what she’d said. Laura would never be so easily intimidated. She was braver than he could ever be, brave enough to wave her ugly scars like scarlet flags. Now she was challenging him to be as bold as she was, and to say exactly what he thought, whatever the consequences.

  Grimly she set down her cello. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s getting late. I’ll see you next week.”

  “I do like being with you, Laura. In fact, there’s no place I’d rather be than right here.”

  “Is this the real Lorenzo talking? Or is this the diplomat Lorenzo, trying to say the polite thing and not offend me?”

  “This is the truth,” he said quietly. “All week, I look forward to Wednesday and being here with you. But I’m not good at speaking my mind the way you are. You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever met.” He looked down at his feet. “I know I’m too cautious, and I always have been. Afraid to do or say the wrong thing. The only time I feel brave, truly brave, is when I’m playing music.”

  “All right then. We should play.” She picked up her cello and bow. “And maybe tonight you’ll feel brave enough to stay for dinner.”

  —

  “More wine, let’s have more wine!” said Professor Balboni, and he refilled their goblets. Was it their fourth glass or their fifth? Lorenzo had lost count, but what did it matter? The evening was one long, happy blur. The music of Duke Ellington played on the phonograph as they dined on Alda’s delicate broth with minced vegetables, followed by fegato and potatoes, and finally cake and fruits and nuts. Never had Lorenzo enjoyed a meal so much, made all the more delightful because of the people he shared it with. Laura sat across from him, her bare arms in full view, and the sight of her scars no longer startled him. No, those scars were yet another reason he admired her. They were a testament to her courage, to her willingness to reveal exactly who she was, without apology.

  Her father was just as forthright with his brash statements and boisterous laughter. Professor Balboni wanted to know their guest’s opinions about everything. What did he think of jazz? Did he prefer Louis Armstrong or Duke Ellington? Did he think there was any role for the violin in this modern music?

  And then: “What are your plans for the future?”

  The future? Lorenzo could scarcely think beyond the competition in three weeks. “I plan to attend Ca’ Foscari, like my brother Marco,” he said.

  “Which subject will you study at the college?”

  “Marco advised me to study government. He said I’ll be able to find a job.”

  Professor Balboni snorted. “You would feel buried alive, studying something as dull as government. Music is your field. Aren’t you already teaching the violin?”

  “Yes, sir, I have seven students, all of them eight or nine years old. My father thinks we should combine our businesses. I teach the violin, and he provides my students with their instruments. He wants me to take over his shop someday, but I don’t think I would make a good luthier.”

  “That’s because you’re not a woodworker, you’re a musician. Something your grandfather recognized since you were just a child. Surely you could find a position in some orchestra? Or you should consider going abroad, to
America perhaps.”

  “America?” Lorenzo laughed. “What a fantasy!”

  “Why not dream big? It’s not impossible.”

  “It means leaving my family.” He looked across the table at Laura. It means leaving her.

  “I really think you should consider emigrating, Lorenzo. This country is changing, and all too quickly.” Professor Balboni’s voice was suddenly quiet. “These are not good times. I have spoken to Alberto about other possibilities, places where your family could settle.”

  “My grandfather will never leave Italy, and my father can’t leave his business. He’s built a reputation here and he has loyal clients.”

  “Yes, for now, his business is probably safe. Skilled luthiers don’t just sprout up overnight, so he can’t be easily replaced. But who knows what the regime will do next? What new decrees the Interior Ministry might issue?”

  Lorenzo nodded. “That’s what Marco keeps saying. Every day, he finds something in the news to be outraged about.”

  “Then your brother is paying attention.”

  “My father says we shouldn’t worry. He says these decrees are political games, just for show, and the regime will never turn against us. We have to trust Mussolini.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he knows we’re loyal citizens. He’s said it again and again: there is no Jewish question here.” Lorenzo took a confident sip of wine. “Italy is not Germany.”

  “This is what your father says?”

  “Yes, and my grandfather as well. They believe Mussolini will always support us.”

  “Well then, perhaps they are right. I hope they are right.” Professor Balboni sank back in his chair, as if the effort to keep up a lively conversation had drained him. “You are an optimist, Lorenzo, like your grandfather. It’s why Alberto and I are such excellent friends. No doom and gloom from him, only good cheer, even when the times are not good.”

  But this evening is surely one of the good times, thought Lorenzo. How could it not be, with Laura smiling at him, the wine flowing, and excellent jazz playing on the phonograph? Even the sight of Alda’s chilly expression could not dampen the pleasure of sitting at the Balbonis’ table.

  It was well past one in the morning when he stepped out their door. Walking the empty streets back to his own neighborhood of Cannaregio, he did not worry about the dangers he might encounter on the way, or whether some roving band of thugs might attack him. No, tonight he was immune to misfortune, walking in a protective cloud of happiness. He had been welcomed into the Balboni family, accepted as their friend, praised as an artist. Laura herself had walked him to the door, and he could still picture her framed in that rectangle of light, waving goodbye. He could still hear her call out: “Until Wednesday, Lorenzo!”

  He was humming the melody of “La Dianora” as he walked into his house and hung up his coat and hat.

  “What makes you so damn happy tonight?” said Marco.

  Lorenzo turned and saw his brother standing in the kitchen doorway. He wasn’t surprised that Marco was still awake; only after dark did he seem to come fully alive, and he’d stay up half the night arguing politics with his friends, or poring over the latest newspapers and pamphlets. Marco’s hair stood up in stiff tufts, as if he’d been plowing his fingers through it. He looked thuggish tonight, his face unshaven, his undershirt untucked and stained.

  “Mama and Pia were worried about you,” Marco said.

  “After rehearsal, they invited me to stay for dinner.”

  “Did they, now?”

  “I had a wonderful time. It was the best evening ever!”

  “Is that all it takes to make you happy? Being allowed to stay at their house for dinner?”

  “Not allowed. Invited. There’s a difference, you know.” As Lorenzo started toward the stairs, Marco grasped his arm. “Take care, little brother. You may think they’re on your side, but how do you really know?”

  Lorenzo shook him off. “Not everyone’s against us, Marco. Some people are on our side.”

  He carried his violin up the stairs to his attic bedroom and opened the window to let in fresh air. Even Marco couldn’t ruin this night for him. He wanted to sing, to shout out to the world what an evening he had had with Laura and her father. Everything seemed so much happier and brighter in the Balboni household, where wine flowed and jazz played and all seemed possible. Why not dream big? Professor Balboni had challenged him.

  That night, lying in bed, Lorenzo did just that. He dared to dream about America, about Laura, about a future together. Yes, it all seemed possible.

  Until the next day, when Professor Balboni knocked on their door with news that changed their lives.

  7

  September 1938

  “How can Ca’ Foscari do this to me?” said Alberto. “For thirty-five years, I’ve taught there! Now they dismiss me without any reason, without any warning?”

  “There were plenty of warnings, Grandpapa,” said Marco. “All these months, I’ve pointed them out to you. You saw the editorials in Il Tevere. In Quadrivio.”

  “Those newspapers spew nothing but racist nonsense. No one believed it would lead to any real changes.”

  “You read the ‘Manifesto of the Scientists.’ That was certainly a warning of things to come. Now it’s all coming to pass.”

  “But for the college to dismiss me, without cause?”

  “They have their cause. You’re a Jew and that’s reason enough for them.”

  Alberto turned to his colleague Balboni, who sat shaking his head. The whole family had gathered around the dining table, but there was no food, no refreshment in sight; Lorenzo’s mother was so distressed by the news, she’d neglected her duties as a proper hostess and had sunk into a chair, shocked into silence.

  Lorenzo’s father said: “Surely this is just a temporary measure. An empty gesture to curry favor with Berlin.” Bruno, ever the Mussolini fan, refused to believe Il Duce would ever turn against them. “And what about Professor Leone? His wife isn’t a Jew, and this will punish her as well. Mark my words, in a few weeks, it will be reversed. The college can’t function without its Jewish faculty.”

  Marco flung up his hands in frustration. “Papa, did you not read the memorandum? This order applies to students as well. We’re now expelled from every school in Italy!”

  “They did allow one small mercy,” said Professor Balboni. “They made an exception for students in their final year, so you will be allowed to finish your studies, Marco. But Lorenzo?” He shook his head. “He can’t enroll at Ca’ Foscari, or any other college in Italy.”

  “Even if I am allowed to finish,” said Marco, “what good is my degree? No one will hire me now.” His eyes suddenly glimmered with tears and he turned away. How diligently he’d studied, always so certain of his path in life. He would serve Italy like his heroes Volpi and Luzzatti. He’d dreamed of working as a diplomat, and he’d debated which languages he should study, wondered in which countries he’d someday work. At eight years old, he’d tacked a map of the world on his wall, a map that he’d traced so often with his fingers that parts of the paper had been rubbed away. Now those hopes were dead because Italy had betrayed him; Italy had betrayed them all.

  Marco gave his eyes an angry swipe. “And look what they’ve done to poor Grandpapa! Half his life, he taught at Ca’ Foscari. Now he is nothing.”

  “He is still a teacher, Marco,” said Balboni.

  “A teacher with no income. Oh, but Jews don’t need to eat. We can live on air, can’t we?”

  “Marco,” warned his mother. “Be respectful. Professor Balboni isn’t responsible for this.”

  “What are he and his colleagues going to do about it?”

  “We are appalled, of course,” said Balboni. “We’ve written a petition of protest. I’ve signed it, and so have dozens of others on the faculty.”

  “Dozens? Not everyone?”

  Balboni lowered his head. “No,” he admitted. “Some are afraid of repercussions if t
hey sign. And others…” He shrugged. “Well, they were never your friends, anyway. And now there are rumors that more bad news is coming. New laws being proposed, affecting Jews in other professions. I tell you, it all springs from that damned ‘Manifesto of the Scientists.’ It unleashed this madness. It gave everyone permission to blame you for all the ills in the country.”

  Published a month earlier in Il Giornale d’Italia, the manifesto had sent Marco into a rage. He’d stormed into the house waving the newspaper, shouting: “Now they say we’re not true Italians! They say we’re a foreign race!” Since then he had talked of little else. He had brought home pamphlets and newspapers to pore over at night, feeding his anger. Every family meal turned into a battleground because his father and grandfather remained loyal fascists, unwilling to believe that Mussolini would turn against them. The arguments at dinner grew so heated that once, to everyone’s shock, Mama had slapped a knife down on the table and declared: “Enough! If you’re going to kill each other, why not use that knife! At least it will finally be quieter around here!”

  Now another argument was about to explode and Lorenzo saw angry veins bulge on his brother’s neck, saw Mama’s hands tense into claws on the table.

  “There must be a way to appeal this memorandum,” said Alberto. “I will write a letter to the newspaper.”

  “Oh yes,” Marco snorted. “A letter will change everything!”

  Bruno gave his son a slap on the head. “And what would you do? You’re so brilliant, Marco, I’m sure you have all the answers!”

  “At least I’m not blind and deaf, like everyone else in this family!” Marco stood, shoving his chair back so hard it toppled over backward. He left it lying on the floor and stormed out of the room.

  His sister, Pia, jumped up to follow him. “Marco!” she called. “Please don’t leave. I hate it when you all fight like this!” They heard her run out the door, heard her calling out as she pursued her brother. Of them all, nine-year-old Pia was the true diplomat in the family, always distressed when they argued, always anxious to negotiate peace. Even as her voice faded down the street, she was still beseeching her brother to return.