Playing With Fire

by Tess Gerritsen

  Inside the house, a long and heavy silence passed.

  “So what are we to do now?” Eloisa asked softly.

  Professor Balboni shook his head. “There is nothing you can do. My colleagues and I will present our petition to the college. Some of us are composing letters to the newspaper as well, but we have little hope they’ll be published. Everyone’s nervous, everyone fears a backlash. There could be reprisals against those who disagree with the regime.”

  “We have to loudly and publicly declare our loyalty,” said Alberto. “Remind them of everything we’ve done for the country. All the wars we’ve served in, defending Italy.”

  “It makes no difference, my friend. Your Jewish Union has issued press release after press release, declaring its loyalty. What good has it done?”

  “Then what else can we say? What can we do?”

  Professor Balboni considered his next words, and his whole body seemed to sag with the weight of his answer. “You should consider leaving the country.”

  “Leave Italy?” Alberto stiffened in his chair, outraged. “My family has lived here for four hundred years. I’m as Italian as you are!”

  “I’m not arguing with you, Alberto. I’m only giving you advice.”

  “What sort of advice is that? To abandon our country? Do you think so little of our friendship that you’d shove us onto the next boat?”

  “Please, you don’t understand—”

  “Understand what?”

  Professor Balboni’s voice dropped to a murmur. “There are rumors,” he said. “Things I’ve heard from my colleagues abroad.”

  “Yes, we’ve all heard the rumors. That’s all they are, spread by those crazy Zionists to make us turn against the regime.”

  “But I’m hearing the stories from people I know to be levelheaded,” said Professor Balboni. “They say there are things going on now, in Poland. Reports of mass deportations.”

  “To where?” asked Eloisa.

  “Labor camps.” Balboni looked at her. “Women and children, too. All ages, healthy or not, are being arrested and transported. Their homes and possessions have been seized. Some of what I’ve heard is too horrible to believe, and I won’t repeat it. But if it’s happening in Poland—”

  “It won’t happen here,” said Alberto.

  “You have too much faith in the regime.”

  “Do you really expect us to leave? Where would we all go?”

  “Portugal or Spain. Perhaps Switzerland.”

  “And how will we feed ourselves in Switzerland?” Alberto pointed to his son-in-law, who was clearly struggling to process this new upheaval in their lives. “Bruno has loyal clients. He spent his whole life building a reputation.”

  “We won’t leave,” Bruno abruptly declared. He sat up straight and looked at his wife. “Your father is right. Why should we leave? We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “But these rumors,” said Eloisa. “Think of Pia in a labor camp….”

  “Would it be better for her to starve in Switzerland?”

  “Oh my God. I don’t know what we should do.”

  But Bruno did. This was his household, and although he seldom asserted himself, now he made it clear that he was in charge. “I won’t leave everything I’ve worked for. My shop is here, my clients are here. And Lorenzo has his violin students. Together, we can make do.”

  Alberto placed a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Good, we’re in agreement, then. We stay.”

  Balboni sighed. “I know it was a drastic suggestion that you leave the country, but I had to speak my mind. If events should accelerate, if conditions suddenly grow worse, there may not be another chance to leave. This could be the best opportunity you’ll have.” He rose from the table. “I’m sorry to have brought you this news, my friend. But I wanted to prepare you, before you hear it from anyone else.” He looked at Lorenzo. “Come, young man, take a walk with me. Let’s discuss how your rehearsals with Laura are going.”

  Lorenzo followed him outside, but the professor didn’t say a word as they walked together toward the canal. He seemed deep in thought, his hands clasped behind him, his brow furrowed.

  “I don’t want to leave Italy, either,” said Lorenzo.

  Balboni shot him a distracted look, as if surprised he was still there beside him. “No, of course you don’t. No one wants to be uprooted. I wouldn’t expect you to say otherwise.”

  “Yet you advise us to leave.”

  Professor Balboni halted in the narrow street and faced him. “You are a levelheaded boy, Lorenzo. Unlike your brother Marco, who I fear will do something rash and bring disaster down on all your heads. Your grandfather has always spoken highly of you. I’ve seen for myself that you have great promise as a musician, and as a man. Which is why I urge you to pay attention to what’s happening all around us. Whatever your brother’s faults, at least he sees the pattern that’s developing. So should you.”

  “The pattern?”

  “Have you not noticed how all the newspapers now speak with one voice, and that voice is raised against Jews? The movement has been building steadily for years. A newspaper editorial here, an official memorandum there. As if this is all a carefully planned campaign.”

  “Grandfather says it’s just ignorant people making noise.”

  “Beware the ignorant, Lorenzo. They’re the most dangerous enemy of all, because they are everywhere.”

  —

  They did not speak of the matter when Lorenzo came to rehearse the following Wednesday, nor on the Wednesday after that. He dined with the Balbonis both times, but their conversations over dinner were strictly about music: the latest records they had listened to. What did Lorenzo think about Shostakovich? Did everyone plan to see the new musical comedy with Vittorio De Sica? And how sad to hear that the distinguished luthier Oreste Candi had passed away in Genoa. It was as if they were trying their best to avoid talking about the storm clouds gathering over their heads, so instead they chattered about the pleasant and the trivial.

  Yet the subject still lurked in the room, as ominous as the grim face of Alda, who silently slipped in and out, clearing the table between courses. Lorenzo wondered why the Balbonis chose to keep such an unfriendly woman in their employ. He’d gathered that Alda had been with the family since before Laura was born, and had been the personal maid to Laura’s mother, who had died of blood cancer ten years ago. Perhaps after all those years, the Balbonis had simply grown accustomed to that stone face, the way you learn to live with a clubfoot or a bad knee.

  Three days before the competition, Lorenzo dined with the Balbonis one last time.

  Their final run-through had gone exceedingly well, so well that the professor shot to his feet and applauded. “No other duo comes close!” he declared. “Your instruments are like two souls joined together, singing as one. Tonight, why don’t we celebrate your victory? I’ll open a special bottle of wine.”

  “We haven’t won the prize yet, Papa,” Laura said.

  “Merely a formality. They should already be writing your names on the certificate.” He poured the wine and handed goblets to his daughter and Lorenzo. “If you both play as well as you did tonight, you cannot lose.” He winked. “I know that, because I’ve heard the other contestants.”

  “How, Papa? When?” asked Laura.

  “Today, at the college. Professor Vettori has been coaching some of the other duos. While they played, I just happened to be standing outside the rehearsal room.”

  “Naughty Papa!”

  “What, was I supposed to cover my ears and block them out? They were playing so loudly I could hear every sour note.” He held up his goblet. “Come, let’s have a toast.”

  “To the prize,” said Laura.

  “To competent judges!” said her father.

  Laura beamed at Lorenzo. Never had he seen her so beautiful, her face flushed from the wine, her hair like liquid gold in the lamplight. “And what do you toast to?” she asked.

  To you, Laura, he t
hought. To every sacred moment we’ve shared.

  He raised his glass. “To what brought us together. To music.”

  —

  Lorenzo paused outside the Balbonis’ front door and breathed in the damp night air. Lingering in the cold, he listened to the slap of water in the canal and tried to commit to memory this night, this moment. It was his last visit to their house, and he was not yet ready for it to end. What else did he have to look forward to? Now that he could not enroll at Ca’ Foscari, all he saw was an eternity in his father’s workshop, sanding and carving wood, building instruments for other musicians. He would grow old in that dim and dusty space, would shrink into a bitter version of his father, Bruno, but Laura’s life would go on. For her there would be college and all the pleasures of being a student. There would be parties and concerts and films.

  And there would be young men, always circling nearby, hoping to catch her eye. They had only to glimpse her smile, hear the music of her laughter, and they’d be enchanted. She would marry one of those young men, and they’d have children, and she’d forget about the Wednesday afternoons years before, when his violin and her cello had sung together so sweetly.

  “This will come to no good. Surely you know that.”

  Startled by the voice, he spun around so sharply that his violin case scraped the wall. Alda lurked in the shadow of the alley beside the Balbonis’ residence, her face barely visible in the glow from a streetlamp.

  “End it now,” said Alda. “Tell her you can’t take part in the competition.”

  “You want me to quit? What possible reason would I give her?”

  “Anything. Use your head.”

  “We’ve rehearsed for months. We’re ready to perform. Why should I withdraw now?”

  Her answer, spoken so softly, held the quiet note of menace. “There’ll be consequences if you don’t.”

  Suddenly he laughed. He’d had enough of this gargoyle of a woman, always scowling in the background, always casting her shadow over every happy evening he’d spent with Laura. “That’s supposed to frighten me?”

  “If you have any sense—if you care about her—it should.”

  “Why do you think I’m doing this? It’s for her.”

  “Then walk away now, before you pull her into dangerous waters. She’s an innocent. She has no idea what’s about to happen.”

  “And you do?”

  “I know people. They tell me things.”

  He stared at her with sudden comprehension. “You’re one of those Blackshirts, aren’t you? Did they tell you to scare the Jew away? Make me scurry off and hide in the gutter like a rat?”

  “You don’t understand a thing, young man.”

  “Oh, I do. I understand all too well. But it won’t stop me.”

  As he walked away, he could feel her gaze burning into his back, hot as a poker. Rage propelled him at a furious pace out of Dorsoduro. Alda’s warning to stay away from Laura had precisely the opposite effect: He would never withdraw from the competition. No, he was committed to it, and to Laura. This was what Marco had raged on about all these months, that Jews should not yield an inch, that they should demand, even seize, their rights as loyal Italians. Why had he not been paying attention?

  Lying in bed, too agitated to sleep, he thought only of winning. What better way to fight back than to triumph at the competition? To demonstrate that by denying him enrollment at Ca’ Foscari, the college was depriving itself of the best that Italy had to offer? Yes, that was how to fight, not with impotent letters to the newspapers as Alberto had suggested, not with the marches and protests that Marco threatened. No, the best way was to work harder and soar higher than anyone else. Prove your worth, and respect will follow.

  He and Laura would have to shine so brightly onstage that no one would question they deserved the prize. That’s how we fight. That’s how we win.

  8

  Laura’s satin gown was so black that at first, all he could make out in the shadowy street was a faint shimmering. Then she emerged from the night and suddenly there she stood, lustrous in the glow of the streetlamp. Her blond hair was swept to one side in a waterfall of gold and a short velvet cape draped her shoulders. Her father, who carried her cello case, looked equally elegant in a black suit and bow tie, but Lorenzo could only stare at Laura, resplendent in satin.

  “Have you been waiting out here for us?” she asked.

  “There’s a huge crowd in the auditorium and almost every chair’s taken. My grandfather wanted you to know that he’s saving a seat for you, Professor. In the fourth row, on the left.”

  “Thank you, Lorenzo.” Professor Balboni looked him up and down and gave a nod of approval. “You’ll make a handsome pair onstage, you two. Now hurry inside. This cold air isn’t good for your instruments.” He handed his daughter the cello. “Remember, don’t rush the first measures. Don’t let your nerves set the rhythm.”

  “Yes, Papa, we’ll remember,” said Laura. “Now you’d better go find your seat.”

  Balboni gave his daughter a kiss. “Good luck, both of you!” he said and headed into the auditorium.

  For a moment, Laura and Lorenzo stood in silence under the streetlamp, staring at each other. “You’re beautiful tonight,” he said.

  “Only tonight?”

  “I meant—”

  Laughing, she touched two fingers to his lips. “Hush, I know what you meant. You’re beautiful tonight, too.”

  “Laura, even if we don’t win, even if everything goes wrong onstage, it doesn’t matter. These weeks we’ve had together—the music we’ve played—that’s what I’ll always remember.”

  “Why do you talk as if tonight is the end of something? It’s just the beginning. And we start by winning.”

  Just the beginning. As they entered the stage door, he allowed himself to imagine a future with Laura. Other evenings when they’d walk into concert halls with their instruments in hand. Laura and Lorenzo performing in Rome! Paris! London! He pictured her in the years to come, her hair fading to silver, her face ripening with age, but always, always beautiful. What more perfect future could there be than to live this moment again and again, walking to stage doors with Laura?

  The whine of instruments being tuned led them to the greenroom, where the other contestants had assembled. Suddenly the tuning stopped and there was silence as everyone turned to look at them.

  Laura removed her velvet cape and opened her cello case. Ignoring the stares, the ominous silence, she gave her bow a few brisk scrapes of rosin and settled into a chair to tune. She didn’t even glance up when a formally dressed man quickly crossed the room toward her.

  “Miss Balboni, may I have a word with you?” the man murmured.

  “Perhaps later, Mr. Alfieri,” she said. “Right now, my violinist and I need to warm up.”

  “I’m afraid there is a…complication.”

  “Is there?”

  The man pointedly avoided looking at Lorenzo. “Perhaps, if we could speak in private?”

  “You may speak to me right here.”

  “I have no wish to turn this into an unpleasant scene. Surely you’re aware of the recent change in policy. This competition is open only to musicians of the Italian race.” He shot a furtive glance at Lorenzo. “Your entry has been disqualified.”

  “But we’re on the printed program.” She pulled the sheet of paper from her cello case. “This was announced a month ago. Our names are right here. We’re scheduled to perform second.”

  “The schedule has changed. That is the end of the matter.” He turned and walked away.

  “No it isn’t,” she called out, loudly enough so that everyone in the room could hear her. They were all watching as she set down her cello and followed the man across the room. “You haven’t given me one good reason why we can’t compete.”

  “I gave you the reason.”

  “A ridiculous one.”

  “It was the decision of the committee.”

  “What, your committee of
sheep?” Laura gave a brassy laugh. “We are scheduled to perform a duet, Mr. Alfieri. We have every right to perform. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my violinist and I need to warm up.” She spun away and crossed back to Lorenzo. It was not a walk but a march, her gaze straight ahead, shoulders squared. Her eyes were bright as diamonds, her cheeks flushed as though with fever. The other musicians quickly stepped out of her way to avoid colliding with such a powerful force.

  “Let’s tune,” she commanded.

  “Laura, there could be trouble for you,” said Lorenzo.

  “Do you want to play or not?” she snapped, a challenge flung at him by a girl who did not understand what fear was. Had she thought about the consequences, or was she so bent on winning that the risks didn’t matter to her? Dangerous or not, he would stand beside her. They must be fearless together.

  He unlatched his case and took out La Dianora. As he raised the violin to his jaw and felt its wood against his skin, his nerves steadied. La Dianora had never failed him; play her well, and she would sing. In the echoing greenroom, her voice soared so warm and rich that the other musicians turned to watch.

  Mr. Alfieri called out: “Pirelli and Gayda! You’re first. Up to the stage now.”

  Everyone fell silent as the first pair of contestants picked up their instruments and headed up the stairs.

  Cradling La Dianora in his arms, Lorenzo felt the warmth of her wood, as alive as human flesh. He looked at Laura, but she was completely focused on the sound of welcoming applause overhead. Then came the faint strains of the cello, its voice resonating through the wooden stage. She listened intently to the music, her gaze tilted upward, her lip twitching into a smile at the sound of a distinctly sour note. She was as hungry to win as he was. Judging by the shaky performance of this first duo, how could he and Laura not win? He tapped the fingerboard, impatient to be onstage.

  They heard applause again, as the first pair ended their performance.