The Moonlit Garden

by Bomann, Corina

  That had happened immediately with Lilly—she had befriended the student within a week of her moving in.

  “Hey, Sunny, how’s it going?” Lilly asked, once again toying with the idea of treating herself to a little vacation. If there was anyone she could ask to hold down the fort for her, it was Sunny.

  “Fine, thanks. You?” The young woman gleefully drew up the sleeve of her sweater. “Look, this is my latest.”

  The tattoo depicted a pinup girl riding a black eight ball. Lilly had no intention of decorating her own body with images, but seeing them on Sunny filled her with amazement at the work of the artist and the image itself.

  “It’s very good. Where did you have it done?”

  “In a shop on Torstrasse,” Sunny replied, a smitten smile crossing her face. “The tattoo artist was really nice—I think I’ll be going there again.”

  “You? Making a commitment?” Lilly smiled—unlike her tattoos, Sunny’s relationships were anything but lasting.

  “Well, for the next tattoo, anyway. After that . . . ” With an expression of regret she tapped the ring finger on her left hand, the one tattooed with the fine lettering of the word Love.

  “Ah, married,” Lilly observed, and Sunny nodded.

  “Yes, unfortunately. It would be something to land a tattoo artist. I could get my tattoos for free.”

  “And within a year you’d have no space left on your body.”

  “True enough. And how boring would that be? But Dennis is very nice.”

  “Get to know him a bit better, then—he might give you a discount.”

  “We’ll see. How are things looking with you—will you be needing any help in the shop?” Sunny asked as she rolled her sleeve back down.

  Lilly smiled inwardly. It was a question Sunny always asked when she’d just had a tattoo. The body art regularly tore a hole in her budget, though it never stopped her from treating herself to new ink when she wanted it. Lilly was about to turn her down when she remembered her thoughts about a vacation and escaping from snow-covered Berlin.

  “I may,” she replied, knowing that if she didn’t stay in Sunny’s good graces, she might have no one to call on if she really needed to. “Perhaps in a week or two. Could you help out then?”

  “Of course,” Sunny said. “I’ll hold the time for you as soon as you tell me how long you need me for. I’ve got some study leave coming up.”

  Lilly thought back to her student days. Although, like Sunny, she had always been on the lookout for a job to bring a little money in, she had loved the freedom and flexibility of student life.

  “I don’t want to spoil your leave, but maybe you could arrange to help out for three or four weeks?”

  “Are you planning to go away?”

  “Perhaps.” Lilly felt the hint of a smile on her face as she absently stroked the violin case beneath her arm.

  “And you’re going to learn the violin while you’re there?”

  “No, this is something I got today, and . . . ” If Ellen showed any interest in it, Lilly would take it to England. But she wasn’t going to tell that to Sunny. Not yet. “We’ll see.”

  “OK, just tell me when you need me. I’ll drop everything for your shop.”

  “Thanks. I’ll let you know in the next couple of days.”

  “OK!” Sunny flitted past her and disappeared down to the cats’ floor. Lilly trudged on up until she was engulfed by the smell of stale laundry.

  “Ah, hello, Lilly!” called out Martin Gepard, who was just closing the door to his apartment.

  He had moved in about a month after Lilly and worked in a nearby supermarket. Although they were both about the same age and each knew that the other was single, there had been no further contact between them. Lilly greeted him briefly before disappearing into her apartment, free at last of the landing’s mustiness. Within her four walls the air smelled of vanilla, wood, and books.

  She had never been tempted to fill her rooms with antiques from her shop. Before, in another life, she had owned a lot of antique furniture, but since her husband had died, Lilly preferred modernity in her home. Her furniture was new—nothing special, just the usual ubiquitous items from Ikea. The only thing she had brought with her from her former home was a painting of a woman standing by a window and looking out over a rather indistinct garden.

  Especially in the early days of her new life, Lilly had imagined herself in the scene. The woman in the portrait also had red hair and looked a little lost. It was impossible to tell what she could see in the shadowy garden, but whatever it was, it didn’t please her. She seemed to be wondering what she should do and whether it would be worth moving on, leaving the garden behind.

  It was a question Lilly often asked herself. The apartment suited her fine, and the existence of the shop made any idea of running away impossible. For a few days or a week, it could be done, since she had Sunny for that, but she couldn’t imagine leaving Berlin. Where would she go? She had never had many friends, and their number had decreased further since her husband died. She really only had Ellen now. But that didn’t make Lilly sad; on the contrary, it was good to know that there was one person who would always be there for her.

  Lilly took the violin case straight over to her desk, where she set it down carefully. She clicked on the desk lamp, and its glow lent the old leather and the tarnished handles a mysterious gleam.

  “What do you think?” she asked the photo of a man smiling out at her from a simple frame. “Should I let myself get drawn into another adventure?”

  Her husband had always believed she should seize every opportunity that came her way. And now, too, he seemed to be smiling his encouragement. Lilly could hardly believe that three years had passed since his death. She still sometimes caught herself waiting for him to come into the shop, bringing her an ice cream or a coffee and admiring her latest acquisitions.

  Peter was a novice with antiques, but his taste was faultless. He would have loved the violin.

  She ran a hand lovingly over the portrait, but as she felt the tears welling up in her eyes, she turned to the phone.

  The conversation with Ellen was bound to distract her. As she dialed the number, she conjured up an image of her lively, cheerful friend. She was in her late thirties with sparkling blue eyes, a pert nose, and a tendency to jut out her chin slightly too determinedly. Although they were both the same age, Ellen had always seemed more mature. And that was still the case: Ellen was strong and self-assured, and Lilly, childlike and doubtful.

  “Hi, Ellen—it’s Lilly,” she said as a husky voice answered.

  “Lilly, what a surprise! We haven’t talked in ages!”

  “Too long,” Lilly said as she thought back over the weeks. It must have been three months since they last spoke. They e-mailed regularly, but that was a poor substitute for the long, heartfelt conversations they used to have.

  “You’re telling me.” Ellen laughed with her characteristic gurgle. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

  It sounded like Ellen was in the kitchen; Lilly could hear steaming pans hissing in the background. In London it was a little before seven o’clock, just the time Ellen would be preparing dinner. Although she could have afforded it, Ellen didn’t employ a cook but insisted on cooking for herself in the evenings—at least when she was home.

  “I had a very strange encounter in the shop today,” Lilly said, finding it difficult to hold back from blurting out everything about the violin at once. But she knew Ellen liked a mystery and would have been disappointed with a mere account of the bald facts. Besides, Lilly found the whole thing so strange that she was beginning to doubt it had happened at all.

  So she gave such a detailed description of the man’s appearance, the words he spoke, and the gift he gave her that she knew she must have been running up a hefty bill for the international phone call.

  “He gave you a violin?” Ellen’s voice was full of disbelief.

  “He did. And the strange thing is, he sai
d the violin was meant for me, even though I’ve seen no indication of that anywhere on it. All I found was a sheet of music under the lining with the title ‘The Moonlit Garden.’”

  “‘The Moonlit Garden’—how pretty,” Ellen said. “So you got no address for your benefactor?”

  “No, he didn’t even tell me his name. Before I even noticed, he was gone.”

  Ellen clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Let that be a lesson to you. Next time you need to ask more questions. Someone could be palming stolen goods off on you.”

  The thought had never occurred to Lilly. It was one of her principles that she never asked her customers’ names unless they wanted a detailed receipt for the sale. Now it hit her like a ton of bricks, and she chided herself for being so naïve.

  “You really think it could have been stolen?” She looked at the violin case with suspicion.

  “Well, we can’t rule it out,” Ellen said. “But on the other hand, he did give you the violin and say it was yours. If I were a thief, I’d try to get as much as I could for it, and if I couldn’t get anything, I’d throw it out the car window.”

  “You certainly would not!” Lilly said, now feeling a little pacified. No, the violin wasn’t stolen. There was clearly something remarkable about it, but it wasn’t stolen goods.

  “OK, you’re right. I wouldn’t throw any musical instrument out the window, but then I’m not a thief. So what does this treasure look like?”

  Lilly described the violin to the best of her ability: the curve of the scroll, the length of the neck, the position of the f-holes, the size, the color. She saved the rose on the back until last. When she said that it looked like it had been burned into the wood by a pyrographer’s tool or soldering iron, Ellen gasped in disappointment. There was a rattling behind her; something was probably boiling over.

  “Sorry.”

  She excused herself briefly, the receiver clattering down onto the kitchen table, and Lilly caught a juicy curse, footsteps, and more sounds. After a minute the phone was picked up again, and Ellen’s voice rang out.

  “Sorry, that stew almost boiled over.”

  Lilly grinned. Ellen was not a particularly good housekeeper—her prodigious talents lay elsewhere—but it never stopped her from trying things out in the kitchen.

  “So? What do you think of the rose?”

  “Well, I must admit I’m a bit surprised,” she replied. A chair scraped on the floor, and Lilly knew that her friend had sat down. “You’re saying the drawing’s burned into the varnish? What ignoramus would do something like that?”

  “Calm down.” Lilly looked over at the violin case. “It’s branded into the wood beneath the varnish. Almost as if the violin maker had decorated it before varnishing it. Kind of like a signature.”

  “If so, it would be extremely unusual. Violin makers don’t put signatures on the outside of their violins. The only ones who would do that these days are a few eccentric musicians who think their talent makes them gods.”

  “But it seems as though our violin maker wanted to make his violin something special. Are there really no violins with any kind of design on them?”

  “Yes, of course you get decorated violins, but they’re not by the great masters. I’d like to see how Guarneri or Stradivari would have reacted if someone had asked them for a painted violin.”

  “If they’d been paid well enough, I’m sure they would have done it.”

  “No, you’re wrong there. They made instruments to order, but nothing that would put their prestige at risk. If someone wanted a violin with a rose decoration for their daughter, whether or not it affected the sound, they could be sure that the masters would refuse and pass it on to a less talented colleague. I can assure you that the only instruments to leave the workshops of Stradivari and his like were those that would have brought their makers the greatest glory.”

  “So you’re saying that I’ve been given a completely worthless violin.” Lilly was unsure whether or not she was disappointed by this. To be given a valuable instrument would have been even crazier.

  “I’d have to see this baby first. Why don’t you come over and let me have a look? And bring the sheet music with you.”

  “You mean that? I’m sure you must have a lot to do.”

  “And then some!” Ellen sighed but quickly added, “Though you’re welcome anytime. I’d love to have a look at your violin and the music and drag you around to some of the sights of London. We haven’t seen each other for so long, and to be honest, I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to think of an excuse to entice you over here.”

  “So it was you who sent the old weirdo with his violin?”

  “No, I swear it has nothing to do with me. But I’ll bear it in mind for next time. So when are you coming?”

  “You’re sure I’m not making work for you? I don’t want it all to—”

  “Don’t be silly!” Ellen interrupted. “You’re not making too much work for me, and it won’t be the least bit stressful—I promise. I desperately need a change, and in any case, I’m dying to see you. I miss you like crazy, Lilly! And Dean, Jessie, and Norma would love to see you again. You know how my daughters are besotted with you.”

  “I do. And I look forward to seeing you all, too.”

  “So that means you’re coming?”

  Lilly was overjoyed. “Yes, it does. I just have to find someone to stand in for me at the shop. And you’re sure the time’s right—you’re not about to jet off to New York?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s fine. I suspect there’s a really interesting story behind your violin. Perhaps even a mystery we can solve together. Do you remember our treasure hunts in your attic?”

  Lilly smiled broadly. “I remember. Except we never really found anything mysterious at all.”

  “Just a whole load of junk. Perhaps that’s what laid the foundation for your love of antiques.”

  Yes, that was highly likely. Lilly had always been drawn to old things. The attic of her parents’ house had been a rich playground for her, one she enjoyed exploring with Ellen all too often. Old trunks and furniture everywhere. Objects that had survived the war, others that had become outmoded, and others still that had simply been forgotten. Ellen had liked to hide behind the trunks, jumping out and scaring her. Lilly, on the other hand, could have sat there for hours, losing herself in the carvings on an old chest, pictures whose meanings had eluded her then. But now she knew the frieze had depicted a dance of death.

  “And perhaps it was where you discovered your love of old musical instruments,” Lilly said, pushing the memories aside.

  Ellen laughed. “Of course! Do you remember that old accordion?”

  “Do I? You used to plonk away on it, making a terrible racket.”

  “Maybe so, but I’ve been fascinated by instruments ever since, the older the better.”

  There was a brief pause, as if each of them had to free themselves from the memories to return to the here and now.

  “OK, I can count on you, then?” Ellen said finally, and Lilly could almost hear her peering across at her stew. Half an hour had gone by, and Dean was bound to be home from work soon. Not to mention the fact that Lilly’s phone company would be rubbing their hands together with glee.

  “You certainly can. I’ll just figure out what’s going to happen with the shop, and I’ll let you know.”

  “Great! Take care of yourself in the meantime, you hear? And don’t forget to e-mail me tomorrow.”

  “Sure. Say hello to Dean and the girls for me.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  After hanging up, Lilly sat for a few minutes, embracing the silence. The few moments of that telephone call had opened up a window in her soul. Since childhood, she and Ellen had been friends—no, almost sisters, a relationship those around them had often envied. They stuck together like glue, and if they ever did argue, it wouldn’t be long before they made up. When Ellen had met a young Englishman while on vacation in Britain, Lilly had been the first to
hear how she had fallen head over heels in love with him. Years later she had stood beside Ellen as her witness in a small church in London. She cried almost more than the bride herself. These wisps of memory always succeeded in conjuring up a little sunlight in Lilly’s heart. Not the sun in all its blazing glory, but a few rays of light piercing the clouds left by Peter’s death.

  Finally she rose and went over to the violin case on the desk. The light softly caressed the leather of the lid. Was it worth anything or not, and what did it matter? Lilly only wanted to know why the old man had been so convinced that she was entitled to this violin—and why he had made such a quick getaway.

  She carefully drew out the sheet of music and looked it over. “The Moonlit Garden.” It sounded so incredibly romantic! Which garden had the composer intended to immortalize in the music? Who was he? Was the music the key to the origin of the violin? And what did it have to do with her? So many questions . . .

  She was determined to find the answers.

  3

  “Remember to lock up the shop if you take a break and go out. People may not be particularly interested in antiques most of the time, but if they see the opportunity to grab something for free, they’ll be happy to take what they can.”

  “Of course,” Sunny said, visibly repressing the urge to roll her eyes. Justifiably so, as she’d proved herself to be completely reliable every time before. Even when she took the opportunity to do some studying at work, she always kept an eye on what was happening in the shop.

  “If someone comes in to ask you about selling something, give them our card and put them off till the week after next. I’d like to look at any new pieces myself.”

  “Sure. After all, you know more about prices than I do,” Sunny said without the slightest hint of taking offense.

  Lilly nevertheless felt obliged to add, “I do think you’re quite capable of estimating the value of an item, but sometimes we get things that we’re stuck with for life.” She indicated the little cupboard that she had secretly christened “the Unsellable.” “See this one here—it’s lovely, but for some reason nobody wants it. As if it has bad karma.”