64
Carrington burst into the robing room. ‘You look rather chirpy this morning,’ observed Archibald, glancing at his former pupil. Carrington had been awake all night. Yet, despite the lack of sleep, he felt remarkably refreshed. He tried to complete Jana’s sentence in his mind, over and over. And, frustrated but cheered and with complete licence to fill in the gap, he kept coming back to one interpretation. What if I’m wrong? he thought, checking himself. There’s no fool like an old fool.
‘How much longer will you be with Krakowski?’ Carrington asked, ignoring the remark. ‘Our expert is standing by; I would like to give him an indication ...’
‘Not too long, I should think. By the time I’m finished with your virtuoso you won’t need the expert anymore. This evidence isn’t going anywhere and you know it,’ Archibald added, trying to intimidate his opponent.
‘That’s for the jury to decide.’
‘Well, today’s violin day,’ Archibald said, putting on his wig. ‘Let’s go and fiddle a little, shall we?’
‘Mr Krakowski,’ Archibald began, a little louder than the day before. ‘You told us yesterday that there was absolutely no doubt in your mind that the violin shown to you by my friend was the Stradivarius your father took with him to Auschwitz.’
‘Correct.’
‘And you came to that conclusion by simply touching it, playing it, listening to it. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you please look at this violin here,’ Archibald said, reaching into the red bag under the bar table. He pulled out a violin case, opened it and handed the instrument to the court attendant. ‘Please take your time. You may play it if you wish.’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘I would like you to compare it with the violin you say belonged to your father, and tell the jury how the two instruments differ from each other.’
Krakowski held the violin up against the light and examined it carefully from all sides. Then he played a short Mozart passage, just as he had done before.
Archibald was enjoying himself. He had borrowed the violin from the Conservatorium; it was an original Stradivarius.
‘This is a splendid instrument, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘That’s not what I asked you. The question was: How does this violin differ from the one you played here in court yesterday? Would you like to see it again?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Could the witness be shown Exhibit D, I think it was?’ The court attendant handed the violin to Krakowski.
‘It feels different, it sounds different,’ Krakowski said after a while, looking at the two instruments in front of him.
‘It feels different, it sounds different, you say,’ Archibald repeated. ‘Would you agree with me that these are entirely subjective considerations?’
‘I suppose they are.’
‘Would you also agree with me that the two instruments look virtually the same?’
‘Yes, they are remarkably similar,’ Krakowski agreed, ‘right down to the colour of the varnish.’
‘Assume for the moment that the violin I handed to you earlier is a genuine Stradivarius. Would that in any way alter your evidence?’ Carrington glanced at Archibald standing at the lectern next to him. He had to admire the old fox’s ploy and it was obvious that the jury thought it impressive too. So did the judge.
‘No, it would not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Violins are individuals. No two instruments are ever completely alike, even if made by the same craftsman. There are always differences.’
‘You are referring to the different sound or the different feel, I take it – the subjective matters we touched upon earlier?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you do agree with me that the two instruments look virtually the same, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Objectively speaking therefore, would it be correct to say that you cannot point to a single concrete difference between them?’
‘You mean different size, shape, colour; a distinguishing mark perhaps – things like that?’
‘Precisely.’
For a moment, Krakowski looked pensively at Newman sitting stoically in the dock opposite.
‘What’s your answer?’ Archibald demanded, certain that he had finally closed the last gate and cornered his witness.
‘No, it would not be correct to say that.’
‘Are you seriously suggesting that you can objectively point to a real difference between these two instruments?’
Carrington began to smile. His opponent had just walked into a fatal trap.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Krakowski answered calmly. Alarm bells should have been ringing loudly by now but Archibald appeared not to hear them. Oblivious to the enormous risk he was taking, he continued the pursuit.
‘Please, Mr Krakowski, do show us this difference. I’m sure the jury would like to see it,’ Archibald said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
‘I can’t, it’s hidden from view.’
‘It cannot be seen; how convenient. Pray tell us then, what is this mysterious difference?’
You’ll be sorry, thought Carrington, glancing sideways at his opponent. Never ask a question if you don’t know the answer.
‘One morning, as we were waiting for another train to arrive,’ Krakowski began quietly, ‘my father dropped his violin. It was very cold and his fingers were stiff, you see. When he picked it up, he noticed that the sound post inside the violin had been dislodged.’ Krakowski held up the violin and pointed to the bridge in the centre of the instrument. ‘The sound post is a small piece of wood just below here,’ he explained. ‘Every note played on the instrument travels through the sound post. It’s the soul of the violin,’ Krakowski said, looking directly at Archibald. ‘We took the violin to one of the workshops in the camp to repair it. My father had repaired violins before and knew exactly what to do,’ Krakowski explained. ‘First, he removed the sound post through the f-hole here. But before inserting it again and wedging it into place, I remember he did something quite unusual, something completely out of character. I think it was a small act of defiance.’ Krakowski paused, pointing to the violin in front of him.
‘What did he do?’ Archibald asked impatiently. ‘Please do not keep us in suspense any longer.’
‘He scratched something into the sound post with the tip of a fountain pen. Four things actually: a small Star of David, the words Roha and Parzifal and the number of our family’s Swiss bank account. It was a very long number. My brother and I could never remember it, I’m afraid. That way, our father said, at least we would always know where to find it.’ Archibald paled. ‘It was a silly little prank,’ Krakowski continued. ‘If we were to remove the sound post I could actually show you,’ Krakowski explained calmly, resting his finger on top of the violin. ‘I hope that’s objective enough for you, Mr Archibald.’
It was a rare moment. Archibald was speechless and rendered so at the hands of the unassuming, softly spoken musician. He swallowed several times without making a sound. Instead of cornering the witness, he found himself with his back against the wall and nowhere to go.
‘We can help you remove the little post, if you like,’ mumbled Carrington, enjoying his opponent’s dilemma.
‘Where to from here, Mr Archibald?’ asked the judge. Archibald didn’t respond. ‘Mr Archibald?’ the judge asked again.
‘Perhaps I can assist, Your Honour,’ Carrington interjected, rising to his feet.
‘This violin is obviously a very valuable instrument. One would ordinarily be most reluctant to interfere with it. However, these are extraordinary circumstances and we will ask the current owner – the trustee, that is – for permission to remove the sound post. The Crown intends to call an expert witness in any event. I’m sure he could attend to the task without damaging the violin. I can also indicate to Your Honour,’ Carrington added, looking directly at the
jury, ‘that we will seek leave to re-examine Mr Krakowski on this topic and tender the sound post once it has been removed – to corroborate his evidence.’
‘What do you say to that, Mr Archibald?’ asked the judge.
‘No further questions, Your Honour,’ Archibald growled and sat down.
‘Coward!’ shouted a voice from the gallery.
65
Out of breath and perspiring, Haddad followed Jana up the steep escarpment. ‘My men have searched every corner of the cave again this morning,’ he said, wiping his flushed face with a handkerchief. ‘Nothing!’
‘Even the Defender of the Faith cannot just disappear without a trace,’ Jana replied. ‘Unless he has a flying carpet there must be a simple explanation for all this. There has to be another exit somewhere.’
‘That’s what I thought all along,’ Haddad agreed. ‘Let’s go inside and have another look.’
They moved from chamber to chamber, but found nothing. It appeared that the cave could only be entered from the side facing the Nile.
‘The whole area was sealed off as soon we knew he was inside. A fly couldn’t have crawled out without being noticed,’ Haddad said.
‘Why don’t we go up in the helicopter and have a look from above – who knows?’ Jana suggested.
‘Good idea.’
As the pilot made a low pass over the mouth of the cave, Jana noticed a gorge on the other side of the escarpment.
‘The pilot wants to know what we’re looking for,’ shouted Haddad. Jana shrugged. Just as the helicopter was turning away from the gorge, something shiny caught her eye.
‘There, what’s that?’ Jana pointed to the shaft of light rising from the ground. The pilot circled the spot and descended into the gorge.
‘It’s a camel,’ Haddad shouted back, handing his binoculars to Jana. ‘A dead one – have a look.’ The shattered carcass of a camel came into view, the silver studs on the back of the broken saddle reflecting the sunlight. When the helicopter roared past, three vultures gorging on the rotting carcass took flight.
‘It hasn’t been there long. It must have fallen from somewhere up here. There,’ Jana said, pointing excitedly to the side of the cliff directly above the dead camel, ‘a path, along the ridge.’ The pilot followed the narrow track carved into the rock ledge until it suddenly disappeared into the mountain.
‘The elusive back door to the cave, you think?’ asked Haddad.
Jana nodded.
‘Look over there, Bedouins!’ Haddad pointed to a campsite at the entry to the gorge. The pilot put the helicopter down in the sand next to a cluster of black tents. Several tall men, their long robes flapping furiously in the draught of the rotor blades, came running towards them.
‘You stay here,’ Haddad said, unfastening his seatbelt. ‘Look, they’re all armed. If there’s any trouble we take off at once, understand?’ Jana nodded. Haddad followed the men to one of the tents and disappeared inside.
Jana was getting anxious; Haddad was taking his time. The pilot, too, was getting nervous. He was reaching for the machine gun under his seat when Haddad came out of the tent.
‘I think we have our answer,’ Haddad said.
‘What took so long? I was getting worried.’
‘The usual thing; no one wanted to talk.’
‘But you changed their mind, how?’
‘With a mixture of baksheesh and threats. Mainly baksheesh, I’m afraid,’ Haddad joked, rubbing his fingers together. ‘This is Egypt, remember?’
‘I see. You used sophisticated methods of interrogation then,’ teased Jana.
‘Sophisticated? Well, let’s say, effective.’
‘Who are these people?’
‘Traders, on their way to Luxor.’
‘Can you trust them?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well?’
‘Apparently, three men came out of the gorge late last night, on foot. They bought camels from the Bedouins and left at first light. That way,’ Haddad pointed west, towards the Nile. ‘They were in a great hurry.’
‘The Defender of the Faith?’
‘Must be.’ Haddad shook his head in frustration. ‘This is a major trade route leading directly to Luxor. The man has nine lives! Not only did he dupe us all, his followers included, he had no trouble sacrificing his men it seems. Anything to get away.’
‘And the old man over there with the beard is the tribal elder, I suppose,’ Jana said, pointing to a group of men watching the chopper take off.
‘No, their leader’s inside. He can’t walk; the women were bandaging his injured leg.’
‘What now?’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘If your baksheesh was generous enough and they actually told the truth, we should be able to spot these men from the air. Don’t you think? They couldn’t have gone very far. We’ll follow the trade route and, hopefully, we’ll find them.’
‘Exactly.’
Sheikh Omar pushed the leather flap of the tent a little to one side with his stick, and watched the helicopter disappear behind the escarpment.
‘Allah will reward you, and so will I,’ he said to the old man with the beard. ‘You did well telling them what they wanted to hear. Your story of three men coming out of the gorge last night was very convincing. They’ve gone away – for now. But they’ll be back. We must leave immediately.’
The helicopter followed an ancient wadi – a gateway to the Nile – used by countless caravans bringing their wares to the markets of Egypt. Within minutes of their finding the wadi, a sand storm rose out of the desert from the east. It was now too dangerous to fly low and the pilot had to turn back.
Haddad was furious. He radioed ahead and ordered his agents to seal off all approaches to Luxor from the east. Every man riding a camel in the vicinity was to be detained.
‘We questioned two of the wounded about their leader,’ reported one of Haddad’s officers at the airport.
‘Did you find out anything new?’ asked Haddad, hurrying to his jeep.
‘There was something odd. Apparently none of them actually saw the Chosen One, but there was a rumour going round the cave ...’
‘What rumour?’
‘That he was injured. Incapacitated, something like that. I know it sounds vague,’ apologised the officer, ‘but they both mentioned a broken leg.’
‘What did you say?’ Haddad shouted, clenching his fist.
‘A bad leg,’ repeated the officer timidly.
‘Did you hear that?’ Haddad turned to Jana. ‘The Defender of the Faith has an injured leg!’
‘The man in the tent ... do you think?’
‘Yes, it all fits. Bedouins always stick together. He was playing with me. Damn his soul!’ fumed Haddad. ‘He mocked me. At least now I know what he looks like. Let’s go back and this time let’s have a platoon of sharpshooters with us.’
The helicopters circled the entry to the gorge several times. Just before sunset, the sandstorm calmed, permitting a clear view of the terrain below. Haddad swore loudly, and then immediately asked for Allah’s forgiveness. As he had feared, the tents had gone and the Bedouins had disappeared into the desert without a trace.
66
‘Professor Bernadini, you are currently a director of the American Federation of Violin and Bow Makers Inc. Is that correct?’ Carrington asked, introducing his expert witness to a hushed court.
‘Yes, that is so.’
‘Do you specialise in any particular field?’
‘I do – the history and development of musical instruments, especially the violin. I have written several books on the subject.’
‘And one of those books is this one, I believe,’ Carrington continued, reaching for a slim, leather-bound volume on the bar table. ‘The Violin Makers of Cremona,’ he read out aloud.
‘Yes, it was published last year. It deals with the great Italian violin makers – or luthiers, is the correct term. It begins with Andrea Amati, who founded the Cremone
se School and culminates with the great Stradivari himself.’
‘And in your book you investigate their various techniques, I understand? Constructing their instruments, and the special woods they used, the varnishes they invented and so on – right?’
‘That’s correct. In order to follow the development of the violin, reaching its pinnacle with Stradivari,’ Bernadini went on, thrilled to have another opportunity to show the depth of his knowledge. He failed, however, to notice, when he went on and on, that the judge was starting to shuffle in her seat.
‘One has to understand the evolution of this extraordinary craftsmanship. For example, Stradivari’s methods of building a violin didn’t stand still. They improved all the time, especially between 1684 and 1700,’ Bernadini continued, hardly drawing breath. Carrington resisted stopping the lecture. There was a point to all this and Bernadini would serve them well.
‘Then, the Long Stradivarius emerged in about 1700, giving us the magnificent, unsurpassed instrument we know as the Stradivarius today.’
Archibald appeared disinterested and sat, playing with his pencil. He didn’t object once.
Carrington, however, thought there was nothing quite as compelling as a true expert’s passion. ‘And would it be correct to say,’ he continued, ‘that from time to time you have been called upon to authenticate violins attributed to the famous Cremonese violin makers?’
‘Yes, I have acted as a consultant on numerous occasions, especially for auctioneers and insurers.’
‘Would you please take a look at this instrument?’ Carrington handed Exhibit D to the court attendant. ‘What can you tell us about it?’ Bernadini took a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from a silver case and began to polish the thick lenses with his handkerchief. The glasses made his eyes appear huge and distorted, like those of a curious fish staring through a glass bowl. He reached for the violin and began.
‘It is my considered opinion, that this is an authentic Stradivarius – a Long Stradivarius in fact – manufactured by the maestro between 1700 and 1710. It is a superb example of his craft, which reached its peak during his more mature years.’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 28
