The Case of the Orphaned Bassoonists

by Barbara Wilson

  “You’re her translator? You know Elvira Montalban?”

  “I knew her from the beginning. Before the beginning, in fact.”

  Trading on the glamour of my profession, I casually dropped the fact that I had other interests here in Venice than a mere working holiday. “Music is another passion of mine. I especially love the bassoon.”

  “Bassoon?” she said, for I had used the English word.

  “Fegato,” I said, and then remembered that was liver.

  Francesca burst out laughing. “Fagotto!”

  I leaned forward confidentially. “I’m really here to help a friend of mine who has been accused of stealing a very old bassoon. A bassoon originally from the Pietà.”

  Francesca looked sober. “That is terrible, if she stole it.”

  “Of course she didn’t steal it. Someone else has stolen it, and they’re blaming it on her, and she’s being kept prisoner in some palazzo by a man called Marco Sandretti and his father.”

  “Sandretti?” Francesca’s pale face flushed. “I have a friend called Sandretti. She works in a music shop. Roberta is her name. Her brother is Marco. But she doesn’t get along with her family.”

  “A music shop: perfect,” I said. “She’ll know all about musical instruments. Does she play anything?”

  “She plays the clarinet in a group. She also plays in the Piazza San Marco at night. But, yes, she will know about old bassoons. I will take you to see her. We can go now.” Francesca rose gracefully and went into the back room, where she had a slightly heated discussion with someone. A woman—undoubtedly Francesca’s mother—with dyed red hair and a severe expression returned with her.

  Francesca and I set off through the tangled streets and, as we walked, I told her a little about Lovers and Virgins, which seemed suddenly to be weighing down my satchel.

  “It’s overheated, but effective,” I said. “She certainly can write a love scene.” I hated to admit it, but the predictably sweaty events in the horse stall had been rather arousing. Cassandra’s skin was aflame with the nearness of Francesca. Although they had met only a few minutes before, Cassandra felt an inner insistent throbbing that told her that her life had utterly changed.

  Perhaps that was going too far, but I did feel unsettled and I didn’t think it was just the pepperoni pizza. I couldn’t tell if Francesca felt anything at all, though she constantly turned to me with a smile I chose to read as promising.

  When we got to the music shop, it turned out that Roberta wasn’t working that day, but was practicing at home with her group.

  “Come tonight to the Piazza San Marco,” invited Francesca. “We’ll have a drink outside and listen to her, and then you can ask her any questions you like.”

  “Fine,” I said and then hesitated, “I wonder if I could take you to lunch? You’ve been so helpful.”

  “I would love to, but I must get back to the shop. My mother already thinks I’m lazy and looking for excuses not to work. I don’t want to work there, you see, I want…to be a writer.”

  She flushed and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “I am so happy I met you today,” she said. “We’ll see each other again tonight, after ten, and you can tell me all about the famous writers you know. Elvira Montalban, I’m so impressed! Her first novel, The Academy of Melancholy, is just the kind of book I’d like to write someday.”

  I sighed as she moved off through the crowds. Francesca had been gone only a moment and yet Cassandra longed for her with all the force of her being.

  I decided to head back to the Sandretti’s palazzo and see if Marco would allow me to take Nicky out to lunch. I wanted to pump her for more information. Then she and I would meet Albert for drinks at six to learn if any antique black-market bassoons were floating about. At eight was a concert performance of Vivaldi’s opera Orlando Furioso at the Pietà. Andrew had said that Miss de Hoog was participating in it; he had given me to understand, with a sigh, that her oboe-playing left something to be desired. I gathered that declining to attend was not an option. Afterwards I planned to head over to the Piazza San Marco to hear Marco’s sister, Roberta, play the clarinet. And to see Francesca again.

  When I arrived at the Sandretti’s palazzo, it was later than I’d expected. I’d boarded the wrong vaporetto and found myself going the long way around to the Záttere. To my surprise, no one answered the door. Perhaps Marco had taken them all off somewhere, either for lunch or to a rehearsal. I suddenly remembered that Gunther, Marco and Andrew had been following each other around the city earlier this morning. Meeting Francesca had put it entirely out of my mind. What had they been doing?

  I went back to my hotel and lay down on the bed for a second that turned into two hours. When I finally woke, I felt disoriented and vaguely troubled. The mists of the morning had solidified into humid heat so that even when I flung open my window on the canal, the air that entered seemed no fresher than what was in my room. I didn’t have a headache exactly, more like a pressure hovering around my temples. A straight espresso was what I needed, I decided. I splashed some water on my face, rubbed at the creases in my skin from the bedspread, and set out for a café.

  Some ominous feeling was in the air, or in my blood. A strong dose of java helped clear my head, but not my mood. I walked the few blocks over to the palazzo in a languid state. Coming from inside the house was the unmistakable pop-pop-pop of two bassoons racing each other through a Baroque score. But even that normally cheerful repartee sounded anxious.

  The downstairs door was unlocked, so I walked in. I could hear someone in agitated conversation upstairs. Then Marco appeared at the top of the staircase and rushed toward me, followed by the ever-helpful Andrew.

  “Where is she? Where has she gone?”

  “Who?”

  “Nicky. Nicola. Miss Gibbons.” He gave it a soft G, as in gibberish.

  “Why are you asking me? You were supposed to be watching her. If you were worried she might leave then what were you doing wandering around the Piazza San Marco late this morning with Gunther and Andrew?”

  Marco ignored that, though I saw Andrew flinch slightly. “The police took her passport,” Marco said, “so she cannot leave the country by air. She could be in any city in this country. Where would we look?”

  “This just proves she took the bassoon, Marco,” Andrew said.

  Marco shook his head. “I cannot believe that.”

  “Of course she took it,” said Bitten, strolling down the stairs, carrying the bassoon she’d been playing, a huge dark thing with many shiny keys. She looked cool and unruffled, but there was a stain on the front of her blouse and an overheated glint far back in her eyes. “And now may the rest of us get on with our lives? Gunther and I both have flights out early tomorrow. I hope you will not try to detain us.”

  “This is dreadful, dreadful mess,” moaned Marco. “I just called my father. He is arriving soon. He will kill me.”

  “There now,” said Andrew, taking the opportunity to throw a powerful arm over Marco’s shoulder. “No need to get so worked up. It’s not your responsibility. It never should have been. It’s a job for the…” His eyes flicked over to my Canadian Mounties’ beret, “the carabinieri. They’ll find her, Marco.”

  For once Marco seemed to welcome Andrew’s solicitous arm.

  “Where’s Gunther?” I asked.

  “Cleaning his bassoon no doubt,” said Bitten.

  “So I gather the two of you have been together most of the afternoon,” I said.

  “We need to practice a lot.”

  “I saw Gunther this morning in the piazza.”

  “He had to change some money.”

  “You weren’t with him.”

  “I was getting my hair done,” Bitten growled at me. “Then we had lunch out. We came back around three, and then…” Gunther came downstairs, yawning, his lips loose and wet.

  “Who saw Nicola today?” I demanded.

  They all looked at each other.

  “She had breakfast in
her room,” said Marco. “She didn’t open the door. She said she didn’t feel well. She was going to sleep.”

  “That’s when you felt secure enough to go following Gunther,” I said.

  “Following me?” Gunther said with surprise. “Who? Why?”

  Marco and Andrew exchanged a glance. I started to say something, but stopped at the sound of footsteps on the walk. Let it be her, let it be just a question of Nicky’s escaping briefly for a bit of exercise.

  “This look familiar, anyone?” said Albert Egmont, walking in the door like a traveling Giacometti statue, weedy and existential, carrying a long paper parcel. When he unwrapped the package, it proved to be a large wooden tube that doubled halfway down. It had only a few holes, no keys and a battered-looking mouthpiece.

  “Where, where did you find that?” Marco whispered. He took it quickly, but with reverence. “Who are you?”

  “Albert is a…friend of mine,” I explained.

  “Not exactly your type, I would have thought,” Bitten muttered. She had been strangely nonplussed by the sight of the bassoon, and it was clear she wanted to stretch out a hand and examine it more closely. Something held her back.

  “Cassandra, my dear,” said Albert. “I’m really at a bit of a loss. This was hardly the reception I was expecting. Can anyone explain what’s going on? Perhaps we should begin with mutual introductions.”

  I wanted to get through it quickly, but Albert insisted on shaking everyone’s hand. I noticed that more than one person could barely repress a desire to rub off the feel of the black leather glove afterward.

  “Now,” he said, but at that moment an extremely handsome older man came rushing up the walkway, calling angrily to Marco. The man was obviously his father. He was followed by Anna de Hoog. She looked even dustier and more self-effacing than usual next to Signore Sandretti, who was stuffed into an expensive suit. His head sat on his shoulders like a Roman bust on a well-upholstered pillar.

  He ignored us and began grilling his son in low rapid Italian. I couldn’t hear all of it, but judging from the miserable look on Marco’s face, it was clear his father held him completely responsible for Nicky’s disappearance.

  “Now see here,” said Andrew to Signore Sandretti. “Your son can’t be faulted in any way. It’s a full-time job guarding someone as determined as Nicola Gibbons. If you were so concerned about her getting away with the bassoon, you should have had her arrested and taken to jail.”

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I say,” Bitten said. She’d gotten hold of the period bassoon and was examining it with feigned casualness.

  Gunther, as usual, appeared completely preoccupied with dreamy thoughts of his own. I was struck by the fact that, though he was in his thirties, no worry lines etched his smooth face. I had hardly heard him say a word besides Ja, ja, Frigga since I’d arrived.

  “What’s all this?” said Albert to me.

  “The friend I told you about, Nicky, seems to have bolted.”

  “Dear, oh dear,” said Albert, taking back the bassoon, a little peremptorily, from Bitten.

  “But at least the bassoon has been returned,” said Anna de Hoog.

  Signore Sandretti stopped his interrogation of Marco and turned his full attention to the instrument in Albert’s hands.

  “I have never seen this instrument in my life,” he repeated in slow, correct English. He handed it back to Albert with a show of dramatic contempt that could not quite disguise his curiosity. “May I ask where you obtained this bassoon?”

  “I have it on good authority,” said Albert, “that this instrument came on to the market just a day or two ago.”

  “Which market?” asked Andrew, who had been staring steadily at Albert.

  “Oh, come now,” said Albert, with a slight smile. “You don’t really expect me to reveal my connections?”

  Signore Sandretti turned angrily and went upstairs. He unlocked a door and I had a quick glimpse of what seemed to be a magnificent library. Soon we heard him talking in a low and persuasive voice on the telephone.

  “Are we dismissed now?” asked Bitten.

  “Please, no,” said Marco unhappily. “My father says, please, all stay together. We will have a small dinner and then go to the Pietà for the performance tonight. You are invited too, Mrs. Reilly. And your friend, Mr. Egmont.”

  I noticed that both Andrew and Bitten looked as if the notion of Albert joining us was not terribly appealing. Andrew, in fact, was still lightly rubbing together the fingers that had touched Albert’s.

  “Of course, Albert and I would love to join you all.”

  “I beg you not to go further with that fagotto,” said Marco. “We will leave it here in a locked room.”

  “If you’ll excuse my saying so,” said Albert, “the security here leaves something to be desired. I’ll hold on to it for now.” He wrapped the bassoon back up in paper and tied it firmly with string.

  Five

  “WHY ARE THE PLOTS of old operas so complicated?” I complained as I attempted to understand the synopsis of Orlando Furioso. We were in the Church of the Pietà waiting for the performance to begin. It was a simple church, not terribly large, with a minor Tiepolo on the ceiling, and upper side balconies covered by grille work. The choir had sung, semi-hidden, behind the grilles. Long ago the orphan girls, cloistered and modest, could have sung up in the balconies, but the orchestra must have been here below, just like tonight. They would have needed to be close to their red-haired conductor Vivaldi.

  “Eighteenth-century audiences never paid attention to the plot during the performance,” Andrew told me. “They listened to the arias, but they would talk during the recitativos, which carried the plot along. That’s why the librettist wrote an introduction for the libretto. It could be as complicated as he and the composer wanted, yet they didn’t worry that the audience would jump up in the middle and say, ‘What’s really going on here?’”

  “Vivaldi, he loved the opera,” said Marco. “Here he was, so famous as a violinist and composer at the Pietà, but he wrote many, many operas as well. About forty or eighty. It’s always very confusing though, his operas. Everybody love the somebody who is not the real somebody. Everybody is pretending: he is my brother, not my lover, you know. Or they find out the servant is their son or grandfather.”

  “Of course,” said Andrew. “Throughout European history, children were constantly being abandoned by their true parents and brought up by others. Before the foundling hospitals in the Renaissance, people would just leave their babies in trees or by fountains and expect that someone would pick them up and take them home. It would then be a likely occurrence that people turned out to be related.”

  “Yes, and sometimes in the operas,” added Marco, “the women are men and the men are women. Everybody is in disguise, and love must be secret.”

  There was a slight sigh from Andrew. Some love was not that secret. In front of us were Bitten and Gunther, cooing and grunting. Marco’s father was offstage, but I could see Miss de Hoog holding her oboe somewhat awkwardly while she chatted with one of the violinists. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress that made me realize her arms were indeed quite muscular.

  It was not a staged opera, of course, not in such a small space. When the lights dimmed, the soloists filed in, the women in deeply cut evening gowns. The part of Orlando, which must have been sung by a castrato in the eighteenth century, was to be sung by a mezzo. The soloists stood there during the overture, trying to look rapturous. Then the action began. Orlando was not yet furious, but hopeful, singing to his lost Angelica.

  I was paying attention during the first aria or two, but sometime after that, all the music began to blend together, the way Vivaldi’s compositions often did with me. Although I thought of Vivaldi as easier on the ears than Bartók, I couldn’t always distinguish between repetition and variation in the Baroque master’s style. I began thinking about Nicky instead, wondering where she was and what she was keeping from me. I did
n’t think she was in any danger, but so far she’d been less than forthcoming. There was a mystery here that was not just about a missing bassoon, and it irritated me that she hadn’t confided what it was. What were we to each other, especially now that Olivia was gone?

  Since Olivia’s death, Nicky had been urging me to move into one of the three bedrooms in the Hampstead house. She wouldn’t come right out and say she was lonely—“It’s ridiculous for you to hide up there in the attic when I’m rattling around in this bloody great mansion by myself”—just as I wouldn’t come out and say that the prospect of leaving my attic room was seductive but terrifying.

  “You should let out the rooms,” I urged her instead. “Think of all the young musicians who’d love such a nice house to live in. After all, I’m hardly in London.”

  And to prove it, shortly after Olivia’s funeral, I’d gone off first for a month to Argentina and then for an extended stay to Sydney, where I’d met Dr. Angela Notion. Translation projects hadn’t taken me to the South Seas. I said it was my romance with Angela of the Turtle Eggs, but in fact it was fear of Nicky’s need for me. And how secretly pleased I’d been when I returned to find Nicky just leaving for Venice. It had meant I could enjoy all the nice things in her house while at the same time ensconcing myself firmly in the attic so that when she returned, there’d be no question of my moving downstairs. I’d grown up with a houseful of sisters, after all, and privacy, even uncomfortable privacy, was the joy of my adulthood.

  Suddenly the first act of Orlando Furioso was over, and I still didn’t know what he was so upset about.

  “She is dreadful. This Anna de Hoog is truly dreadful,” Andrew said in a vehement voice barely disguised by the clapping around us. “Did you see the way the conductor glared at her when she hit that B flat? Why the devil did your father invite her?” he asked Marco.