The Case of the Orphaned Bassoonists

by Barbara Wilson

  Mercedes would write a great feminist tract that would result in her being excommunicated. She would flee to Paris, where she’d spend her remaining years attending the salons of Madame de Staël and perhaps befriending Mary Wollstonecraft. (Instead of becoming a strange and embittered spinster recluse.)

  I suspected the author had had plans to marry off both Maria and Isabella. Fine—let Maria’s stable hand turn out to have escaped the fire, and let him and Maria find each other again in middle age on the Technicolor pampas. But Isabella—who was good enough for her? Perhaps the eldest daughter of the neighboring hacienda. Let them discover happiness together, merge their property and start a school for the children of their workers.

  I basked a little in alternatives I’d just bestowed upon these imaginary characters. I was giving them something better, these poor slaves of fiction who had otherwise been force-marched under armed guard, with shackles on their wrists and ankles, along the dusty roads of the author’s weak imagination.

  I basked, and then I sighed. I got up and brought over to the bed the pile of second-string novels, the other three books that Simon had asked me to look at. Unless I wanted to depend on Nicky’s hospitality the whole winter, I would have to find something here to translate, something that I could stomach translating and that, unlike poor Bashō in Lima, had more print than white space.

  But before I could investigate them further, there was a knock on my door. Hastily pulling on a pair of black jeans, I went to open it, expecting that Anna de Hoog might have had a change of heart and was here to tell me whom she was working for and why.

  It was Roberta, in a heavy slicker and tall green gum boots, carrying a large plastic carrier bag.

  “The water is rising,” Roberta said, throwing off her slicker and shaking her curly black head. “It’s the acqua alta, the high tide. In another hour, many low-lying passageways will be flooded and difficult to get through.”

  As she took off her boots, there was another knock. Who now? But it was only the maid, with coffee and croissants.

  “I took the liberty of ordering breakfast,” said Roberta. “I have something to show you. She pulled a paper-wrapped parcel from her carrier and began to unwrap its contents.

  “You left the restaurant very suddenly last night,” I said. “The rain started, the barge sailed off, and you were nowhere to be seen.” I almost added, “and someone tried to choke me,” but I didn’t want to appear melodramatic.

  “I saw my brother there last night, and I knew that if he was there, then I could get into my father’s house. When the rain started, I ran off.”

  “Your brother?” I said, gulping coffee. “Your brother was at the restaurant? But Frigga says she saw him at the palazzo; she asked him to bring her a glass of milk, and he says he slept right through the break-in.”

  As Roberta unwrapped the last of the parcel, I suddenly realized I didn’t need to tell her that her father’s library had been robbed.

  There lay the evidence, in the form of two leather-bound volumes much like the one we’d seen yesterday in the conservatory library. Instead of Anna Maria stamped in gold, the name was Vittoria Brunelli.

  “Vittoria Brunelli was from my mother’s side of the family,” explained Roberta excitedly. “I suppose the bassoon belonged to her once. We can probably look back in the records of the Pietà and find that she was in the figlie del coro. But look!” She opened one of the volumes. “This is Vivaldi, I believe—the scores of his bassoon concertos. But the other book has music that I don’t recognize as Vivaldi’s. Of course it could be some other composer, but what if it is her own music? I believe it might be, because of this.”

  Roberta took a letter that had been folded twice from the back of the volume.

  “It seems to be to some member of her family, probably a brother or sister, given the manner of address. It’s dated 1746, and she is writing from the Pietà. You know they also taught music to talented girls from good families who were not orphans; she must have been one of them. She is talking about several recent performances, at least one of which featured a concerto of her own. Earlier Vittoria had composed in Vivaldi’s style; now, she writes, ‘The bassoon concerto was in my own hand, written in secret,’ and goes on:

  You must understand that I could not do otherwise. They would not take me seriously; they would never let me compose. The music of others is like words addressed to me: I must answer and hear the sound of my own voice. And the more I hear that voice, the more I realize that the songs and sounds which are mine are different.”

  “But this is exactly what Nicky has been looking for,” I exclaimed. “A woman from the Pietà who composed her own music. A bassoonist, no less. What if some of those thirty-nine bassoon concertos are hers? And to think, it was in your father’s library all this time.”

  “I should have put it together sooner,” Roberta said. “But I have never known a great deal about my mother’s family. My mother died when I was eight. My father, of course, had a collection of instruments when I was growing up. I always remember him claiming that several came from the ospedali, but I never realized that the instruments were part of my mother’s dowry and that there might be more than just instruments. When I saw the leather-bound volume of Anna Maria in the library of the conservatory, I remembered similar volumes I’d seen and been curious about as a child.”

  “You didn’t ransack your father’s desk then?”

  “I didn’t touch his desk! I went right to the shelves and found these where I remembered them. It took only about ten minutes altogether. When I returned home, I discovered the letter inside. There may be others there in the library.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “The old German woman stuck her head out the door as I was leaving, and asked me something in German, so I just nodded and said, Si, si, signora.”

  “She thought you were Marco and were going to bring her some milk, poor thing. She must not have realized she was speaking in German. Did you lock the library door as you left?”

  “No. I’d forced it open and had broken the lock. I still had a key to the house, but not to the library. When I was growing up, the library was never locked.”

  “So someone must have come in after you, looking for something different. Andrew and Bitten were back from the cemetery. Anna de Hoog was gone…it couldn’t have been Frigga?”

  Roberta shrugged. “Was anything taken?”

  “Yes, a violin.”

  “My father’s financial situation is very poor. He has many expenses and appearances to live up to. But I don’t think he makes much money from arranging concerts. He used to have my mother’s money, but he spent it. I suppose he is trying to steal the instruments from himself to collect insurance. First the bassoon and now this violin.”

  “But he didn’t steal the bassoon,” I said, and gave her the background. I was puzzled, to say the least, by Signore Sandretti. Every time I’d seen him, he had seemed to be in a foul mood, which had been directed mainly at Marco.

  “My father has a very bad temper,” Roberta agreed. “He often beat us when we were growing up. When he found out I was a lesbian, he made me leave home.”

  “When was that?”

  “About five years ago when I was twenty. I was glad to go, to tell you the truth. I don’t like my brother, but I feel sorry for him, living with our father. Whether or not he is gay, he should be treated better. It has bred a kind of hatred in Marco for our father, a desire to punish him, and yet Marco still feels that our father will protect him. Francesca’s mother is not very happy about our relationship, but she would never make her leave home. Well, perhaps that would be better. We could live together.”

  For Roberta and Francesca, I saw, living together was a beautifully romantic prospect. Far be it from me to suggest otherwise. Personally I ran from the thought of a domestic relationship based on the instability of romance. Nicky and I wouldn’t have survived all these years together if we’d been in love.

 
“It will work out,” I said. “If nothing else, eventually your father will grow old and lose his power over Marco. And over you.”

  “My father won’t be old for years and years,” said Roberta. She sighed and ran a hand through her black curls. Centuries before, like her relative Vittoria Brunelli, Roberta probably would have grown up in a convent or been turned over to the Pietà when her mother died. I pictured her in a severe dress with a little lace at her collar. It wouldn’t have suited her as well as jeans.

  “Come on,” I said, “I know Nicky would like to see these volumes of music. She’ll be over the moon about them, in fact.” It struck me that I hadn’t seen Nicky since last night. She didn’t even know that someone had tried to strangle me.

  “If you don’t have boots,” said Roberta, “you might want to put these plastic bags over your shoes.”

  I laughed. I might not have a fabulous fashion sense, but no way was I going to walk around Venice with plastic bags on my feet. It didn’t make it any better that I didn’t have my usual leather jacket, but instead had to wear the flowing black velvet cloak, now sadly bedraggled around the edges.

  I changed my mind about footwear when we got downstairs to the lobby. Water was just beginning to slosh over the threshold onto the marble floor of the entry hall. The management had installed two planks as well as a woman with a mop. Outside, the Záttere was flooded. It was as if the Giudecca Canal came right up to the buildings. Rain gushed down; everything was a gray-white blur.

  I stepped back inside and put the heavy plastic bags Roberta offered over my shoes. Then we began to make our way through the streets of the Dorsoduro to Nicky’s hotel. Wooden platforms lay end to end like low banquet tables over some of the streets. Two opposing streams of people snaked along the platforms above the water. Their feet made a rumbling sound, off-stage thunder at a provincial theater. In front of the Accademia, lines of tourists under umbrellas huddled miserably.

  As we came closer to the twisted passageways around the Frari, it got worse. There were no platforms, and the water was often up to mid-calf. Finally we reached the hotel and climbed onto the dry land that was the tiny lobby. Upstairs, I knocked twice at Nicky’s door.

  There was no answer, but I heard movement inside.

  “Nicky, it’s me. And Roberta. We have something to show you.”

  Now I heard whispering. Giovanna was certainly there with her. All the better.

  “Go away, Cassandra. Come back later. This is not a convenient time.”

  “Open up,” I repeated. “You wanted a Pietà bassoonist,” I said. “Well, I’ve brought you one.”

  Twenty

  WITHIN A FEW MINUTES, Nicky, Giovanna and Roberta were piled on the bed examining the bound music of Vivaldi and Vittoria Brunelli. It reminded me of how my sisters used to heap themselves up like kittens to look first at comic books and then Secret Romance. I’d never joined them, feeling myself too different. It was the same now. I perched on a chair and watched Nicky and Giovanna exclaim over Roberta’s find (though steal seemed a better description than find). They’d already been looking through the volume of violin music belonging to Anna Maria, the maestra. Notes for a narrative lay scattered about the bed. Although I’d never be a musician like them, I was happy to realize that the girls in the ospedali were no longer faceless orphans. They had names now—Vittoria Brunelli, Anna Maria. They were about to enter recorded history again, after a long absence. They had families again.

  I interrupted Nicky once to give her Graciela’s shop address and to tell her that the sooner she got there to identify the bassoon, the sooner she’d be in the clear. “Anna told me last night it was Bitten who took the bassoon, as you suspected, and for the very obvious reasons. I suppose you could get someone to press charges, but it might be better just to let it go.”

  “Oh, but we’ll need the bassoon for our film,” said Nicky, and I had the feeling she did not intend to let the instrument be given back to Signore Sandretti. So perhaps she would become a bassoon thief after all.

  “Bitten?” said Giovanna. “Is she the one who lost her lover?”

  “The woman who wants my house and everything in it,” said Nicky, but she didn’t seem, at least at the moment, particularly perturbed. She lay in splendor, curls abundant, red dressing gown open to her powerful chest.

  “She could be a consultant on the film,” said Giovanna, “that might make her happy.”

  “She bloody well…” began Nicky, but Giovanna stopped her lips with a finger. “I am going to be the Italian producer,” she told me. “When my term ends in November, Nicky and I will go to Rome for two weeks and then back to London. I suppose I’ll see you there.”

  Roberta was looking at them in fascination. Now, at last, she had some true role models. “Perhaps Francesca and I will visit London during Christmas season too.”

  “The house is big enough for everyone,” I said. The idea of music again in the rooms below my attic filled me with pleasure.

  I picked up my leather jacket from among the clothes on the floor and put it on. I straightened my beret. My character is such that when I have a mind to go, I go. I have made rapid and unpremeditated departures from all sorts of places, and all sorts of situations. Nicky is used to it. She understood, when I got up from the bed where the three of them were happily poring over Vittoria’s bassoon concertos and plotting how they would do further research on her life, that when I said, “I’m off,” I did not mean I was planning a visit to the Palace of the Doges, but that I had decided to go back to London.

  “Cassandra,” Nicky said, “I probably won’t be back for a week or two, until I have the concert at the Purcell Room. Take care of the mail, will you? And everything?”

  I kissed her full, soft cheek. “Thanks for the trip to Venice,” I said. I decided not to tell her I’d almost been strangled on her account. Let bygones be bygones.

  “Cassandra?” she said, her eyes filling, but I waved and went out the door.

  My dear friend was far too sentimental sometimes.

  I splashed back through the streets to my hotel room. It was hard going in places, but I felt strangely exhilarated, the way I always do when I am seriously on the move. It’s true, major questions were still unanswered: Who had killed Gunther? Who, for that matter, had tried to kill me? Who’d taken the violin last night? Had I done anything to help or just confused things more? I might just stop by the Sandretti palazzo on my way to the Piazzale Roma. Something Roberta had said still echoed within me; her suspicion that her father had been stealing the instruments himself. Was Anna de Hoog working for him or against him?

  I packed, put the three remaining Latin American books in my satchel and set off through the still-flooded streets, carrying my small suitcase above my head. The city was beautiful, but it was sinking. One of my plastic foot-bags had punctured, and an unpleasant wetness was creeping up one leg of my Levi’s. I wanted to get to dry ground, wanted to get off the ground in fact. I’d go to the airport and just wait for the next flight back to London. All I had to do first was ask a few more questions.

  This time Sandretti himself came to the door. I thought he had aged a great deal in the last few days; perhaps Roberta’s fear that her father would never grow old was unfounded. His skin was gray, his eyes, hunted and guilty. He had obviously been about to go out in a hurry and seemed taken aback to see me there with my suitcase, even when I told him I wasn’t staying, that I just wanted to make a few good-byes. He had clearly never placed me in the ménage of musicians, yet he wasn’t sure I wasn’t one of them either. He told me he believed Bitten was practicing and that Frigga had just returned from a last visit to the police. She would be flying back to Germany with Gunther’s body this afternoon. His whole manner suggested that he wished I would go away and as soon as possible.

  His nervousness only made me curious, and I eased my way around his solid body into the foyer to indicate I wasn’t to be put off so easily.

  “I’m just on the way to the
airport myself,” I said. “Of course I know that Nicky’s not around—wonder whatever happened to her?—but what about Marco and Andrew?”

  “Mr. McManus is moving to his permanent accommodations this morning. My son is assisting him.” Sandretti averted his eyes. I wondered what this was all about. Marco couldn’t be leaving home finally, could he? Especially not in the company of Andrew?

  “Well, I’ll just pop up and say good-bye to Frau Hausen,” I said, pushing past him to get to the stairs. I refused to ask about Anna de Hoog. She’d hardly noticed when I left the palazzo last night. She was probably in cahoots with Sandretti anyway. Behind me the door closed; Sandretti had slipped out. Clearly, he didn’t want to be here when the two boys arrived.

  I went quickly up the stairs and knocked on Frigga’s door. Across the piano nobile I could hear Bitten playing the mournful adagio again.

  Frigga was sitting on her bed, with her back to the door, dressed in her Chanel suit, a hat and gloves. A dark raincoat lay half-folded neatly beside her. She was small and old and in great pain.

  I sat as gently as I could beside her. “Frau Hausen, excuse me for troubling you, but what was the name of your son-in-law?”

  “Jakob,” she answered after a moment. “Jakob Wulf.”

  “Did you know his mother was a very famous musician, who got out of Austria and to London before the war?”

  “My daughter said something about that. But she told me he and his mother had a terrible quarrel. His mother did not like the girl Jakob was going to marry.”

  “Not your daughter Dorothea?”

  “No, another girl. I don’t know her name. Elizabeth perhaps. But she was frightened when the war started. She and her mother went to Sweden where they had friends.”

  “And Jakob married Dorothea instead…” Now it was clear what had been troubling me in the conductor’s biography. He had called Elizabeth Jakob’s fiancée, not his wife. It had been the most obvious thing to assume they had gone ahead and married. “Do you have by chance a photograph of Jakob, Frau Hausen?”