Lucifer's Shadow

by David Hewson

  “I am not that person, Hugo.”

  “What are you worried about? That the real one will come back and haunt you? Besides, even if you don’t write another note, it’s a pretty thing to put on your CV. Have a little fun for once, Daniel. Don’t be so stiff.”

  “It’s illegal, surely?”

  “Oh, come. Who’s been robbed? Not the author. Nor those who pay for the work afterwards. They still get the same music, Daniel. Or will it sound different because your name is on the cover?”

  “No. It’s just...”

  “Wrong?” Massiter dared him to repeat the word.

  “Yes.” Daniel felt ashamed. His naivety was embarrassing sometimes.

  “Perhaps. That’s for you and Scacchi to judge. To me it seems there are simply two possibilities. This work comes into the world and earns you a little money. Or you give the thing away. Let me make a proposition. This is small beer for me, but I find the possibilities of the game amusing. Let us say you claim authorship, as I suggest. I, privately, come to an arrangement to collect what royalties may come to be associated with the title over the years. In return, Scacchi gets, let’s say, fifty thousand dollars now and a further fifty at the end of the summer, when everyone’s feeling very pleased with themselves. You can treat with him for your cut. After that, it’s all mine—whatever small residuals ensue, and the original manuscript too. Could be very embarrassing if that got out. Wonderful offer. The risk is mine entirely, and frankly the upside is marginal even if it does take off. We’re talking about music, Daniel, and no one ever makes any real money out of that. This isn’t for selfish reasons, you understand? I am, in all honesty, the philanthropist with deep pockets. But then, what’s new?”

  The small square space at the summit of the campanile was, for a moment, silent.

  “Think of it,” Massiter said, his grey eyes shining in the dark. “All my money in Scacchi’s sweaty fist by tomorrow if we’re agreed. You must admit. You’re tempted.”

  Daniel tried to weigh the possibilities. The night swam in front of him. “A hundred now, fifty after,” he said.

  “Seventy now, fifty after. Not a cent more.”

  The old man needed the money, he told himself. None of this was for his own purpose. “Done,” Daniel answered. “Provided Scacchi agrees, of course.”

  “Oh,” said Massiter, smiling from ear to ear, “he’ll agree. He knows a good price when he sees one.”

  Daniel took Massiter’s outstretched hand and was surprised to discover that, unlike his own, it was completely free of perspiration and as cold as stone.

  20

  On the Jews

  Institutions have rules. It is their undoing. The ghetto is no exception. Rebecca had explained to me how this particular prison had come about. When the Venetian Republic decided to welcome Jews again into its midst, it did so with conditions. One was that they stuck to certain trades, mainly banking. Another was that they lived where they were told and consented to be locked up there each evening. For this the city needed some kind of fortress, so a small island in Cannaregio formerly used as an iron foundry was selected. It was known as gheto, from the term for casting iron (and I still do not know where that extra T came from).

  Nothing in Venice can be quite that simple, of course. We have three breeds of Jew, if you please: Ashkenazim, from Germany; Sephardim, from Spain; and the Levantines, who have found their way here from the East. Rebecca is an Ashkenazi; her family originally hail from Munich but fled when the city authorities accused the Jews of poisoning the wells and causing plague. Life was not much better in Geneva, where they ended up. The Ashkenazim were the first Jews allowed back into Venice and, as luck would have it, remain the least trusted. The Sephardim, though they continue to speak a language entirely of their own in addition to Hebrew and Italian, seem to have some sway with the city. The Levantines behave almost like true citizens of the Republic; since most come from Venetian territories, such as Corfu and Crete, they are, to a man, deemed to be good servants of the state. Consequently, the Sephardim and the Levantines live mainly in their own, more recent ghettoes, where the restrictions on trade are somewhat more lax, though the rules on the wearing of yellow badges and scarlet scarves continue to apply, as does the law against usury.

  I knew none of this, of course, assuming simply that a Jew was a Jew was a Jew. In truth they are as varied in their ways as the rest of us, with their own idiosyncrasies, their likes and dislikes, their prejudices and dogmas. Perhaps the Ashkenazim tell Sephardic jokes, much as the Venetians make up ribald stories about the matti, the crazies from Sant’ Erasmo, the island in the middle of the lagoon where everyone, word has it, is mother or father or brother and sister to everyone else. I rather hope so. We are merely human, after all.

  Each community has its own synagogue—the Ashkenazim own that curious ark-like wooden structure I mentioned, next to and above Rebecca’s house. The demand for living space means there is no room for these places of worship on the ground. Instead, they must be built several storeys above the warrens of small rooms where the ghetto people live, cheek by jowl, sometimes as many as ten to each quarter. And with a temple on the top!

  How do Rebecca and Jacopo manage to maintain a single room of their own in this sea of Jewry? His position as a physician helps, I imagine, since his services seem greatly in demand throughout the city, particularly when it comes to female illnesses. Yet I think there is more to it than that. They are different still from the Ashkenazim I see on the stairs when I visit, and that is not simply because they have lived here for little more than a year.

  Most of those in the ghetto wish merely for more space. They have no desire to enter the outside world for anything other than business. The Levis, I suspect, harbour broader ambitions. For them the only way to establish their true identity is to see how they might rise in the society beyond those three drawbridges. It is an impossible wish, as you may have gathered. That does not make it burn any the less fiercely. They are also openly sceptical about their own and everyone else’s religion, which must, I imagine, make them distant from their neighbours. Thank God the Jews are so sensible they have no inquisition or burning of witches, for if they did I suspect Jacopo and Rebecca might well be first on their list. You should see the colour rise in Jacopo’s cheeks when he discusses the efficacy of prayer and votives as a way of curing the sick. He seems to have a point too. Why should a candle hold such power? And if it does, why will it wield it only on those of a particular religion, curing only the devout while ignoring the Protestants, the Jews, and the Arabs or whoever? For him there is, I suspect, only one god, and that is Science, a haughty master, and a little too close to alchemy were we living in a less enlightened time and place.

  But back to those rules, and the obvious flaw in their structure. No one is allowed out of the ghetto at night except for physicians (what practical folk we Gentiles are—when it comes to our survival, we’ll let the Hebrews race to our aid every hour of the clock). For Rebecca to escape for her performance at La Pietà, she need only don the heavy disguise of Jacopo’s robe, wear his yellow badge on her shoulder, then let me summon her at the gate for an urgent appointment. The drawbridge falls, I engage the guard in conversation so she need say nothing, and, when we are back in that dark labyrinth of alleys beyond the ghetto, she may throw off the costume, become a lady musician on her way to the concert once more, please Vivaldi and his audience, then assume the guise when I bring her back home.

  I used Leo’s absence, haggling as he was with Delapole over something or other at Ca’ Dario, to race over to the ghetto the following morning and explain my plan. Rebecca listened with shining eyes full of hope. To perform behind La Pietà’s dusty shutters was better than not to perform at all and would, at least, diminish greatly the chance of her being recognised.

  Jacopo shook his head and said, “You’ve been going to the commedia dell’arte too much, Lorenzo. This is not some story in a playwright’s head. It is life. And death or ruin if w
e’re found out playing such pranks, not just on the state but the Church also. There are vengeful men in that palace up the canal, and the basilica too.”

  “This, Jacopo,” I replied with as much iron and determination in my voice as I could muster, “is Venice. A malleable world. Everything here concerned with our lives will take on the shape we make of it. If you fail to understand that, you may as well stay locked in the ghetto forever.”

  He gave me a sharp look for no good reason. I might have sounded forward, but I was merely telling the truth. Each life has crossroads, moments at which fateful decisions will be made, whether we like it or not. To shirk these waypoints in our destiny is to make a decision in itself, and one we’ll likely regret not long after.

  “You’re a brave one, lad, and your heart’s in the right place,” he declared. “But is it worth the danger for an evening’s entertainment? One step wrong and there’ll be a betraying note in one of those finely polished bronze cats the Doge loves so much, and the next we know we could all be arguing for our lives.”

  Rebecca saw how we agonised, then reached out and took each of us by the wrist. “Please don’t ask me to make this decision for you. I have no right to ask anything of either of you.”

  Jacopo leaned forward and chastely kissed her on the forehead. “Such a ladylike way of putting it, dear sister. So tell me. This Vivaldi? This place? They merit the risk?”

  She shook herself free of him, fighting for some way in which she could say this next thing with a shred of impartiality. “Brother, you know the answer, because you feel it just as much as me. Beyond these walls there is life!”

  Jacopo Levi studied me, seeking an answer. Our joint decision went beyond music. For Rebecca these hours in La Pietà represented freedom, where she was no longer bound by the twin iron chains of her sex and her race. Jacopo, too, shared in that moment, for he adored his sister more than anything on earth.

  “I suggested this course of action, Jacopo,” I told him. “Why ask me where I stand?”

  “Of course,” he said with some reluctance. “Then it is up to me. Well . . .”

  Rebecca gazed at her brother, trying not to appear too hopeful. “There is no need to rush this, Jacopo,” she said softly.

  “Rush?” he wondered. “And things will stand differently tomorrow?”

  Neither of us answered. He reached forward and drew up our hands together. We clasped each other’s wrists in amity and determination, then Rebecca, tears starting to well in those dark, almond eyes, broke away, snatched off a chain from her neck, and gently placed it round my head. I found the object attached to it: a small silver figure, six-pointed, like two triangles turned against each other, which they call the Star of David.

  “Would I make a good Jew?” I asked, feeling the points of the emblem and wondering how many Hebrew necks this had embraced.

  “There is no such thing as a good Jew or a good Gentile,” Jacopo replied. “Only honest men and honest women. Until the world learns that, we’ll all be living in a sorry place.”

  “Amen,” I said without thinking, and we found ourselves gripped by a fit of the giggles.

  21

  The third way

  AT DANIEL’S REQUEST THEY ASSEMBLED AROUND THE dining table at nine. Laura had placed pastries and cups of macchiato on the table for the men. She sat quietly sipping an orange juice, uncomfortable for a reason he could not guess. Daniel finished his coffee in two straight gulps. He was, he realised, rapidly becoming addicted to this halfway house between the harsh, tiny fix of espresso and the milky bulk of the cappuccino. It was part of a rapid process of assimilation. At times he even found himself starting to think in Italian.

  He explained the events of the previous night and Massiter’s offer. Scacchi whistled when he disclosed the terms. The air made a peculiar noise as it travelled through his false teeth. The old man looked particularly yellow this morning, Daniel thought.

  “You let this girl play the piece?” Laura asked. “Why? You mean she’s better at it than you?”

  “Yes. Much better. The best player in the whole school, according to Fabozzi.”

  “And if you’d played it, he would never have known.”

  He was unable to understand whether Laura was trying to criticise him or not.

  “I can’t say.”

  “Then we might as well have gone straight to the Englishman and offered him the thing on a plate,” she observed.

  Scacchi tore a croissant in half and nibbled at a small portion. “It’s a good price, Laura. I thought we might generate a little excitement by putting around some rumour about the work’s existence, then setting those who desire it against each other. But Massiter knows more about this particular world than I. His logic seems irrefutable. Furthermore, even if the piece is successful, it could take many years before it earned the sum of money he seems willing to place on the table this very day.”

  Laura’s green eyes opened wide. “The Englishman is asking you to commit fraud!”

  Scacchi shook his head. “That’s a very narrow interpretation of the facts, my dear. Under the thesauri inventio, I have every right to the object, since it was found on my property. That surely includes the right to dictate how it’s brought to market.”

  She threw up her hands in disgust, uttered an arcane Venetian curse, and turned to Daniel, pleading. “Don’t even begin to consider this, I implore you. I know you think this is some grand adventure, and we’re all players in it. But what Scacchi suggests is criminal, and you must surely know as much.”

  “I had not realised you possessed a legal mind,” Scacchi observed crossly.

  Daniel tried to interpret the expression on Laura’s face. It was not anger; it was concern—for all of them.

  “I think I’m old enough to make up my own mind,” Daniel said, hoping to calm the temperature.

  “All children say things like that,” Laura moaned, still staring at him.

  Scacchi tapped his hand lightly on the table, as if to bring the meeting to some kind of order. “I’m asking for nothing more than a small white lie.”

  Paul shook his head. “Hey. Let’s cut the crap, Scacchi. If Daniel puts his name on the thing, we’re screwing people. Period.”

  “We’re making them pay an appropriate sum for a great work of art,” Scacchi insisted. “And who’s to say the rightful owner did not leave his music with the thought it might enrich whosoever found it?”

  “Who’s to say it wasn’t stolen in the first place?” Paul insisted.

  Scacchi would not budge. “That’s irrelevant. Now that Massiter has pointed the facts out to us, do you think there is a single hole in his argument? Without copyright for the thing, the amount of money it can earn anyone is marginal, surely?”

  Paul sighed. “Probably. You’re right about what it’s worth with copyright too. The piece couldn’t earn the kind of money he’s offering in years.”

  “There,” Scacchi announced with a triumphant look. “That’s settled, then.”

  “What exactly is settled?” Laura demanded. “You have not even asked Daniel his opinion of the matter. You simply assume he will agree to this ridiculous idea.”

  “Daniel!” Scacchi said. “It’s your choice. I shall, of course, treat you fairly. Let’s say ten percent. At the end of the summer, when Massiter pays the second part.”

  Daniel shook his head.

  “Fifteen, then,” Scacchi offered. “We can do business here, surely.”

  “I don’t want your money, Scacchi! Not a penny of it. You’ve been generous enough to me already.”

  Laura’s eyes rolled in disbelief. “Please don’t pretend this is for gratitude alone, Daniel. That may be a part of it, but I think you are still playing some romantic game in your head. This is not a fairy tale. What Scacchi suggests will make you a criminal, whether you are caught or not.”

  “I think that is an exaggeration somewhat.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Really? So what do you think your mother would s
ay on that matter if she were here?”

  “You never knew my mother, Laura. You have no idea what she would say.”

  “I know her son. He wouldn’t be who he is if she couldn’t see the difference between good and bad. I know—”

  “Laura!” Scacchi barked angrily. “Enough. He hasn’t even agreed yet.”

  “He doesn’t have to. I can see it in his face.”

  The old man scowled. “It’s entirely up to you, my boy. If there’s something else, name it.”

  Daniel was silent, wondering at the heat and the emotion in this conversation. There had rarely been a cross word or a raised voice at home in England, only lassitude and, underpinning everything towards the end, despair. This was the world as he had imagined it: full of colour and life and some enticing uncertainty about what the coming days would bring.

  “I don’t want anything, Scacchi. If I comply, it’s because I wish to perform a service for you.”

  At that, Laura screeched. “Daniel! If you put your name to this... this supposed miracle, you’ll be revealed as a liar and a cheat before the summer’s through. They’ll ask for more music. And you won’t have it.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” he replied. “I shall say the concerto left me drained of ideas, and rather than pull some mediocre piece out of thin air, I intend to go back to my studies and wait for inspiration to strike again. It never will. In five years I’ll just be someone else who showed a little early promise and nothing more.”

  “Now,” Paul said, suddenly animated, “that could work. Boy wonders rarely have more than a couple of pieces of genius in them anyway. It’s a shame more don’t realise it.”

  Laura shook her head at the three of them. “You’re actually going to do this, aren’t you? I can’t believe it. Well, Scacchi, before he parades himself in front of the world as the prince of lies, would you care to tell Daniel here why, precisely, he’s performing this deception? For the life of me, I don’t know.”