Lucifer's Shadow

by David Hewson

  Massiter rose and greeted them in a succinct speech of welcome, noting that their location had musical antecedents: Tchaikovsky had composed his Fourth Symphony while staying in the hotel in 1877. It must have preceded Onegin directly, coming at the time when his life was beginning to descend into chaos and insanity. Daniel found it discomforting to know that somewhere, in a suite above his head, Tchaikovsky must have agonised over his failed marriage, his homosexuality, and the long, hard work about to begin on the opera. Another ghost flitting through Venice. Another reason why he could never wear the face Massiter hoped to place upon him: he lacked the capacity for self-torture. With genius came, too often, a blight, and that perhaps had been why the concerto which now bore his name had lain hidden, anonymous, in Ca’ Scacchi for just a few decades short of three hundred years. There was a human being behind the music, still waiting to rise from the dust.

  He made a mental note of that idea and then, as Massiter sat down to light applause, rose on his bidding. He blinked at the ranks of dim faces judging him and knew that the Daniel Forster who had, only that summer, walked naively onto the moto topo Sophia at Marco Polo airport would have wilted beneath the heat of their attention.

  Daniel found it difficult to remember that person. He nodded modestly at the audience and announced himself as a composer, not an orator, asking for questions which he promised to answer as honestly as he could. For thirty minutes they came, from all directions, some intelligent, some stupid, some simply incomprehensible. In return he fudged, politely thanking Massiter for his sponsorship, Fabozzi and Amy for their support as fellow musicians. The several persistent enquiries about the death of Scacchi and Paul he fielded discreetly, suggesting that they would be best directed to the police.

  When an English reporter pressed him on the point, Daniel’s voice broke a little, then he paused, before saying simply, “Please—they were my friends. I bury Signor Scacchi today, a man whose kindness towards me has been surpassed only by that of Mr. Massiter here. Without Signor Scacchi, I would never have come to Venice. Without his introduction to Mr. Massiter, I would never have found such a benefactor and come out of my happy obscurity into this dazzling brightness. Indulge me a little at this moment, ladies and gentlemen. When today is over, when you have heard this concerto in full and I have this sad duty out of the way, speak to me again and I’ll try to answer your questions as best I can. But for now you must be patient. Judge me by what you hear tonight, not my inarticulate ramblings here.”

  There was a swell of admiration among them. Daniel was relieved. He had prepared himself for an ordeal full of potential pitfalls.

  A woman reporter from one of the big American stations was on her feet, jabbing her microphone at Amy. “Miss Hartston?”

  “Yes,” she replied, remaining on her chair.

  “I was wondering what you made of this. As a musician.”

  Amy glanced at Daniel, unsure of what to say. “In what way?” she asked.

  “You tell me,” the reporter continued with ill-concealed aggression. “What does it feel like playing something that’s written by someone almost your own age? And yet it’s not modern. It’s like some ghost from three hundred years ago, if we’re to believe all the hype we’re hearing.”

  Amy nodded. “I haven’t spoken to Daniel about it.”

  The reporters went quiet, sensing something but not recognising what it was.

  “You never talked to him?” The woman seemed amazed. “But he’s the composer, right?”

  “I...” Amy’s eyes sought his, pleading for help.

  Massiter rose and clapped his hands. “My dear lady,” he declared loudly. “We have Fabozzi, a fine conductor, at the helm of this event. When we discussed how we would handle this unexpected opportunity, it naturally fell to him to direct the orchestra, not the composer. A decision you fully support, don’t you, Daniel?”

  They stared at him, puzzled, resentful somehow. Daniel nodded. “Naturally. Why should I make life difficult by interposing myself between the players and their conductor?”

  “Why indeed?” the American woman responded.

  “There!” Massiter announced quickly. “Now, to practicalities, please. There will be tickets in the house for those of you who are accredited critics, naturally. And a few more besides which will go into the hat.”

  Daniel tried to judge their mood. They worked as a pack, he thought, and, like dogs that had been half-fed, their resentment for what they had not received far outweighed their gratitude for the few morsels that had come their way. There was an air of nervousness about the concert, which he regretted. Fabozzi and his musicians had worked hard and deserved their acclaim.

  Massiter stood and watched them go, then sidled over, took his arm, and whispered loudly in his ear, “Excellent, Daniel! They’re hanging on your every word.”

  “Really, Hugo?” That was true, he supposed. “Perhaps they smell a rat.”

  The cold eyes stared at him. “Nonsense. They’re too stupid to see anything that doesn’t strike them full in the face. But let’s play safe, eh? Tomorrow I’ll spirit you away somewhere, anywhere you like. Perhaps a room in the Cipriani for the weekend. Some peace and quiet.”

  The idea of the palatial hotel in Giudecca instantly brought back another memory, of Laura screaming at him in the tiny room of the women’s prison at the opposite end of the island.

  “Or Verona?” Massiter suggested. “Wherever, Daniel, but you need these animals off your heels. Think about it.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  Amy had stopped at the door, across the room, trying to catch his eye.

  “Later, Hugo,” Daniel said.

  The older man peered into his eyes. “Ah, yes. When we discuss this new price of yours.”

  “Exactly.”

  Unexpectedly, Massiter favoured him with a broad, conspiratorial smile. “You’re quite the one, Daniel Forster,” he declared.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “All this fey façade, when really you’re as tough as old boots inside.”

  Daniel bowed his head gently. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all. You could be a good pupil. I wonder whether I need an acolyte sometimes. Instead of the hangers-on.”

  “But I’m a composer, Hugo. Don’t forget that.”

  Massiter laughed, a short, controlled sound, then patted him hard on the shoulder. “Quite! Now, you’ll share my taxi to this miserable event?”

  “No. But thanks anyway. I want to walk. I want to think.”

  “Yes. About your price.”

  He hesitated. “About Scacchi, actually.”

  Massiter said nothing and slipped away. Daniel crossed the room and found Amy at the door. She was different now, he thought. She had lost some of the naïve exuberance he had seen in her face when they first met.

  “Amy,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve been out of things. I should have called you.”

  “Why?” she asked, refusing to meet his eyes directly.

  “Because I owed it to you.”

  She sighed and stared at the long corridor stretching in front of them. They were alone in the echoing room. “I want to play this thing and be gone, Dan. Don’t ask me why, but this all feels so wrong. Like I’m going crazy or something.”

  He placed his arm on her shoulder. “You’re not crazy, Amy.”

  Her wide eyes met his. “Really? I told Hugo you never wrote that piece. You weren’t capable of it. Then I see you this morning. I guess that’s the real you, isn’t it? I just never saw him before. You had those reporters in the palm of your hand.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No, you did, Dan. I don’t know why I read people so wrong. I don’t know why I read myself so wrong sometimes.”

  “Be patient,” he said. “It’ll all work out.”

  She folded her arms. “It’s all worked out already. Hugo and I are an item, in case you hadn’t heard. I’m to be a star. Just like you.” There was a bitter tone in her voice, directe
d more at herself than Massiter, he thought.

  “We all make mistakes, Amy. It doesn’t mean you live with them forever.”

  “No? But it’s all mapped out. He’s getting me into Juilliard. I can stay at his apartment in New York. It’s walking distance from Lincoln Center, apparently. I’m made, don’t you see?”

  “That sounds wonderful,” he replied hesitantly.

  “Sure. All I have to do is screw him whenever he comes around. Not that it’s about that, really. That’s just him marking his territory.”

  That last insight seemed remarkably apposite. “Amy. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Your parents—”

  “He’s talked to them,” she spat back. “They think it’s all wonderful. Suddenly their dumb daughter’s got a career. Some rich, old boyfriend with English breeding too. They don’t need the money, but the class... that’s priceless.”

  “Nothing’s set in stone.”

  She glowered at him. “Really? Are you sure you get this? We’re both in the same boat. He owns us. Like he’d own a painting or a statue. That’s what turns him on. Knowing we’re there. On the shelf. Waiting for when he wants something. And...”

  She swore under her breath. “Jesus, there is no way out . He understands when you see a door and just closes it in your face. We’re his now. We always will be.”

  Daniel leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Amy stared at him, amazed.

  “What was that for?” she demanded.

  “For me. And also to say that I’m your friend, Amy. To say I’ll help you. Just be patient. And play like the wind tonight, love. Not for me. Certainly not for Hugo. Do that for yourself.”

  She looked a little like the old Amy then. There was some hope, some innocence in her face. Amy Hartston slowly placed her arms around him and leaned her head on his chest. He could smell the perfume in her hair. It was an old, adult scent. Something Hugo had given her, he thought.

  Daniel asked, “What do you plan to do now?”

  “I don’t know. Go back to the hotel. We’re ready. Fabozzi says there’s no need for a further rehearsal. We’re there.”

  “I’m sure he’s right.”

  “You’re going to the funeral, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He stared at the floor and said nothing.

  “Do you want me to come?” Amy asked. “I only met him a couple of times.”

  “Then come for me, Amy,” he said. “Please.”

  55

  Fugitive from all

  GOBBO LUNGED UP THE STAIRS, HIS FACE AN UGLY, determined mask. I backed a step or two, waited, then drew up my right leg, retracted it, and kicked as hard as I might. My foot connected firmly with his face. He screamed with pain and tumbled backwards into the stairwell. A man must seize his advantages. I knew this house and the building next door intimately. Gobbo and Delapole were strangers. I could hide in places they might never guess at. Better still, when the opportunity arose, I could be out into the night and race fast into the Calle dei Morti, then be gone, into the labyrinth of alleys that is Santa Croce.

  These thoughts flashed through my mind as I ran up the stairs to the second floor, then the third, planning my escape. Such foolish confidence...I should have thought of nothing more than fleeing, and engineered my route once I was out of that infernal house. Near the top of the last flight, a few short steps from my bedroom and that exit route I’d used before, there was a clatter behind me; a hand rose up and gripped my ankle. In one swift, agonising movement, Gobbo twisted my leg and brought me tumbling to the hard wooden stairs.

  “Hurrah!” Delapole yelled from far below, hearing the noise. He was not as quick as his manservant and must barely have left the ground floor in my pursuit. Gobbo, for all the force of the kick I’d delivered to his ugly face, had recovered in an instant and chased me all the way until I was in his grasp. As I lay caught like an animal, a short, powerful arm turned me over. A little watery moonlight fell through the single window in the roof above. Blood ran from Gobbo’s eye where I had struck him. He gasped for breath. Yet there was something odd in his expression, too, a look of puzzlement, reluctance even, that it had come to this.

  “Hold him, Gobbo,” the Englishman cried from below. “This will be my pleasure, not yours.”

  Gobbo stared at me, as much with pity as contempt. “Why didn’t you listen, Scacchi?” he whispered, panting. “I have tried to guide you out of danger all along, and every time you do the very opposite of what I tell you.”

  I moved my neck a little. His hands had me fast. There was no escape. “I follow where my heart dictates, Gobbo,” I answered. “As you would if you were your own master, not his lackey.”

  “There you go,” he said mournfully. “Making it worse for yourself again.”

  “Worse than Rome? And what he did to the Duchess of Longhena?”

  His eyes narrowed. He was clearly amazed. “What do you know of this? He told me that he merely defended himself, and that the woman was mad.”

  “He lies! I have spoken to the magistrate, Gobbo. Your master murdered that woman in the most fearful of ways, ripping his own child from her stomach and placing it by her butchered corpse. These crows come home to roost. That same magistrate arrives on the night ferry now with a warrant for your master’s arrest. You’ll be on the scaffold with him if you don’t look sharp.”

  Those fat fingers relaxed a little round my throat.

  “You lie.”

  “No. It’s true. How else could I know her name? I will not let him do this to Rebecca.”

  The sound of Delapole’s feet upon the stairs grew louder. He was beyond the second floor now, coming up directly beneath us in this last straight, single flight of steps.

  “I’ll thieve and kill a man who asks for it,” Gobbo admitted. “Women have got no part in my game.”

  “Tell that to the axeman,” I hissed at him, then saw, beyond his squat body, the first shadow of movement from his master below.

  “You lie!” he snarled, and began to take from his pocket a short, slim blade stained black by my uncle’s blood. This was my final moment. I breathed in hard, then brought up my knee to his groin and pushed him back with my one free arm until the force of gravity threw his balance out of kilter. Gobbo was frozen there for a moment, hands flailing in the darkness, struggling to keep himself upright. I wriggled my right leg free, scissored it into my body, then pushed with all my force. He cursed me, fell backwards down the stairs, upon the ascending figure of his master, and both rolled down, shrieking, back to the second storey, where they landed in a tangled pile of limbs.

  There would be no more opportunities. I cleared my head of all thought and rushed into my bedroom, climbed out of the open window and into the warehouse next door. From there I scuttled down the stairs four steps at a time, left the warehouse at water level, and then, fearing they might see me if I took the small bridge over the rio where the deliveries were made, slipped fearfully into the black slime of the lagoon.

  In all my time in the city I had not entered this noisome liquid once. It was cold and had a viscous quality quite unlike the ocean. The smell was vile, that of the open sewer. Above me, through an open window in the house, I could hear Delapole and Gobbo discussing my disappearance and wondering how they might follow me. The Englishman was furious, bellowing without caring who might hear. “Either we find him, Gobbo, or incriminate him in his uncle’s fate. If we don’t have him in our hands these next five minutes, it’s off to the night watch for you, to tell them of this crime you’ve uncovered, and how the perpetrator ran off into the night.”

  So I was condemned either way. The cold of this filthy dowsing did me one service: it silenced the cry of fury in my throat. I swallowed hard, then ducked my head beneath the surface, pushed with all my might, and, staying below the water for as long as my lungs allowed, swam towards the Grand Canal. When I struggled quietly upwards, I was by the small bridge that runs from the Calle dei Morti to the church. I took car
e to find the support on the northern side, away from Ca’ Scacchi, then pulled myself a little out of the water, gripping the stone, and listened. There was no movement close by. Gobbo had many exits from our campo to explore. The odds that he might choose mine were slender. I pulled myself from the slime, climbed over onto the narrow bridge, and ran like the wind into Santa Croce.

  I knew the rules. I had heard Delapole set them out myself. If I was not his within five minutes, he’d be handing my name to the watch for the murder of my master. So I waited a good half hour, then doubled back, south of San Cassian, towards the Rialto, the only way I might cross and head for Cannaregio, where the boats from Mestre docked. My heart pounded as I wound through the straggle of villains and harlots who hung around that place. Gobbo could have easily caught me there. But he was a servant through and through, and now would be lying through his teeth to the idiots of the watch.

  Dripping foul water, my jacket pulled up around my face, I crossed over the Grand Canal and followed that familiar route, which required only a short northwards detour to take me to the ghetto. I had no way of knowing where Marchese might spend the night, but it could not be far from the ferry jetty. If only I could locate him, I might begin to concoct some tale that could see us safe through the coming day.

  All these possibilities ran through my head. And then were dashed by the ferryman’s grim news. He stared at my appearance, drenched, dishevelled, like a beggar, and muttered, “Rome coach is late. Won’t see no one from that till midday at the earliest. Lost a wheel outside Bologna, so they say, and went right off the road.”

  I must have looked a sorry sight. When I asked him for some paper and a piece of charcoal so I might write a message for a friend, he walked into the nearest tavern and came back with both.