by David Hewson
“Dance tunes,” the man interrupted. “Nothing that would fill a hall outside the inns.”
“And not all my own,” the woman added. “My brother recently found a position as a physician at the Russian court. We are fortunate in that he sends us some popular melodies from Moscow occasionally.”
She smiled, obviously proud of her sibling’s achievement, then her husband broke this pleasant turn in the conversation by observing sourly, “We know our métier, monsieur. We are travelling players, and it puts bread upon our table.”
Such false modesty! “Never underestimate the human spirit, my friend,” I answered. “Handel was the son of a barber, and a trainee lawyer to boot. If he can overcome those twin burdens, surely you might fight your way out of the taverns and reach a more appreciative audience?”
They looked at each other, and with my customary acuity, I was able to detect this was a subject of some tension. It would have been cruel to prolong this awkward moment, so I reached down, tousled the mop of dark hair on the young lad, and earned a grudging look for my pains.
“And you, my boy. What name do you answer to?”
“Antonio,” he replied, as surly as a street urchin.
“Well, Antonio. Let me tell you something. Your parents are fine people who will educate you well in the ways of the world. But remember always that each one of us is an individual and must make his own decisions. If you play so admirably at your age, I’ll warrant you’ll be in an orchestra by the time you’re twenty.”
He glanced at his father. There was some enforced severity in this little band I could not hope to comprehend. “I only wish to play as well as Mama, sir. And, when I am older, earn the right to own her fiddle.”
“And after that?”
“Why...” I swear the child looked at me as if I were a fool. “I’ll do the same for my son, and he for his. Until we produce the very finest fiddler there has been in all the world, and one that still plays Mama’s instrument too. So even if we all be dust by then, a little of us passes down to the next, and that is as much immortality, my father says, as any man might hope for.”
Poor lad, I thought. So sti f and old for his age. He was a comely fellow, having inherited the looks of his mother, not those on the other side, and this might stand a man in good stead. Yet I found it hard to believe these folk did not inhabit some prison of their own making and found themselves bumping into the bars at every turn.
“You’ll teach your son yourself, no doubt?” I wondered.
“Aye, sir. As Mama has taught me. Everything.”
It was time to throw in a sly one. “Then what shall you teach him of God?”
I found all three of them staring at me then and wondered whether I had overstepped my mark. Unless I was mistaken, the father had blood upon his hands already, and what’s one more red stain when your skin is soiled already?
The child looked at his parents for some guidance. The mother nodded at him. “Answer the gentleman. As you see fit.”
He drew himself up, took a deep breath, then said, as if reciting a laboured rhyme from the nursery, “We... I think that God is great enough to manage without my adulation, sir. He knows where He may find me in His hour of need.”
He said it well too. I patted him on the head, then gave him a coin, which, after glancing at his parents once more, he swiftly pocketed.
“You have all entertained me generously this evening,” I said with a smile. “I travel to Venice. May I repay the favour by recommending you to the impresarios?”
The blood drained from the faces of both man and wife in an instant. The child regarded them fearfully. I felt guilty. This was unworthy of me, and I should not have done it without their ungracious reception of my advances. Every story has more than one side. I had no right to read the gutter sheets and assume their rantings represented justice.
“We are content as we are,” the man replied icily, then set them packing away their things with more speed. I retired, a little apprehensive, I’ll admit. There was a look of utter ruthlessness in the fellow’s eyes after my last remark which made me wonder for my life.
That night I failed to sleep for more than a few moments. This strange interview replayed itself in my head and I recalled, too, a little more of the meetings we had in Venice some ten years earlier. As I said, nothing of moment then occurred. Yet looking back now, I detect, I believe, the seeds of some tragedy beginning to germinate beneath the Adriatic sun.
Small wonder a decade on they seek to flee this thicket of deceit. When I rose the following morning, there was commotion in the breakfast room over their sudden disappearance. The landlord and his wife seemed bereft at their flight, nor was it for the usual reason of an unpaid bill. The pair seemed rather fond of this odd and talented family, and looked at me askance when my enquiries set them wondering whether I had something to do with their decision to disappear into the night. Provincials! Am I supposed to feel guilty? Should the hanged man blame the rope?
They were gone. None knows where, or in truth much cares. The world is full of such strangers. One may wish them well, whatever shadows lurk in their histories, but their fate remains entirely in their own hands, for good or ill. Yet these three were not vagabonds at heart. They showed as much in their manner and in their carelessness.
A fugitive must seek a new name each time he renews his existence. And with what paucity of imagination do they seek their disguise! After a good night’s sleep the following evening, I finally remembered the fellow well. He was in the printing trade, an inkyfingered artisan of books. And how would he now be known? Why, only by the stolen name of one of his rivals in the publishers’ guild! An ancient house that in its brief day produced some books on Arabic and Hebrew which still grace many an antiquarian’s shelves.
Such errors serve the runaway poorly. I wish the family “Paganini” luck. They’ll need it.
About the Author
DAVID HEWSON is the author of several travel books and six novels, including A Season for the Dead and Lucifer’s Shadow, which are available from Dell. A weekly columnist for the Sunday Times, he lives in Kent, England, where he is at work on his third Nic Costa novel, The Sacred Cut.
Visit our website at www.bantamdell.com.
Visit the author’s website at www.davidhewson.com.
ALSO BY DAVID HEWSON
A Season for the Dead The Villa of Mysteries
And coming soon in hardcover:
The Sacred Cut
LUCIFER’S SHADOW
A Delta Book
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2004 by David Hewson
Book design and title page photograph by Lynn Newmark
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 200435145
Delta is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the
colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-42315-3
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